Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  "I didn't say anything!" Gladys protested.

  Mr. Money backhanded Alessandro across the face.

  I heard the crack against his skin from where I was standing. He'd swung that hard.

  Everyone gasped. Alessandro sucked in his breath. Both his hands winged toward his cheek, like he couldn't believe it.

  Don't send a boy to do a man's job.

  "Stop it!" I snapped. Just because this idiot had money didn't mean that he could start whacking people and throwing them around the airplane like my grandmother's Mah Jong pieces.

  Mr. Money ignored me. He told Alessandro, "Go check on my wife. That's all you're good for." He turned back to Gladys. "Okay, lady, there's an easy way and a hard way. You want the hard way."

  He literally began rolling up his sleeves. This required him to unbutton his left cuff, then his right. He rolled each black sleeve up, slowly exposing his forearm muscles for maximum dramatic effect.

  Tucker maintained a calm voice. "There's no need for physical violence. I hope you're all right, Mr. Alessandro. Dr. Sze and I can check you over."

  Alessandro shook his head. The imprint of Mr. Money's hand still burned across his left cheek.

  Tucker nodded and shifted toward Gladys. "We also have seats in the last row. We're happy to exchange them. Gladys, Gideon might be more comfortable in the back, where there are fewer people around. What do you think?"

  She shook her head. Gideon's short, sharp barks reverberated around the cabin, making my temples pound. I winched my teeth together.

  Tucker crossed his arms. He wasn't used to people saying no to him. Before he could negotiate further, Alessandro rushed past Mr. Money and the rest of us, toward business class and Staci Kelly. Pascale met him at the curtain.

  One good thing: Alessandro was now out of hitting range. I wanted to thump Mr. Money in return, but Magda, Tucker and Linda clumped up the aisle between us. They'd turned sideways to let Alessandro get by, though, so I got ready to thread through the slipstream.

  Magda swung her hips to bar me. I bit back a swear.

  Linda placed her hands on her hips, drawing herself up to her full height, even though she was shorter than everyone except me and Gladys and Gideon. She stood the closest to Mr. Money now. "You have to go back to your seats. All of you. We can't have you brawling in the aisles."

  "Right. Exactly. Go back to your seat." Mr. Money glanced at Tucker. "Where are your seats?"

  Tucker pointed at row 33.

  "I know you're at the back, numb nuts! Which row?"

  Numb nuts. Who was this guy? He insulted doctors, he hit his staff ... Compton had unnerved me, but the real danger was from business class. Tucker had been rendered momentarily speechless, so I called out, "She didn't say she'd trade with us, but we're in 33B and C."

  Mr. Money leaned over Gladys and Gideon and said in a low, ugly voice that nevertheless carried across the airplane, "Okay, bitches. Time to go to 33C."

  Maybe he thought that was a good joke because of the dog, but Gideon was male. The guy couldn't even insult them right.

  Gladys ignored him. Gideon stiffened, staring at him.

  Mr. Money clapped his hands together. "Let's go. Chop chop!"

  Was that a Chinese slur? Gideon barked at him even louder than he had at Alessandro.

  Good dog, Gideon.

  "What the fuck," said Mr. Money, scanning the plane. Everyone ogled him right back. He was the live in-flight entertainment for over a hundred silent passengers, one of whom was conspicuously filming him.

  Mr. Money jabbed a finger at the camera. "Stop filming. Now!"

  The camera slowly lowered, revealing a terrified, white-haired man with glasses.

  Mr. Money nodded in satisfaction. "I'm going to make sure you delete that. Right after I move these bitches." He snarled at Gladys, "Go on!"

  "She didn't agree to the move," I pointed out.

  Mr. Money's head wrenched frontward to see who'd spoken. Spotting me, his face knotted up. He looked so ferocious that Tucker instinctively took a step backward to protect me.

  "Shut up, you little gook," said Mr. Money.

  The plane gasped.

  I didn't. Par for the course. Because racist patients have been filmed demanding "white doctors who speak English and don't have brown teeth," it's becoming part of our training. I even looked up their lame slang. Gook was an ancient one, from the Vietnam War, and didn't shock me as much as some of the others.

  "You can't talk to her like that," Tucker snapped. "You can't talk to any of us like that."

