LOSS OF REASON

by Miles A. Maxwell

  He could feel the rope slipping beneath his chest, the next handle bending. Every time he pulled himself off the cabinet the owl seemed to dig into his stomach deeper. He ignored the talons and hung off the top of the cable hook using only his biceps.

  The hoist wound more cable. It was high enough!

  Chuck, Clarence, the engineer and the Russian moved fast. The third handle snapped, just as they pulled the box through the door. Bang!—the cabinet fell to the open edge of the helicopter’s metal floor, teetering, twisting on the edge as four pairs of hands struggled to wrestle the tall metal box all the way inside.

  “He’s in!” Chuck yelled to Everon, amongst cheering passengers—all but Kone who demanded, “What in hell did you bring that up for?”

  Everon stabilized the chopper and climbed gently away from the black mist. They were getting short on fuel. He tapped the oil gauge. It didn’t look like the leak was getting any better either.

  Victoria was closest. She leaned her head on the warm cabinet. “I hear crying!”

  “What?” Kone yelled.

  “Crying! Inside! Here!” she said, pointing at the second drawer from the bottom.

  “The second drawer!” Clarence said, “She’s right!”

  “Da!” echoed the Russian woman Kat, her head next to Victoria’s.

  Franklin was already jumping for tools from the helicopter’s rear wall. Flipping open the toolbox lid, ignoring a hammer, screwdrivers and wrenches, near the bottom he found a two-foot pry bar.

  He dropped an ear against the cabinet’s side. To his relief, despite the helicopter blades and engines, he could still hear that crying sound. He put the bar’s edge into the narrow gap along the right side and pushed. The metal side bent outward, creating a small triangular gap. He pulled on the drawer. It still wouldn’t slide open.

  He put one eye to the opening. Can’t see! he thought furiously.

  He wedged the bar into the slit along the drawer’s top. Its horizontal divider bent as much as the drawer itself, then with a sudden clanggg!—popped outward.

  Chuck, Walter van Patter, Victoria, Clarence, the Russians, the transit engineer, even Kone, jockeyed to see as Franklin struggled to scrape out the damaged drawer, screeching metal-against-metal audible above the helicopter’s noise.

  Between the fourth and fifth buttons on Franklin’s white button-down shirt, a fluffy brown and white speckled head poked its way out to join the curious.

  And there she was, wrapped in a pink blanket, nestled between a few hanging file folders, face-to- face with the exotically colored bird, crying with all the gusto she could manage—Franklin and Everon’s baby niece, Melissa.

  Dead Man Walking

  He wasn’t sure if the storm outside had calmed some. His cabin was steadier. If anything his stomach felt worse.

  Ahmad Hashim rolled his face over the side of his bunk and vomited more of the viscous green and red fluid into a rusty metal bucket. He sucked down ragged gasps of air, trying to relax. More red than green this time. Blood, he knew. The skin across his stomach, chest and shoulders was a boiling rash. He put a hand to his burning forehead.

  No! He would not do it again. So many dead. So many brothers and sisters. Why was it only the Jews Allah told the killing of one innocent man was as the killing of the entire world? Why have I done this thing? No amount of money is worth this guilt, this pain. He had made a terrible choice and Allah had made this sickness his price.

  Ahmad closed his eyes and lay his dark curly hair and blistering neck back on the bunk. My own guilt it was that allowed such a foolish error.

  A criticality accident, it was called. It seemed to be getting more difficult to—his memory seemed to be going—too much plutonium in too small a space . . . trying to modify the device—the halves of the bomb’s core in too close proximity with one another . . . radiation filling the lab. Shooting through the walls . . . anyone within twenty feet in all directions would be as he was now.

  Hashim had been the only one. Except for the bird, of course.

