A New World: Untold Stories

by O'Brien, John

  “Into the cockpit, now!” he shouts to Mary.

  She remains standing, transfixed by the horror coming at them. Grabbing her shoulder and turning her, Sheldon pushes her toward the cockpit.

  “Go!”

  Stumbling over the prone, wounded man, she comes to her senses. With a quick glance behind, she starts for the cockpit with Sheldon following. Knowing he can’t open the door, he grabs for the attendant’s phone and punches the line for the cockpit.

  “Everything alright back there?” the co-pilot asks.

  “This is Hendricks. Open the door and be quick about it,” Sheldon responds.

  Seconds later, although it seems like an eternity, the door opens a crack. Sheldon pushes Mary inside. Following, he closes it quickly behind. The screams permeating the cabin become muffled. Leaning against the door, Sheldon becomes aware of his panting breath and pounding heart. The co-pilot, standing behind Mary, looks bewildered, having heard the screams. His face tells of a hundred unasked questions.

  “I’ll tell you in a sec. Right now, we need to get this aircraft on the ground,” Sheldon states, starting for his seat.

  The cockpit door shakes from repeated fists hammering on the other side. His co-pilot turns to the door but Sheldon ignores it as he belts in. Looking at the nav display, he sees that Denver is the closest airport, lying twenty minutes away to the southeast. As he sets in a new course, he briefly relates to his co-pilot what is happening. Sheldon has trouble telling it because he doesn’t really know what just happened. He sees the look of disbelief in the eyes of the flight officer. If it wasn’t for Mary backing him up, he would think he was the one going crazy.

  He keys the mic. “Denver Center, this is Delta 1493 declaring a medical emergency. Requesting divert from present position direct to Denver International.”

  “Delta 1493, Denver Center. Copy emergency. Turn right heading one two zero, descend and maintain two five thousand. State nature of medical emergency.”

  Sheldon really doesn’t know how to respond to that. He knows if he tells them what he saw, they’ll think they have a lunatic pilot on their hands.

  “Center, we have a number of passengers attacking the others. We have numerous casualties and we believe that most of the flight crew are down. The cockpit is secure.”

  Sheldon can imagine the looks the other pilots on the frequency are giving one another right now.

  Thank goodness we’re on a red-eye and there aren’t many flights airborne, he thinks, knowing it would be a hard one to live down should the world hear about it.

  The pounding against the cockpit door continues with a frenzied pace and intensity. He can only imagine the fear that the passengers must be feeling. However, there is nothing he can do.

  It’s not like they can go anywhere from here and we certainly can’t hold many in the cockpit. There’s no way I’m letting those crazed ones in here.

  The long pause from Denver Center continues. “Delta 1493, state number of casualties and nature of attacks. Squawk appropriate code.”

  Sheldon knows the message of his aircraft being attacked is making the controllers believe that he’s being hijacked. However, he can’t really say that, although those infected people may inadvertently bring down the aircraft.

  Sheldon replies that their squawk is correct and that he has an unknown number of casualties on board. Denver Center tells them that they are cleared direct Denver and to descend at their discretion. They are giving Sheldon clearance to do as he deems appropriate.

  A particularly hard slam against the door shakes the cockpit. All three turn toward the entrance with concern. Rising, Sheldon peers through the peep hole to determine what is going on. The expanded fish-eye view is startling. One of the pale-faced passengers is standing in the aisle. At his feet lie a number of bodies, some piled on top of one another. The man takes a run at the door. As the peep hole fills with his body, Sheldon flinches. The entire aircraft shakes as the man slams into the entrance with his shoulder. The hinges, although holding, vibrate.

  Sheldon turns toward the front of the aircraft. Out of the windows, a few pinpoints of light shine from miles below. The lights from Denver and its surrounding cities glow in the distance directly off their nose. The altimeter winds through 30,000 feet. His thoughts feel muddled, in shock most likely. Here he stands, on what was to be his last red-eye for some time, a flight to be enjoyed in peace. Instead, he is six miles in the air, flying over some of the most rugged, mountainous terrain in the world, a cabin full of dead passengers, with crazed sick people trying to get into the cockpit.