  I expected Mr. Money to object or to belt Tucker. Instead, he threw back his head and issued a long, dismissive laugh.

  I cut him off. "Shut up yourself, you old fraud. Why don't you look after your wife instead of hitting your employees and cursing at physicians?"

  Tucker sucked in his breath. Doctors never lose their tempers. Never, ever, ever. Nurse Jackie can do it on the small screen, but in real life, doctors get dragged off to our disciplinary college faster than this plane could crash to the ground.

  On cue, the plane started to rock back and forth.

  "Everyone, please, stay calm," said Magda.

  Her voice broke. It did not foster calm.

  "Yes, please," said Linda, although she grabbed a seat back in order not to sway with the plane. "Everyone, return to your seats and buckle your seat belts until further notice."

  The lights flickered.

  "Daddy, are we going to die?" The little Portuguese boy's voice rose into the air. He sat in the middle of a nearby row, close enough for me to see his dilated pupils and his cowlick sticking up in the air.

  Yeah, kid. We're all going to die. But I held that one back while the father's voice murmured useless, soothing things and handed him an iPad.

  The boy glanced at me again, uncertain, but he took the iPad and stopped questioning our mortality.

  "Go to your seats!" said Linda, straight into Mr. Money's face.

  Even if we wanted to obey, Tucker and my seats were at the back of the plane. We'd have to mow down both Linda and Mr. Money to get to them.

  Tucker took a step forward.

  Mr. Money jerked his hands up in fists, one leg planted in front, the other behind and ready to kick.

  I stared at him. This was a fighting stance. I recognized it from when my parents had forced Kevin to go to karate class.

  Holy crap. Mr. Money had martial arts training, and he was prepared to use it on us.

  17

  "Sir, why don't we go back to your wife. I'm sure she'd appreciate your help," said Linda, although her voice trembled.

  Mr. Money didn't reply. His eyes flickered between me and Tucker, fists ready.

  Magda darted into the leg room of 14C, startling the balloon girl, but Magda only snatched the in-flight magazine out of the pocket of the seat in front of her. She raised it like a shield. "That's enough!"

  I nearly laughed. Satan had boarded the aircraft, and a flight attendant thought she could defend herself with Avian Times.

  One upside: Magda had taken herself out of the aisle. That left only Tucker and then Linda between myself and Mr. Money.

  "Sir." Linda reached forward, as if to touch his elbow.

  Mr. Money snarled and knocked her arm away with one hand. His other fist raised to strike.

  Tucker's arm streaked into the air to block him.

  "No!" I shouted, but Linda was already stumbling backward as Tucker surged past her to meet Mr. Money.

  I jumped into the Portuguese family's leg room. The woman yelled something like mayo day-os.

  "Sorry," I breathed, but I was giving Linda room to fall out of the way so I could spring back into the aisle and take Tucker's back. That was the crucial part of the equation. I would die for him, I would kill for him, and now I was literally and figuratively behind him. I growled, "Don't you touch him!"

  "Hope!" said Tucker. He heard me seething behind his shoulder blades and whirled from Mr. Money to face me, guarding me wit
h his body.

  "Get back!" I was ready to take on Mr. Money with my bare hands. I started to slip sideways between Tucker and the seats—I can basically fit into the space between atoms—

  "Get out of here, Hope!" Tucker grabbed my shoulders, thrusting me backwards.

  "No!"

  Gideon barked. Gladys started to hum tunelessly. The airplane shook and dinged its seat belt alarm, adding to the chaos, but I was louder than the bell.

  "Don't you touch him. Don't hit anyone, don't swear at anyone, don't evict any dogs," I raged at Mr. Money over Tucker's shoulder, who was manhandling me toward the cabin while the two flight attendants ducked out of our way. "I can treat your wife's allergies, as long as you stay calm and stop attacking people—"

  "Hope. Hope, I'll handle this. Go back to Staci Kelly and Mr. Yarborough. I can do this. They need a doctor up front—"

  He was trying to get rid of me. Part of me understood that. We did not need a brawl. We needed calm. But I was beyond singing "Give Peace a Chance." More like You want a piece of me.

  "You think you can tell me what to do?" Mr. Money spat back, sneering at me from behind Linda and Magda and Tucker. "You couldn't act in one of my movies if I put a paper bag over your face and used a ten foot dildo."