  The lab shared a wall with the Evil One’s own cabin. Too bad the Evil One was not in there too, Hashim thought viciously. Only the bird, and now Hashim’s friend Taliq had taken it. Does the infidel even know his bird is gone? Hashim certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

  His stomach rumbled, ready to release again. Na’am—yes! Eighty, ninety miles. Certainly we are less than a hundred off the East Coast. Allah will guide me. Ahmad would find someone and warn them about what was coming. He had to try. He must remove himself from this ship. If he did not receive outside medical attention he would not last another day.

  He slid his feet from the bunk and forced himself unsteadily erect. Struggled into a jacket. Slid the two candy bars, a small bottle of water into his right jacket pocket. His left held the control cards.

  As he staggered to the cabin door, Ahmad slipped on the vile green slop. The doorknob caught the side of his head painfully but his hands grasped it and kept him on his feet.

  At the stairs he crawled his way up each stair, pulling himself up the railing for support . . .

  Up to the starboard side of the main deck—where the four white boats hung from their davits above the water. He looked over the side.

  Norse Wind was making more than fifteen knots against a five-knot wind. Even with help, dangerous to launch at this speed. He was alone and he had no choice.

  Two days earlier, Ahmad had watched the transmitter men leave. The outdated lifeboat had no upper shell. Only a cloth tarp cover that looked old enough to have come off the Titanic. When Ahmad doubted its condition, the man enthusiastically explained, “Nothing to worry about, my friend. If need be, all is automatic. One sets the timer—we push this button here, then this one . . .”

  Slow eight-foot swells rose along Norse Wind’s side. They will be to my advantage, Ahmad thought dully, a hacking snort erupting from his nose. If I live through launch.

  He set the controls for self-launch then crawled up inside. He had to get off without anyone else seeing. The Evil One, no doubt, would kill him for desertion. And sabotage.

  As the mechanism unwound, with what strength he had left, he struggled to remove the rear of the white tarp from its hooks before the boat hit the water.

  The boat slapped down and Ahmad jolted forward, but the still-connected tarp caught his knees and saved him from launching into the air.

  He grabbed the starboard rail and removed the aft winch cable. Pulled himself across the tarp to reach the bow hook before the next trough could yank him airborne, but the cable released itself. And he watched as the huge ship rolled away—then loomed dangerously back, inches from crushing his tiny vessel.

  The gap widened. He left the front of the tarp attached. Better to keep water out, he thought. He hurried the key, surprised to hear the motor come to life on its first try. He pushed the tiller to steer away west.

  WHOOOSH, a sound blasted from the ship’s hull. He looked up to see a long dark object flying from the narrow side door in the ship’s bow, land in the water and disappear.

  The second fish launched! “Oh, Allah, no!”

  The Dolls

  Sal Torentino kept an eye on his wife in the craziness through the Chevy’s windshield.

  Both their cellphones were still NO SIGNAL at the Utica, New York exit. There was power here, and in the long lines at the three scarce pay phones that seemed to be working, Margarete was still near the back. She had insisted they stop and try to call her mother.

  Like many of their neighbors, Sal’s family of four had evacuated Westchester north of the city with the blare of the first siren. Sal was Italian, but he had screamed at his wife and kids for the first time in, well—ever. Trying to hurry them into the car as the Emergency Alert Station played on the car radio. Screeching out of the driveway, down the street, out of their neighborhood to the highway and going—nowhere fast.

  What should have taken two ho
urs had taken an exhausting twelve.

  People were being turned away at the door of the Denny’s. They were obviously out of food. So were the Torentinos. The sodas and beer, the sandwiches Margarete made for them on the road were long gone. Sal had found some rock-hard candy bars in a vending machine.

  Six hours ago.

  When he couldn’t function anymore, Margarete had driven. If you could call it that. Jammed between a thousand other cars. Five and ten miles an hour.

  A tremendous sense of relief poured into Sal Torentino as the sun came out from under an overcast blanket of gray-white. Thankfully the kids were so tired they were silent, curled up across the back seat, the tops of their heads touching. He smiled. We’re all so beat, he thought. He’d checked every half hour or so to make sure they weren’t dead or something back there. In a minute the sun was gone. Another winter storm coming in.