  This all might be easier if we weren’t trapped miles high with nowhere to go. This is it. If they get into the cockpit, there isn’t anywhere to run.

  Hoping the door does its job, and thankful, in a strange kind of way, for the need of it, Sheldon retakes his seat. Mary hasn’t moved from the side and is gripping her shirt, her eyes wide with fear. The co-pilot, who Sheldon still doesn’t know although they exchanged pleasantries, looks on with worry, but without the fear he should be feeling, his not having witnessed what happened.

  Another hard slam startles him. He never knew someone could hit the door so hard and he isn’t sure how long the entrance will hold under the onslaught. He informs operations of their predicament, knowing he’ll be in for a psyche eval first thing in the morning.

  Bang!

  Another hard crash shakes the cockpit. Instead of weakening, as he would expect, the crashes against the door seem even harder.

  Perhaps out of desperation.

  His heart thuds against the wall of his chest. Not knowing if the infected in the back will start hammering against any door they see, Sheldon has the co-pilot and Mary go on oxygen in case of rapid decompression.

  Denver Center continues to monitor the flight, allowing for any deviations that Sheldon might require and directing traffic out of their way. Sheldon informs the controller that he thinks the entire passenger manifest might be either injured or dead. This will make the authorities treat the flight as a hijacking, which will extend this long night. Sheldon doesn’t care as long as he can get the 757 on the ground before the infected break through the door. There isn’t an escape hatch built into the aircraft, but he’ll feel better knowing they can’t fall miles to the ground.

  Slam! The door shakes.

  The lights of Denver are closer as they pass through eighteen thousand feet. Their voices and actions are shaky as they progress through their approach to field checks. It’s a race between the structural soundness of the door and the airfield. The cockpit entrance is meant to withstand tremendous pressures to keep potential hijackers out, but Sheldon doesn’t know if it is able to handle the pounding its taking.

  It feels as if the crashes against the door are timed with each couple of hundred feet they descend.

  How can those infected sustain that kind of intensity without harm?

  Twelve thousand feet.

  They turn to the east, setting up for a long turn to final.

  Bang!

  The vibration sounds different. It has a ring to it as if the door is loosening. Beads of sweat break out on his brow. The race is going to be a close one.

  Please let the door hold.

  Although muffled from his headset, Sheldon hears Mary whimper with each slam against the door. Passing through eight thousand, with the engines in flight idle and speed break deployed to aid in their rapid descent, Sheldon turns to a long final. In the distance, he sees the strobes of the approach lighting system and the steady white of the runway lighting.

  “It’s been a helluva night,” the co-pilot says, bringing the flaps down another notch.

  “That it has,” Sheldon replies, adjusting their airspeed.

  With the continued pounding behind them, almost in their sub-conscious, the gear is lowered. They forgo their normal announcements as, well, they just do, feeling the need for them to be rather moot at the moment. Three green lights flash on and remain steady near the gear h
andle.

  Seven thousand feet, two thousand feet above the ground, and descending in a landing configuration. The pounds against the door continue. The aircraft shakes as it goes through turbulence stemming from the mountain waves. Sheldon applies small corrections to the controls to keep the aircraft aligned. The strobes from the approach lighting blink in rapid succession, pointing toward the runway.

  Their bright landing lights illuminate the red metal towers of the approach systems as they flash underneath. Another bang on the door and Sheldon can definitely feel and hear the difference. He knows the door is giving way.

  Six thousand feet and the strong beams of their landing lights begin picking up the runway markings. Red flashing lights from the responding emergency vehicles stand out near the runway, the vehicles positioned along its length. Sheldon knows that some will chase the aircraft down the runway when it lands. Due to the nature of their emergency, Sheldon will stop and hold the aircraft on the runway, awaiting further instructions.