  What? A dildo? I was confused enough to stop knocking Tucker's arms aside, although the rest of the plane gasped, and Topaz piped up from row 18, "You can't talk like that. My guru says we have to show harmony—"

  "I'll talk how I want, you little whore. You're all whores. I could buy and sell every one of you and still have enough change left over for a Caribbean island. Now get that bitch and her dog to the back of the plane."

  A seat creaked. My giant neighbour, the airplane mechanic from Texas, strolled toward us from 33A. He was so tall that he seemed to fill the aisle side to side, and his head extended toward the airplane cabin's ceiling.

  Mr. Money paused in mid-threat. Pro tip: if anyone ever asks you if you'd rather have a physically imposing avatar or a miniature one, in a crisis, always pick the Hercules.

  "Hercules" didn't need to speak. He stood at row 18, arms at his side, feet planted, and Mr. Money shut up.

  This was a real show of force. It made me realize how stupid I'd been.

  Tucker was right. One of us had to stay with our patients. I would have sent him, but he refused, so it was up to me to be the sane one.

  As soon as Mr. Money backed off.

  I crossed my arms and peered over Tucker's shoulder, ready to enjoy Mr. Money's parade of shame back to his seat.

  Mr. Money kept his eyes on Gladys and Gideon, not wanting to look up at Herc, although his stillness signalled his awareness that he was no longer the biggest man within arm's reach.

  Gideon barked louder than ever, but also wagged his tail, which was confusing.

  Linda opened her mouth and extended her hand toward Mr. Money's back. She was the closest to him again. "Would you like a beverage?"

  "Absolutely, sir," Magda piped up. "I can help you with that."

  Tucker and I twisted so that Magda could skedaddle past us toward the business class cabin, saying "What would you like to drink?"

  Instead of doing a 180 and marching back to business class with a martini, Mr. Money stood his ground, audibly breathing in and out, like a bull in a field deciding where he should charge. Then he said, "I gave you your chance." He pounced at Gladys's feet.

  Her feet? What would that accomplish?

  As if in slow motion, I watched his fingers seize Gideon's collar.

  "No!" I shouted, trying to push past Linda, but she grounded herself like a concrete wall, holding back me and Tucker.

  Gideon barked and snarled, stiffening his front legs. He tried to plant them in the carpet, but his claws ripped through the fabric as Mr. Money dragged him into the aisle.

  Gladys screamed, a high, thin, rattly scream even more terrible because she couldn't get any air behind it. Then she tried to beat Mr. Money's back with her fists. It was more like flailing.

  "Stop!" Tucker shouted.

  Linda pivoted toward him, her mouth ajar—why does it always work better when a man bellows?—and Tucker leapt past both of us. The cords stood out in his neck.

  "Tucker, no!" I snatched for him but missed as Magda grabbed my shoulders from behind, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay ... "

  How the hell was this okay?

  Before he made contact, Linda yanked Tucker's arm, spinning him sideways. "Don't touch him! He'll charge you."

  "That dog doesn't belong to you," the red baseball cap guy called from his seat. Other people near us rose out of their chairs and fled toward either end of the plane, even though Linda called, "Stay in your seats!"

  Mr. Money huffed, dragging Gideon a few inches backward. "You know what—belongs—to us? The air. Clean air. That we—can—breathe."

  Gideon choked as Mr. Money tried to drag him directly by his collar. He couldn't breathe.

  "Stop it!" I knocked Magda off my shoulders, but she clutched my right elbow like a too-high handcuff.

  "Sir, I can help you," said Linda. Her voice trembled as she struggled to clamp both of Tucker's wrists.

  Tucker said, "Let me go. I can do this. Linda!"

  "Fuck you and fuck your fuckin' dog, too!" Mr. Money roared.

  The airplane shuddered and gave a big bump that made me grab the nearest seat to hold myself upright.

  Even Herc steadied himself with a palm pressed against the seat back of a thin-nosed woman who looked like Margaret Thatcher, her eyes wide behind her tortoiseshell glasses.

  Linda bumped the back of Tucker's knee like a seventh grade douchebag boy.

  Tucker stumbled. With his arms pinned, he had trouble balancing.