  Across the freeway, people were driving the wrong way—against no traffic—moving a lot faster than Sal had been.

  Somebody up ahead laid on their horn.

  “Whoa! Looks like they smashed into each other halfway up the ramp,” he said softly.

  Then the sound hit him, a series of screams two drivers were throwing at each other. “Clear the goddamned road you two motherfuckingsonsabitches!” another voice yelled.

  The accident drivers looked up, turned their heads back to each other.

  The door of a black Mercedes immediately behind them flew open. The driver ran toward the two crashers. In seconds, name-calling accelerated into a three-way fistfight. The smaller of the original two dove sideways. The Mercedes driver and the bigger man wrestled each other to the ground. The smaller guy watched while the other two rolled down the snowy slope along the ramp.

  “Look, Daddy!” Sal’s kids screamed with excitement.

  Dammit! Now the kids are awake!

  Sal’s left elbow flinched. A horse walked almost touching the left side of the car, right along the windows. What looked to Sal—the harness blinkers, the odd saddle, he was no expert—like a shiny-red thoroughbred racehorse.

  The black tail swished into view. When the beast was farther along Sal could see the rider’s legs. The big man was no jockey, a broad back in an expensive black leather jacket, urging his animal past the brawlers, out onto the freeway.

  “Where we going, Daddy?” Sal Torentino’s five-year old boy asked from the back seat.

  “Shhhhh,” Sal answered. “Go back to sleep.”

  But they didn’t want to go back to sleep. “Where are we going, Daddy?” Sal’s six-year-old daughter cooed.

  Sal didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know what to answer. And he didn’t want to scare them. He checked the phones. Margarete was almost to the front.

  “Where we going? Where we going?” his son joined in.

  They’re not going to stop, are they? Sal realized, pushing his back teeth against each other. Some kind of answer. Quiet them down maybe. “We’re going for a drive.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he’d done.

  “We’re going for a drive, we’re going for a drive . . . ”

  For the next ten minutes the kids chanted like idiot monks.

  “Going for a drive, going for a drive!”

  Sal finally exploded. “Shut up back there!” He rarely lost his temper. Almost never with the kids. But they shut up.

  “Feathee!” Sal’s daughter held up a long feather painted with streaks of dark tan.

  “Where—!”

  She was cramming her dolls into that yellow tool box he’d rescued from the restaurant.

  “Gimme!” said Sal’s son.

  “Mine!” his daughter whisked the feather an inch out of his son’s reach. She put it back in with her dolls. The lid slammed.

  The toolbox took up the whole of the floor on the side behind Sal’s seat. His daughter’s legs were short enough that resting her feet on its lid probably made sitting more comfortable for her. He’d forgotten all about it. The feather must have been inside.

  He recalled the small boat pulling up to tie at the restaurant’s dock. The Middle Eastern man opening the toolbox, releasing that bird—an owl, it looked like—into the air beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The man leaving the box after he ate lunch.

  Margarete came back looking more frazzled than ever. “I couldn’t get through to Momma in Rochester, Saly!” She closed her door— “I couldn’t reach Momma! Oh I’m so worried about her.” She frowned at the kids. “Anything happen? Kids okay?”

  “Not much,” Sal swallowed. “They’re fine. I’m sure she’s okay. We’ll try again in a little while.”

  “She’s probably worried sick.” She turned. “Want to go see Momma Conti, kids?”

  They perked right up. “Momma Conti! Momma Conti!”

  Rita looked at him, a line down her pretty forehead. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to have us—so happy to see the kids, Saly—”

  Sal sighed. “Okay. Daniella’s it is.”

  But the freeway entrance was blocked.

  Sal carefully snuck his tires up over the rounded curb of the left berm, easing the Chevy partway up the angled concrete. The space on the left was just enough to squeeze their right fender around one fighter as he bumped the other into the bushes.

  “Saly!”

  “I only nudged him—”

  Sal’s big shoulders sagged. He let out a big breath as the Torentinos slid into traffic. Again.

