Hour 23

by Robert Barnard

  “Right…” Renee grumbled. “Should I be concerned, Captain?”

  Russell smiled. “Not at all, dear.”

  Renee nodded and shuffled back to the cabin of the plane.

  “Miss, can I have a water?” a passenger asked, putting his hand up as Renee walked by. Without paying much attention to who asked, Renee murmured an “of course” and continued on her way to the flight attendant quarters.

  “Christ, Renee, you look white as a ghost,” Samantha said. She was still where Renee left her, leaned up against a pantry door and sipping a coffee. “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re landing in LaGuardia,” Renee said.

  “Really?” Samantha said, surprised by the news. She cocked her head to the side.

  “Yeah, they’ve started to ground flights. JFK is out of room.”

  “Out of room?”

  “Come on,” Renee said flatly. “The passengers are getting antsy so let’s get back to it. Let the rest of the attendants know as you see them. Keep it on the down low with the passengers. If anyone asks about New York, play dumb.”

  In the front of the aircraft, Russell was becoming more and more restless. He had been cheerful and pleasant all morning, but now he was acting strange and incoherent.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Glenn asked.

  “I’m fine,” Russell said. A cold sweat began to bead up on his forehead.

  “You don’t look so well,” Zahir said, concurring with Glenn.

  “Let me take it from here,” Glenn said. “I’ll radio control to let them know—”

  “No,” Russell yelled, gritting his teeth. “I’m fine.” The captain clenched at his stomach. “I’ll be right back.”

  Russell suddenly stepped up out of his seat and headed towards the cockpit door. How he wished that the craft had a dedicated bathroom for pilots. “You two just watch it. When it’s on autopilot, the Goddamn thing practically flies itself.”

  Russell quickly unlocked the door and walked into the cabin, trying to keep his balance along the way. Zahir locked the cockpit behind Russell and returned to his seat.

  A passenger in first class gasped as the captain made his way down the narrow aisle. Russell’s face had turned a sickening shade of green.

  “How are you doing, ma’am?” the captain asked to the visibly frightened passenger. He anxiously attempted to downplay his sudden illness.

  Renee appeared from behind a curtain with a water bottle in her hand for the passenger who had requested it earlier. When she saw Russell standing in the aisle she dropped the bottle and held her hands over her mouth. Quickly, she shuffled forward up the aisle to grab Russell by the hand and escort him to the restroom.

  “What’s wrong?” Renee asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Russell said, putting one hand on the lavatory door.

  “Look at me,” Renee said, holding Russell’s face. She ran a finger inconspicuously under the tip of his nose.

  “It’s not that, Renee, Jesus.” Russell slapped away her hand. Feeling eyes on her and the pilot, Renee looked beside her, catching a glimpse of a passenger recording their interaction with his cell phone camera.

  “It hasn’t been that for a very long time,” Russell exclaimed, pushing the lavatory door open. “Please, just give me a minute. Christ.”

  Russell hurtled his way into the lavatory and slammed the door shut behind him. “I’ll be right here,” Renee said quietly through the door.

  The groaning and moaning coming from the lavatory was too loud to ignore. Passengers had started to turn around in their seats and glare at Renee. The look on their faces said that they wanted an explanation.

  “Everything is fine, folks, just please stay seated,” Renee said in a tone that reeked of nervousness.

  “Is he okay?” one passenger asked.

  “Of course,” Renee responded without hesitation.

  “He doesn’t sound okay,” the passenger said.

  At this point, the confusion and boisterous chatter on board had started to wake many of the other passengers.

  Thud, thud, thud. Renee spun around from the looks of worried faces to examine the lavatory door. It felt as if Russell was inside beating on it.

  “Captain,” Renee whispered, “are you—”

  “He must have a terrible case of the shits,” a nearby passenger muttered, just loud enough for Renee to hear.

  Renee glared at the passenger and began feeling for the emergency release mechanism that would unlock the lavatory door. The pounding and howling inside had turned unnervingly quiet.

