But smoke is everywhere. I can see flames licking along the walls, zipping up fabric-covered seats. Hungry orange tongues . . . everywhere.
Coughing, I look around for something to hold over my nose and mouth.
There is nothing. The cabin is all darkness and smoke and flames. People are dropping from their seats, landing on what is now the floor. I take off my coat and hold it over my face as I crawl toward the exit—at least I hope it’s an exit. All I know is I hear movement in front of me, coughing and footsteps and whispering. The ceiling is full of seams and bumps that scrape my knees. I bang my head on the overhead bins that have fallen open.
I feel my way through the thick smoke, pushing aside debris, past gaping holes where the side of the plane should be. At each new row, I look for people still in their seats, hanging unconscious, but I find no one.
Finally, after what seems to take hours, I see the opening. A man is there, holding out his hand, helping me out. He doesn’t seem to know that his hair and shirt are matted with blood, that a spike of some kind is lodged in his upper arm. “This way,” he says in a tired, shaking voice.
“You need a doctor,” I say, surprised that I’m crying. The words release something in me, something so big I’m afraid I’ll drown in it and be swept away. I finally stagger to a stand.
He touches my head. The fingers he draws back are stained red. “So do you. Are you the last one?”
“I think so. I was in the last row. ” I turn to look back at my seat and see the gaping black and orange mouth that is what’s left of the tail section.
How did I not notice that?
Shaking, my head aching now that I feel the blood leaking down my cheek, I take his hand. It’s calloused and sweaty and makes me feel almost safe.
The darkness outside is absolute, velvet, nothing like the gray haze of the burning cabin.
The ground squishes beneath my feet, giving way beneath my steps. It’s like quicksand, hard to walk in. I look down at my feet. Something feels wrong. As if gravity has been lost or changed somehow. I look for someone to ask, “Where are we?” This isn’t the world we know. The air is harsh, different. The ground is soft. I wonder suddenly if it is blood that has softened the ground—our blood—or maybe it’s gasoline.
Everyone is as dazed as I am. Over by the nearest tree, a group is beginning to form. How can I walk that far and why am I alone?
In the distance, I hear sirens.
I trip on something and fall to my knees. The pain in my head is back, throbbing.
I hear something and look up.
At first, I think it’s the ambulances and police cars driving up, and then I think it’s screaming . . . but that’s past us. We survived.
It seems to take ages, but I climb to my feet once again. I’m upright; I try to hear. My head is pounding.
“Explode . . . Run. ”
Words. Someone is yelling. Smoke engulfs me, billowing from the tail.
“Run! It’s going to explode. ” I see Riegert running toward me, waving his arms.
A second later his words register. I try to run through the spongy black ground, toward the forest.
But I’m too late, and I know it.
The blast, when it comes, is like nothing I’ve ever known.
One second I’m running for cover; the next I’m airborne, weightless. When I hit the ground it is in a thud of pain. Then everything is dark.
When I open my eyes, I find myself staring up at a Halloween sky, all black and gray with the hint of eerie flickering orange light. Tree tips fringe it all, form a strange circle overhead. They are not ordinary trees; they’re giants. They ring the crash site like gargantuan visitors, whispering among themselves. A lackluster rain is falling; it’s really more of a mist.
At first I can’t hear anything except the beating of my own heart. It’s as if m
y ears are stuffed with cotton. My heartbeat is a slow, thudding echo of distant sound.
Gradually, though, I hear more.
Sirens, muffled and seemingly far away, but recognizable. Engines purring. Tires crunching through gravel or rock.