  Return To Jersey

  Clarence, the Russian and the transit engineer pulled the heavy hook and most of its cable back into the Pelican, tying them with a piece of climbing rope to one of the bench seat supports along the side. They closed the cargo door as far as the lift harness would allow and the freezing wind dropped to a light roar.

  Cradled in Franklin’s arms, Melissa wiggled, a secret smile on her face. Fine blonde hair like Cynthia’s. She acted as though she were safe, the most comfortable baby in the world. How long had she been wearing that same night outfit? More than sixteen hours, he guessed. He could smell something going on in there. Not much he could do about that right now. He worried why she hadn’t complained about not being fed for what must have been, what? More than twelve hours?

  Since he’d taken her from the cabinet, the only time she cried was when he tried to have someone else hold her. He would only need a moment to reach inside his shirt and pull out the bird. But Melissa would go wild. He felt another brief scamper, claws against his skin. The bird had ducked back inside and it wouldn’t come out either. Wish I could get it out of my shirt.

  As they cleared the Hudson River cliffs re-entering New Jersey, Everon breathed a little easier. At least I won’t have to make a water landing. He could set them down in any open field, if he had to, even a golf course, a parking lot.

  Noise was increasing, the left turbine’s tachometer needle this time pegging into the red. He knew what that meant—governor’s failing to the high side—a runaway engine. If there isn’t smoke trailing us yet, there will be soon.

  He didn’t want to do it— He grabbed the left turbine lever and slid it back to MANUAL. There was no effect. He took a deep breath. No choice at all now. He couldn’t just wait for the right engine to self-destruct. Still, he hesitated, calculating quickly—thirteen passengers. Burned off a lot of fuel. Nowhere near overload. Still have one engine.

  He reached over, slid the left turbine control to OFF and cut its boost pumps. Immediately the Pelican began to sink as the right turbine spun down. He compensated by increasing pressure on the collective, pushing the right turbine harder, forcing the helicopter to hold altitude.

  In the distance he spotted the eight-story red-brick Med Center, north of the airport. He’d seen their heliport marked on a map. Probably less than three miles, he guessed. Still one good engine.

  He adjusted the radio frequency. “Helicopter Pelican Two-Two-Bravo-India, emergency approach for Hackensack Med Center Roof Top He
liport.”

  He waited. There was no answer. “Med Center Heliport, do you read?”

  As the red-brick building moved closer he could make out another chopper still sitting on the roof! Its blades weren’t even turning!

  A voice came back to him. “Uh— Bravo-India we read, we’re closing except to Teterboro high-risk patient transfers. Delay several minutes.”

  He couldn’t delay even one minute. Everon veered for the airport.

  Much of the space around the runways was occupied by tents. Must be an awful lot of casualties coming in. Then he noticed he’d been unconsciously raising his left arm and the Pelican’s collective with it. “Losing power?” he blurted. He glanced at the altimeter. “A thousand feet,” he muttered to no one in particular. They shouldn’t have been but they were dropping. He glanced at the engine instruments. Shit! The right turbine’s fuel filter light was on again. We’re going down!

  He scanned the area quickly. All I need is a little—

  There was an oblong-shaped corner of the airport still open, several helicopters there already. Can I glide it that far? And then he heard that harsh, asshole voice again—

  “Where are you planning to land? I hope you’re taking us directly to the hospital,” Kone yelled.

  “We’re losing altitude goddammit!” Everon snarled through his teeth. “This thing’d fly a whole lot better with less weight. Care to step outside, Mr. Kone?”

  “Please be quiet,” Franklin whispered forcefully to the little bureaucrat. “You’re not helping.”

  Perspiration dripped from Everon’s forehead. “Hold on!” he yelled and lowered the collective to the floor.

  As if the bottom dropped out, the Pelican fell. Fast.

  No one said a word.

  Falling Down

  Houses rose toward them—a baseball diamond. Could I make that? Too far. That parking lot? Power lines. Everon fought himself not to white-knuckle the machine, to continue feeling the controls.