  When the door unhinged, Renee let out a spine-chilling scream. Russell was curled up on the small lavatory floor. A pool of blood spread outward beneath him.

  By now, other passengers on board had stood and noticed the collapsed pilot.

  “Everything is fine,” Renee shouted, with tears in her eyes. “We will be landing soon without incident. We have two very capable pilots at the helm.”

  Glenn turned around in the cockpit to see Zahir sitting idly, frozen in fear. Both of them had heard the shouts and screams coming from the cabin behind them.

  “Make sure that cockpit door is locked,” Glenn instructed shakily, “then get your ass up here and take Cooper’s seat.”

  Zahir did as he was told.

  “This is Pilot Glenn Sloan of OCA 116 radioing to tower at LaGuardia,” Glenn said. His reply was nothing but static.

  “Oscar Charlie Alpha 116 to LaGuardia, confirm communication, we are currently experiencing a code seven, repeat, code seven.”

  Glenn’s heart was thumping hard now and he felt his skin cool. He tried his best to maintain composure and not sound nervous over the radio. Finally, a voice responded back.

  “This is LaGuardia, OCA. What’s the status on that code seven?”

  “Unknown,” Glenn replied, “but he’s too unfit to fly. Be advised that Oscar Charlie Alpha 116 is now being commandeered by myself, Glenn Sloan, with Zahir Barrett as my co-pilot.”

  “Roger, OCA. ETA?”

  Glenn looked at the instrument panel before him, gulped, and frantically tried to calculate how long it would be before landing. Far off on the horizon he could make out the faintest traces of glimmering towers and skyscrapers—New York City.

  “Fifteen minutes until approach, tower,” Glenn stammered.

  “10-4,” a voice replied, “be advised to descend slowly and enter a holding pattern. There’s a lot of traffic down here right now with all the flights diverted from JFK.”

  “Roger that, tower,” Glenn said, and he nosed the aircraft gently downward.

  In the center of the plane, Renee was standing above Russell, caressing his arm. Samantha had appeared behind the pilot and attendant. When she heard the commotion coming from the front of the plane, she came rushing to investigate. When she saw the captain collapsed, she walked the plane, looking for a doctor.

  “Anyone?” Renee asked. Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Samantha answered.

  “I don’t think he’s breathing, Sam.”

  Renee dropped to her knees beside Russell and sobbed to herself.

  Glenn had brought the aircraft as low as he could, then tilted it to a steep forty-five degree angle and circled the airport below.

  With the airliner circling at such a sharp angle, Russell limply slid from the lavatory and out into the aisle. Renee stood up and leaned on a nearby seat for balance.

  Glenn took to the cockpit radio in an attempt to calm the madness coming from the cabin.

  “Attention all passengers and grew, this is your pilot, Glenn Sloan. Please remain calm and stay seated. Fasten your seatbelts and prepare to land shortly.”

  Glenn switched from the cabin radio frequency back to the tower frequency. “OCA 116, declaring an emergency.”

  “Copy OCA 116, can you maintain 2,500 feet? We’ll vector you for an immediate approach to runway five left—”

  “Roger tower,” Glen
n replied, holding the aircraft steadfast.

  In the back of the cabin, Russell brought himself to his feet and faced Renee.

  “Russell!” Renee exclaimed.

  Russell lunged forward, grabbed Renee by her hair, and pulled her close. Renee sprung her arms forward and tried to fend off the pilot. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Russell pulled Renee near until they were face to face, then chomped his teeth against her nose with a hard and forceful grind. He yanked his head away from her and chewed on the tip of cartilage for a moment, then swallowed.

  Renee fell to the floor, screaming in horror, covering her face with her hands and kicking her feet in an attempt to get away from Russell.

  A passenger stood up from his seat to confront the pilot. “The fuck is wrong with you?” the passenger asked, and he pushed his finger into Russell’s shoulder; then he tried wrestling the pilot into an empty seat. The awkward pitch of the plane made it hard to find sure footing.

  Russell grabbed the passenger by the shirt collar and shook him before clawing at his face. The passenger tried to disconnect from Russell’s grip, but the captain was too strong and held on to the passenger with iron-clenched fists.

