Departure. A. Riddle G.
I find interesting.
NYU speaks up again. “The little readout showed the plane over England—I saw it.”
“It’s possible,” Northrop Grumman says, considering, “that if the plane had a malfunction, and all external communication was lost, the readouts would have shown us on the original flight path. The plane’s position could have been calculated based only on our flight time.”
“Then we could be anywhere!” a frightened voice shouts.
“Greenland, for all we know. It’s bloody cold enough.”
“Or Iceland, or another island off the coast of England. No-man’s-land.”
“They’ll never find us.”
An elderly woman steps toward me. “What do you think, sir?”
Every eye turns to me.
“I think …” What do I think? I take a minute, finally settling on something I’d been chewing on for the last few minutes. “I think that we’re going to know a lot more once we get into the cockpit. The computers, or hopefully the pilots, can tell us where we are. And the communications equipment could help us contact help.”
It amounts to kicking the can down the road, the proverbial answer we’ve been waiting for locked just feet away, but it does the trick. The crowd mellows. As food slides down the inflated chute, the group breaks up. People get their half meals and start trooping back to the warmth of the blankets and fire by the lake.
“You won’t get into that cockpit.”
I turn to find Northrop Grumman standing bizarrely close to me.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s reinforced. All airplane doors were, after 9/11, especially on long-haul flights. You’d have a better chance of getting into Fort Knox.”
“What about the windows?”
“Same. They can withstand about any impact, even at high speed.”
The guy’s still staring at me, almost expectantly. He’s got more to say. Heck, I’ll bite. “What do you suggest?”
He moves even closer, almost whispering. “You can’t get in, but if someone is alive inside, they can get out—that’s our only hope. It’s only been twelve hours. Maybe one of the pilots was just knocked unconscious. If we could wake them up, they could unlock the door.”
“Makes sense. So we’ll make some noise.”
“Exactly. Now, this is important, Mr. …”
“Stone. Nick Stone.” I extend my hand, and he shakes quickly.
“Bob Ward. Now we need to make sure we—or someone we trust—are the ones who get into that cockpit first.”
Someone we trust. My mind flashes to the three guys that followed me onto the plane last night—and to Harper. I can’t help wondering how she’s doing. Dread fills the pit of my stomach.
“Why?” I ask, trying to focus on the issue at hand.
“Because there’s a box inside the cockpit, filled with guns. If the wrong people get to them, this camp will become a very dangerous place.” He glances back at the chute, to where I laid out 2D.
“I agree.”
“Are we ready to begin, then?” Bob’s already shuffling toward the chute. This guy is having the time of his life.
With the help of a few passengers, we make our way into the plane, where Jillian’s sorting food in the little galley just behind the cockpit.
“How’s the food supply?” I ask.
“This is the last of it.”
“Okay, we’ll figure out what to do this afternoon. Could you take two meals to the lake—one for the doctor, and one for Harper? And do you remember the three guys who were helping me on the plane last night?” She nods. “Good—can you ask them to join us here?”
“Sure.”
“Also, do you know the pilots’ names?” Maybe calling them by name will help. “In fact, if you have a complete crew and passenger manifest, that would be helpful.”
Jillian tells me the pilots’ names and passes me some stapled pages, which I scan. I see my own name, then Harper Lane, and my nemesis in 2D: Grayson Shaw. Sabrina Schröder, passenger in 11G, business class. I scan a bit more and find Yul Tan, the Asian typing on his laptop last night, 10B. I glance down the aisle. He’s still there, typing away, the glowing screen lighting his gaunt face. Either that laptop gets great battery life, or he’s taken a break—which doesn’t look likely. He seems strung out, agitated. There’s something off here, but what, I don’t have a clue.
“Ready, Mr. Stone?” Bob asks.
“Yeah. And call me Nick.”
NOTHING.
We’ve tried noise. We’ve tried going through the first-class lavatory. We’ve been down to the ground, where the nose is dug in now—it settled some last night—and peered through the windshield in the few places where it isn’t too heavily cracked. They’re in there, three pilots, none moving. We can’t tell if they’re breathing. The five of us—Bob, the three swimmers from the lake, and me—have been at it for hours, and I’m exhausted.
“I’ve gotta take a break, fellas,” I say. “Heading to the lake. Grab me if you get through.”
“You could rest here, Nick,” Bob calls, but I’m down the makeshift stairway and hiking away before he can stop me. The truth is, I want to see Harper. It’s past midday, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. I’m worried, but there’s something else, too: a feeling I can’t seem to shake off. I ignore a few more calls from Bob as I disappear into the dense forest. He’s not one for letting things go.
On the walk back to the lake, I think about why we haven’t seen any rescue personnel. Even if we’ve crashed in some remote part of England, surely the fire would show up on satellites, or helicopters could spot the column of smoke. England is bigger than it appears on a map, but it’s also a first-world country with all the kinds of technology that wouldn’t ignore a plane crashing in its borders. I make a deal with myself not to worry about it any more until tomorrow morning. Not much I can do right now anyway. Survivors—I’ll focus on them. Warmth, food, and medical care could make all the difference between life and death for a few folks.
To my right I hear branches snapping. I turn to see 2D—Grayson Shaw—twelve feet away, holding a stick the size of a bat. He grins at me, revealing blood-covered teeth.
I’m unarmed, too sore to run, and probably too tired to fight. This should be interesting.
LAST NIGHT I GAVE BIRTH TO A RHINOCEROS. Not just any rhino, mind you: a pregnant rhino, with twins. And three horns. Lots of horns. I birthed a double-pregnant, triple-horned rhino. That’s what it feels like, at least.
I’m glad I’m breathing, but I still dislike the pain every breath brings. I’m going to lie here until it doesn’t hurt anymore. On the bright side, I’m bound to lose some weight during this period. I have no appetite and can’t imagine the pain eating will entail.
I envision myself emerging from this swaddled, fireside solitude. I’ll be slimmer and funnier and completely healed; a phoenix rising from the ashes, ready to soar high above the lake and roar in a screeching call of freedom