Grayson is gone—to where, I don’t know and don’t care. The other brooder gets up and steadies himself on the bulkhead. He peers down the length of the plane, squinting slightly, his eyes moving left and right, seeming to calculate something.
Finally he plops down in the seat beside me and pulls the seat belt tight.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I mouth, not sure if my voice is audible over the ruckus around us.
“Can you hear me?”
For some reason, his voice is crystal clear. His accent is American, its calmness a sharp contrast to the pandemonium around us. We seem to be in a bubble, he and I, talking casually while the outside world disintegrates.
“Yes,” I say, finally hearing my own voice, as if from far away.
“Buckle up and put your head between your knees. Wrap your fingers around the back of your head. Don’t look up.”
“Why?”
“I think we’re about to crash.”
I’M ALIVE, BUT I’VE BEEN BETTER.
Every inch of my body aches. Gone is the slight buzz of alcohol, replaced by a pounding headache. It hurts worst around my pelvis. I pulled the belt low right before impact, hoping to spare my internal organs. It worked, but not without cost. I start to unbuckle it, but stop.
It’s too quiet.
The lights are out, and only faint moonlight seeps in through the windows. I hear a few low moans behind me. This 777 held around 250 people when it took off from JFK. If even a fraction were alive, the cabin would be awash in voices, probably screams. The relative silence is a bad sign.
My mind seems clear, my arms are fine, and I think I can walk. I’m in decent shape, but given how rough the crash was, I bet a lot of the other passengers weren’t as lucky as me. I have to help them. For the first time since—well, since I can remember—I feel close to normal, filled with purpose and urgency. I feel alive.
The woman beside me still hasn’t moved. She’s hunched over, her head between her legs, hands clasped behind it as I instructed her.
“Hey.” My voice comes out raspy.
She doesn’t move.
I reach out and brush her blond hair back. She turns slightly, a single bloodshot eye peering up at me, and pushes up slowly, revealing her slender face. The other eye is equally bloodshot. A bruise runs from her temple to her jaw.
“You okay?”
She nods and swallows. “Yeah, I think so.”
What next? Check her mental status? “What’s your name?”
“Harper. Harper Lane.”
“What’s your date of birth, Harper?”
“Eleventh December.” She smiles slightly, not adding the year.
Yeah, she’s okay. She looks late twenties or early thirties to me, and she’s British; I hadn’t realized that before. Probably on her way home to London.
“Stay here—I’ll be right back.”
Now the test. I unfasten my belt, stand up, and immediately stumble into the wall, hitting my shoulder hard. The plane’s settled at about a thirty-degree angle, nose down, tilted slightly to the left. I lean against the bulkhead, waiting for the pain to ebb.
Turning my head, I get my first glimpse back down the aisle … and freeze in shock.
The plane’s gone. Almost all of it. The first-class and business-class cabins are all that’s left. Just beyond the business section, tree branches crisscross the ragged opening. Around the edges, electrical pops flash against the dark forest. The vast majority of the passengers were in economy, and there’s no sign of it—only a quiet forest. The rest of the plane could be a hundred miles away, for all I know. Or in a million pieces. I’m surprised we’re not.
On the other side of the wall, I can hear a rhythmic pounding. Staggering a little, I feel my way around the divider that separates first class from the galley. It’s Jillian, the flight attendant, banging on the cockpit door.
“They won’t come out,” she says when she sees me.
Before I can respond, she moves back to the wall, grabs the phone, listens for a second, then tosses it aside. “Dead.”
I think she’s in shock. What’s the priority at this point? I glance back at the sparks popping against the twisted metal. “Jillian, is there a danger of fire?”
“Fire?”
“Yes. Is there any fuel in this section?” It seems like a reasonable question, but who knows?
Jillian gazes past me, confused. “Shouldn’t be a fire. Captain dumped the fuel. Or I thought …”
A middle-aged man in first class lifts his head. “Fire?”
People around him begin repeating the word quietly.
“Where are we?” That seems like the next logical question.
Jillian just stares, but Harper says, “We were over England.” When my eyes meet hers, she adds, “I was … watching the flight display on the monitor.”
That’s the first bit of good news, but I don’t get to think about it long. The word fire has finally reached the wrong person.
“There’s a fire! We need to get off!” someone yells. Across the plane, people start scrambling out of their seats. A panicked mass of about twenty people coalesces in the cramped space. Several passengers break away and rush to the jagged opening at the rear but turn back, afraid to jump. “We’re trapped!” is added to the cries of “Fire!” and things start to get ugly. A white-haired woman in business class loses her footing and falls. People trample her on their way to the front, where Jillian and I stand speechless. The woman’s screams don’t slow the crowd.
They rush on, directly toward us.
THE SURGING CROWD FORCES JILLIAN TO FOCUS. SHE spreads her arms, but her voice fails her. I can barely hear it over the crowd. Her standing there, defenseless in front of the crowd, jolts me into action.
I move forward, push Jillian behind me, and plant my feet. I shout, my own voice ringing out louder and clearer than I expect. “Stop! People, stop moving, you’re hurting that woman! Listen: There. Is. No. Fire.” I say each word more slowly and quietly than the last, infusing the crowd with calm. “Okay? No fire. No danger. Relax.”
Save for a few shoves, the crowd settles. All eyes focus on me.
“Where are we?” a woman yells.
“England.”
The word ripples through the crowd in hushed tones, as if it were a secret.
Jillian moves from behind me and steadies herself on a chair.
All at once, the survivors begin hurling questions at me,