  “Get off me, man,” the passenger screamed, just before Russell pulled the passenger close enough to bite into his chin. With a glurp Russell tore off a filet of skin and beard from the passenger’s chin and chomped it between his teeth.

  By now the screams onboard had risen to a fever pitch.

  “What the hell is going on back there?” Zahir asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Glenn ordered. “Focus on helping me land this plane.” Glenn radioed back to the airport below. “OCA 116 to tower. Be advised, 226 on board, fuel level 1,900. Requesting immediate permission to land.” Glenn was cool and firm as he spoke to the controllers in the tower. He waited for a response, but heard nothing.

  “OCA 116 to tower, do you copy tower?” Glenn asked and he began another loop around the airport. From the cockpit window, he was close enough to the ground to make out some shopping centers and buildings below. Several were on fire. The streets were clogged with vehicles, seemingly unmoving, stuck bumper to bumper.

  Zahir gave Glenn a worried look before a teeth rattling explosion erupted from beneath them. From his vantage point, Glenn could see another 757 that had completely overshot its landing. It collided into and through six—maybe seven—parked planes on the runway below. A cloud of smoke mushroomed upwards, followed by eye-blistering bursts of orange and red flames.

  “Tower, do you copy? Tower?” Glenn asked. Still, there was no response. The airport beneath them was entirely consumed by the blaze. The runway was eerily absent of the ambulances and fire trucks that should be rushing towards such a scene.

  “Can’t land here,” Glenn said, and he pulled hard on the yoke in front of him. The plane leveled even and roared as it began to ascend once more.

  “Pull up, pull up faster!” Zahir cried, pushing the throttle forward. From the left window of the cockpit he could see an F-22 Raptor headed directly towards their aircraft.

  Glenn pulled the airplane just high enough to avoid a total collision with the military jet beside them, but not enough to avoid impact.

  The Raptor, confused by Glenn’s sudden ascension, pushed down as the gigantic passenger plane pulled up. The tail of the Raptor brushed the under belly of the 757 ever-so-slightly.

  The Raptor, which had been flying in formation for the past forty-five minutes, was instructed to perform reconnaissance patrols over New York City as the morning’s evacuation initiated.

  With its tail completely crumpled by the 757 above it, the Raptor plummeted towards the ground in a tailspin. Its pilot ejected and parachuted towards the flaming runway below. The unmanned Raptor spun and twirled lopsided until it splashed into a harbor nearby.

  After the impact, Glenn and Zahir quickly lost control of their plane. Glenn was able to maintain altitude, but just barely. The collision cut several fuel lines, and what little fuel the transatlantic jet had remaining was being sprayed across the burning city buildings below.

  Unable to steer, the passenger jet continued onward past the city, gradually losing altitude as it went. It sailed almost gracefully. The only clues that the craft was troubled were its unusually low altitude and the ashy, comet-like tail that trailed behind it.

  With the city far behind them, Glenn spotted a rural area up ahead with plenty of farmland. He initiated the landing gear and pushed the plane down slowly, hoping to make a successful emergency landing.

  When the landing gear engaged, the plane lurched downward—far quicker and harder than Glenn anticipated—and began descending too rapidly for Glenn to control.

  Zahir turned to Glenn, who had tried so desperately to correct the flailing plane, and smiled, putting his hand on his.

  The back of the plane glanced the Henderson High School atop Pigeon Hill, destroying great sections of both the school itself and the rear of the doomed airliner.

  With volleys of smoke and fire erupting behind it, the 757 began spiraling like a football, launching past Pigeon Hill until it was directly above East Violet, New York.

  The plane stopped spiraling just long enough for Glenn to think he had one last chance at landing it, before the flames from the rear of the plane consumed the craft entirely. The main engines ignited, and the jet exploded mid-air, raining down pieces of wreckage over the quarantined town below like some sinister firework.

  FOURTEEN

  “Are you all right?” Jim asked. He put one hand on each of Dana’s shoulders and looked her over nervously. He ignored the trail of smoke clinging to the sky above them.