  "No!" I shouted, tearing myself away from Magda.

  Tucker had already wrenched both wrists free and caught himself on a seat back, although Linda whacked him in the shoulder. "Sorry, sir! I mean doctor!"

  Whose side was she on? I called, "Are you okay, Tucker?"

  He nodded, still gripping the seat.

  "Please, doctor, come up front with me," Magda said.

  I ignored her. My life was Tucker.

  "Gideon!" wailed Gladys.

  Mr. Money had lost his grip on Gideon during the big bump, falling on his hands and knees. Now the dog tried to wiggle his way back to Gladys, past Tucker and Linda and me and Magda.

  Tucker sprang for his collar, but Mr. Money, still low to the ground, looped his arms around Gideon's hind legs and towed him backwards.

  Tucker's fingers slipped on fur and accidentally caught Gideon's ear.

  Gideon yelped. Tucker let go.

  Mr. Money chuckled. He captured Gideon's collar and hauled himself to his feet, grunting only a little. The man was in freakishly good shape. He probably worked out by killing and eating toddlers for breakfast.

  Then he began whistling.

  Goosebumps rose on my arms. I recognized those five monotonous notes, but it took a second for my brain to place the title: "Who let the dogs out."

  Mr. Money glanced at the exit sign. There were two exit rows, 17 and 18.

  He fixated on his left. Then he barked the chorus as he dragged Gideon down the aisle.

  I realized aloud, "He wants to throw Gideon out the exit door."

  "No. He can't do that," said Linda.

  "So stop him!" I shouted.

  Herc straddled the aisle from 18C to 18D. That exit row was sealed off.

  I breathed a little easier until Mr. Money leaned into 17D and hissed at Margaret Thatcher, "Get up."

  Her lips trembled. Her dyed-red hair barely moved, but she stared at him, hypnotized, like he was a viper.

  "Get out of my way, you stupid bitch!"

  She pressed on both arm rests to propel herself into a standing position, breathing so hard that her burgundy polyester scarf trembled, and Mr. Money yelled, "Get on the seat. Stand up on the seat, all of you! Move it, move it!"

  Although Herc had dammed u
p one exit row, Mr. Money would tunnel his way through the other, past three passengers, and force open the exit door while we were in mid-air.

  Impossible. Every step of it was ludicrous. He couldn't drag Gideon six inches, let alone another two feet, although the way Gideon was whining and digging his claws into the carpet made me want to scream.

  Margaret Thatcher tried to edge into the aisle instead of clambering up on her seat. Mr. Money, Gideon, and Herc had taken up all the real estate, which made Mr. Money even more furious. "You stupid bitch! What part of On. The. Seat do you not understand?"

  This was a senior citizen. He wanted her to hop on an airplane seat. More evidence of his insanity.

  But he might hit her, and her quavering form impeded Herc from grabbing Mr. Money. I gestured for her to come toward me.

  She turned sideways and tried to step over the dog.

  "No, bitch! On the seat, you dried up old gash!"

  She clambered on the seat cushion, clinging to the seat back, and looked so unsteady that Tucker hurtled forward and grabbed her around the waist

  "No, Tucker!" I hollered, to no avail. Don't carry her!

  Herc reached forward to grasp her. He was the one facing her.

  She shied away from Herc, peeping like a mouse. He checked himself, and Tucker ended up carting her up the aisle, with some belated assistance from Linda, while the rest of us clambered out of their way—Gladys squished back into row 16 while I shot back into the leg room in front of the little balloon girl and her mother.

  "Hey!" said the mom.

  I apologized, but was immediately distracted when they dumped Margaret Thatcher on her feet in front of me.

  "Are you okay?" I asked Margaret Thatcher.

  She nodded, but her lip trembled.

  "Go to the front. You can always stand in business class," I said, steering her on the other side of me as kindly but as swiftly as possible. I needed her gone so I could snatch Tucker out of harm's way. He'd already rocketed back toward row 17.

  "Hey!" protested Gladys, who'd been turtling her way toward Mr. Money until I blockaded her with Margaret Thatcher.

  "Sorry." #Sorrynotsorry. I shot past Gladys plus every flight attendant except Linda. Once I punted Linda aside, and dragged Tucker back to safety, I'd be in pole position.