  Almost there.

  * * * * * *

  The tower crew watches Delta Flight 1493 approach, their binoculars trained on the landing lights that are growing larger and brighter by the second. Due to the nature of the emergency, they’ve cleared the field and airspace around. Of course, it’s early in the morning so they don’t have much traffic to begin with.

  With clearance to land given, it’s just a matter of waiting for the flight to touch down and then handing control off to the authorities. They are short-staffed due to the large numbers who have called in sick but, using on-call personnel, they have enough to manage.

  The reports from center were sketchy. The pilot reported that the passengers were being attacked and that they had numerous casualties on board. How many there might be is unknown as the pilot was unsure. The latest report indicated that the pilot, co-pilot, and one other flight crew member might be the only ones left alive. They had also reported someone trying to gain entry into the cockpit. That means a hijacking and it may leave Denver closed for some time.

  Staring at the approaching lights, the tower personnel note the occasional swing as the aircraft rides through turbulent air. The red flashing lights of emergency vehicles stand to the sides of the runway, the only real indication that something is amiss with the flight. Other than that, it looks like any other airliner approaching for a night landing. The runway controller holds a radio in his hands, ready to turn control of the flight over to the FBI agents who arrived a short while ago. Once the wheels touch the ground, it’s their show.

  Over the approach lights, the landing lights break through the darkness. The aircraft experiences another wobble of turbulence which is almost immediately righted. The runway threshold begins to be illuminated under the intense glare. Going through another moment of turbulence, the 757 slews slightly to the side. Used to seeing the effect of turbulence from the wind passing over the mountains a short distance to the west, the controllers gathered together in the tower expect an immediate correction. They are taken aback, and then watch in horror, as the aircraft slides to one side of the runway and slams into the ground. Dirt, metal, and fuel are thrown into the air and to the sides. Skidding across the ground, the aircraft begins coming apart. The fuel, thrown from ruptured tanks, becomes vaporized by the impact and ignites with a tremendous concussive explosion that lasts only moments before settling back down to a slow burning fire.

  They were right about one thing; Denver would be closed for some time.

  Seaside, Oregon

  Kyle Thornton stands unmoving on the sidewalk, staring at the reflection in the window of him and his family. The small store advertises T-shirts and other touristy items familiar to many of the small shops in the towns along the Oregon Coast. People from the interior and other locales descend upon the coastal communities during the summer months to partake of the sunny days on the long stretches of beach and scenic views of the mostly rock coastline.

  Kyle’s red T-shirt reflects starkly as he gazes at the torsos of the partial mannequins just inside the window, each one hosting a shirt with scenic screen prints plastered on their fronts. Looking to his daughter, who is approaching her eighth year, he smiles as she reaches into the small white sack to extract another salt water taffy. Her white summer dress blows gently against her legs from a light onshore breeze.

  “That’s enough candy for now,” Kyle’s wife, Carol, says, leaning down to pluck the sack from her small hands.

  She adds the small bag to the other larger, plastic ones she is carrying from the shopping they’ve done during the morning. Her long, tan legs extend from a pair of jean shorts with her button-up blouse blowing in the breeze. Even with the illnesses that have spread throughout the world, the day couldn’t be more perfect.

  With so many sick, it feels like they almost have the town to themselves. The usual number of tourists in the small coastal city is much less than is usual. Spending the first weeks of summer at the beach has become a ritual for them and they almost didn’t get to make it this year. The firm Kyle works for has come under a shortage of personnel due to the vast amount of workers calling in sick and his supervisor asked him to cancel his vacation until they were better staffed. Kyle told him that he wasn’t going to do that and that his boss could fire him if he felt so inclined. Looking at the reflection of his family, and feeling the perfectness of the day, he’s glad he made that choice.

  His smile broadens at his daughter’s mild complaint about having her candy taken away, begging for just one more. It’s her usual plaintive request, “just one more, pleeeease.” Her complaint is short-lived as his wife, Carol, shakes her head.