  Dana stood still and unresponsive. Glazed over.

  “Are you all right?” Jim repeated, and he gave the young woman a gentle shake. Dana was covered in blood—drops of it clung to her face, a bead of it dangled from the tip of her nose. Her coat and jeans were smeared with scarlet handprints. Jim couldn’t tell if she had been hurt or not.

  Dana blinked a few times then tilted her head at the officer. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “What happened here?” Jim asked.

  “You’re the dad of one of my students.”

  Jim let go of Dana’s shoulders and crossed his arms. He studied her briefly before his gaze fell on the wiggling man in the gray sweat suit at his feet. The lump was kicking and flailing while clutching the nape of his neck.

  “Now I remember. You’re Chloe’s dad, right?” Dana asked, examining the broad-shouldered officer before her. “I’m going to be arrested now, aren’t I?”

  Jim crouched down slightly so that he could be eye to eye with Dana, then returned a hand to her shoulder. It was easy to see that she was in shock. “What happened here, Miss—”

  “Dana.”

  “Good, Dana. Take a deep breath. What happened?”

  Dana drew a slow breath then let out a long exhale. “He followed me through the store, then he followed me to my car. He said I should go with him, and when I said I wouldn’t, he threatened me with his gun. So I stabbed him in the neck.” Dana’s speech was monotone in its delivery. “Here, see?” She pulled Earl’s revolver from the pocket of her puffy jacket and held it clumsily in her wobbly hand.

  Jim jolted nervously. “Okay, Dana. Just go ahead and hand me that. Slowly.”

  Dana obliged, and gingerly handed over the firearm. Jim took it from her gently, then carefully inspected the gun. He flipped the loading gate open and spun the cylinder inside. Unloaded.

  Jim looked down again and sidestepped the struggling man on the ground beneath him. He pulled Dana aside so that neither of them would step in the growing pool of blood that was starting to form on the concrete.

  “I stole my groceries, too,” Dana said in a whimpering voice.

  Jim ignored Dana and squatted so that he could study the figure at his feet. The injured man’s movements were becoming slower. Weaker. His breathing was shallow and raspy.

&nbs
p; “Why aren’t you helping me, you fucking pig?” the man moaned. He rolled onto his side to get a better look at the officer standing above him. His face was pale, his lips ghost white.

  “Because,” Jim said stonily. “You’re already dead.”

  “You son of a…” The man reached out with one hand and continued to clutch his neck with the other. “You son…of a….” His words became incoherent and hushed. When his eyes rolled back into his head, Jim stood and turned back towards Dana.

  “This your car?” Jim asked, pointing at the battered Prius.

  Dana paused for a great while before answering. “It is.”

  “Is it running?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Okay. And you mentioned you had groceries in there?”

  Dana nodded.

  “Let’s get them in my car. I’ll give you a hand.” Jim tapped the trunk of the Prius. “Then I’ll get you home. Where’s home?”

  Dana didn’t understand what was happening. Confused, she sputtered out “Raintree Village.”

  “Great,” Jim said with a smile. “Not far at all.”

  Dana nodded and clicked a button on her key ring. The trunk popped open. Together, they transported the various groceries from the trunk of her Prius to the trunk of the Jim’s Crown Victoria. When they finished, Jim held the passenger door of his cruiser open for Dana, then hopped into the driver’s seat.

  Jim started the car. “Dana…?”

  Dana turned to the officer. “Naccarato.”

  “Naccarato. Miss Naccarato. Of course. You’re my daughter’s English teacher.” Jim tapped his head.

  “Yeah…” Dana mumbled. “She’s doing very well this year.”

  “That’s good,” Jim snickered. “She can be a little hell-raiser sometimes.”

  “What—what happened?” Dana asked. She stared at Earl’s lifeless body as the police car pulled away. The pandemonium in the Shop-and-Save parking lot seemed to pause, the shoppers still watching the sky with excitement.

  “Ah,” Jim exhaled. “I’ve been asking myself that all morning.”