  “Dad, can we go to the beach now?” his daughter asks.

  Reaching down to ruffle her dark brown hair, he answers. “Sure, hon.”

  “Can we get a kite? Huh, can we?”

  Looking to Carol, his wife shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “Why not.”

  Closer to the beach, nearing the end of the tourist shops and across from their hotel, they enter a shop advertising kites for sale. A short time later, with his daughter prancing with glee, they emerge with a kite added to their already numerous bags.

  “Come on, guys,” his daughter says, skipping ahead of them.

  “Sarah, you stay close to us,” Carol states.

  Even though there are only a few people strolling along the sidewalk, Carol, her motherly instinct at the forefront, is protective about keeping Sarah close to them. The sun is directly overhead, bathing the small town in its bright light, and begins warming the day to the extent the closeness of the ocean and onshore breeze allow.

  “Do you want to go throw the bags in the room before we go?” Kyle asks Carol.

  Sarah, upon hearing, turns with a frown at the proposed delay.

  “No, I think it’s fine. Let’s just go,” Carol replies. “We have an early dinner reservation so let’s enjoy what we can of the day.”

  Nearing the promenade sidewalk edging the beachfront, Kyle can’t imagine a more perfect day. Carol looks as good as the first day they met and stole his heart. Watching Sarah, his pride and joy, skipping as they draw near the beach, he feels contented and wishes this moment could last forever.

  With the hiss of the small waves gently rolling up the shore, they descend a series of steps and feel the soft, warm sand through their flip-flops. Gulls cry from along the beach and the long sidewalk, fighting each other for scraps of food left behind by tourists.

  The long strand of beach, stretching to the limits of vision, is normally filled with travelers and beach-goers. However, on this sunny day, there are only a few out enjoying the day, with a small beach volleyball game going on just past the stairs. Finding a place nearby, Kyle spreads the blanket he’s been carrying since they started out in the morning. He then sets to work putting together the newly purchased kite without breaking the plastic cross members or making himself look like a fool.

  Minutes later, with Sarah holding the small plastic handle wrapped
with twine, Kyle holds the lime green kite in the air and releases it. The kite flutters in the steady breeze, the edges ruffling as the wind sails past. Squinting in the direct sunlight, Sarah, holding onto the handle as the kite lifts into the air, squeals in delight as it climbs higher. Kyle shows her how to release the line a little at a time so the kite doesn’t plummet down. Soon the diamond-shaped object, with a long yellow tail whipping from side to side, is a small shape against the light blue sky.

  As expected though, Sarah soon grows bored of just holding the string as the kite slowly moves in the changing breeze. Thinking that he should have purchased one of the trick kites, so he could have enjoyed it some, he begins the long process of winding the kite in. He wraps the string around the handle, drawing the kite in five short inches at a time. As the kite grows slowly larger, Kyle glances to Sarah, who has dumped the buckets and shovels from another bag Kyle had been carrying. Carol lies stretched on the blanket, shielding her eyes and watching the process with a knowledgeable smile, the reflection of Sarah’s activities showing in her large, dark sunglasses.

  “Can we go to where the sand is wetter?” Sarah asks. “It’s easier to build sand castles.”

  Carol looks to Kyle, who nods. “Go ahead, hon. I’ll wrap this up here and join you.”

  Carol rises from the blanket and blows Kyle a kiss. With Sarah darting ahead, the two move closer to the incoming surf.

  “Will you help me build the biggest castle ever? I bet we can…..” Sarah says, her voice trailing off as they get farther away.

  Winding the kite in, Kyle thinks of just cutting the string and dealing with the ramifications later. There’s a chance that Sarah won’t even notice her kite missing. However, he continues with the tedium until he has the kite firmly in hand. With his hands sore from the constant winding, he removes the cross pieces. With the small number of people around, he isn’t worried about someone making off with their stuff, so he leaves everything and joins his wife and daughter.