Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change

by Robert J. Crane

  “Do you know what you do to people?” the man shouted, right in her face, his voice thin and ragged as he was, in danger of breaking. He had sunken eyes, a skeletal, malnourished look. He looked a little like a ginger skeleton, some sort of vagrant who had wandered in from somewhere far up north. Kat’s horrified gaze was locked on her bodyguards’ fallen forms, blood rushing out of the wounds in their ribcages where something had torn through them. “Do you have any idea?” the man asked with a steadily rising voice. “Do you know?” He sounded deranged, furious, and then Scott noticed the phone clenched in his other hand, the camera pointed right at Kat’s horrified face, capturing her emotions with its glass eyes glinting in the California sun. “You kill them,” he said, shoving her roughly to one knee and letting her loose as he raised a hand high to strike at her in the same way he’d struck at her bodyguards, his phone still aimed at her, the crowd breathless and still at the spectacle playing out before their very eyes. “And I’m gonna show the world what it looks like when it happens to you—”

  4.

  Midwest Airlines Flight 404

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  Tara Garcia had been on planes most of the day, starting her morning in New York City with a quick run to Orlando that took off at local 8 a.m. and now finishing her last flight from Chicago to Milwaukee now, local time 9:06 p.m. Midwest Airlines was a mostly regional carrier that had been expanding rapidly the last few years thanks to rock bottom prices. She’d signed on as a flight attendant eighteen months earlier and found it to be mostly enjoyable. There were always a few assholes on any given day, but she’d worked retail before this during the holiday season, and so dealing with only one or two a-holes at a time was a refreshing break given her prior experience.

  On the other hand, Tara had never really felt as imperiled working retail as she felt right now, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat on this DC-9 that was just about empty of fuel.

  “Shit shit shit,” the man in the pilot’s seat said. His name was Neil Ericson, he looked about mid-forties, and she’d just met him for the first time two hours earlier, under less-than-ideal conditions. He was fighting fatigue and stress of a sort she was feeling more than a little of herself. It had been just that sort of stress that had caused Captain Michael Donowitz to have a heart attack, slipping into unconsciousness about fifteen minutes before their scheduled landing.

  Of course, it might also have been slightly aggravated by having the co-pilot, Jason Treadway, pass out into a state of unconsciousness so complete that they’d had to summon a doctor from the passenger section into the cockpit. Captain Donowitz had looked a little white before that, but watching his co-pilot, a man in his early thirties, dragged insensate out of his seat had seemed to push the captain a little more. When he’d gone down just a few minutes later, Tara hadn’t panicked exactly. She hadn’t had time to. Instead, she’d calmly gone to the back and asked if anyone had had flying lessons, stepping over the unconscious bodies of both pilot and co-pilot to do so. Now this Neil Ericson was now at the controls, a man who had taken three flying lessons some six years ago … was the best-qualified person to sit in the captain’s chair. When they’d realized the autolanding systems were not functioning properly only a few minutes later, that was when the first icy tingles of panic had started running down Tara’s back.

  Since then, Tara had had almost two whole hours of watching the fuel gauge steadily sink to work herself into a complete panic, but she had not ever reached it. She talked low and calmly to Milwaukee tower in the exact same way she’d heard the pilot do on the occasions she’d been in the cockpit, not letting a hint of the panic she should have been feeling creep into her voice.

  “Milwaukee tower,” she said cheerfully, as if she was putting on her best customer service voice when dealing with one of those inevitable a-holes that seemed to find themselves in her side of the plane, “this is Midwest 404. We are pretty much out of fuel and are going to have to try a landing soon.” She looked at Neil Ericson laboring at the controls and wondered if he was going to suffer a heart attack as well. She didn’t rule it out, based on the pasty look on the man’s face.

  There was a pause before Milwaukee tower responded. “Understood, Midwest 404. We have you on vector—what the hell was—” There was a crackle of static. “Midwest 404, are you still there?”

  Tara felt a chill run down her skin as she looked at Neil over in the pilot’s seat. The man looked stricken. It was getting to be a usual sensation for both of them. “Why wouldn’t we be, tower?”

  “Uh, sorry, Midwest 404 … saw a blip on radar moving toward you fast, thought maybe—never mind. We have you at five thousand feet, ten miles out, but your approach to runway one-zero-niner is a little off. Could you adjust and try again?”

  The frustration mingled with fear in Tara’s throat. They’d been trying for an hour now to line up properly, and Ericson couldn’t quite get the plane to do what he needed it to. “We’ll try, tower, but—”

  THUMP.

  “JESUS!” Ericson shouted, coming to his feet before he hit his head on the roof of the cockpit and slammed back down into his seat. Tara lunged for the co-pilot controls to steady the plane as Ericson came back down in his seat clutching his head, blood running down from beneath his hairline.

  “What is it?” Tara asked, wrestling hard against the controls. Disengaging the autopilot had been the start of the downward spiral. If you didn’t count the pilot having a heart attack or the first officer passing out.

  “Look!” Ericson said, his voice ten octaves higher than it had been even when it was panic soaked and exhausted a moment earlier. His finger pointed at the window, which Tara hadn’t looked out of for some time, since she was trying to talk with tower and make sense of the instrument panel in case of—

  Holy hell.

  There were two faces pressed against the front window, perched there like they’d been suction-cupped on like a Garfield cat on a minivan. Both female, both of them with hair blowing ridiculously hard in the wind. One of them, the terrified-looking one, wore the shoulder boards of a pilot, its golden tassels the same color as her hair. She was mouthing the words that Tara herself had been saying only recently, but inside her head.

  Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh please please please—

  The other looked calm and slapped a hand against the front window as her dark hair blew around her. “Is that …?” Tara blinked, staring out into the darkness above the Milwaukee skyline. “… Sienna Nealon?”

  “I think so?” Neil Ericson sounded like he’d fully crapped himself at last. He was just not up to the strain he’d been put under. “And is that a … who is that with her?”

  “It’s a pilot,” Tara said, the first breath of hope coming into her lungs.

  “Open … the … door,” Sienna Nealon said, rapping on the thick glass of the windshield, her voice inaudible.

  Tara jumped out of her seat and headed for the first exit she could find. paused, feeling scared witless, about to do something she’d never had to do before—

  Open the hatch mid-flight, five thousand feet above the world below—and save her plane from certain destruction.

  I will never fly again, Tara thought as she unlocked the hatch but did not open it, instead moving back and anchoring herself in the hallway. I will take the damned bus, even if I need to travel from Seattle to Miami. That European vacation I wanted to take? Hell, they make cruise ships for that.

  The hatch opened and the breeze blew hard into the cabin, not enough altitude difference to depressurize at this point. The lady captain was heaved in first, and Sienna Nealon came in second, wearing a dress barely hanging on by two shoulder straps.

  Sienna grabbed the hatch and pulled it hard, ripping it shut against the wind resistance. Tara rushed forward to help her lock it back into place, looking breathlessly at the woman who looked like she was dressed for a fancy dinner out rather than a bit of superheroism.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sienna yelled, adjusti
ng her voice, looking a little shocked at how loud it came out. Tara could sympathize; the wind blowing as she’d come into the cabin had been deafening. “Dave Grohl wasn’t available,” Sienna went on, sounding surprisingly relaxed given the circumstances, “so I hope this nice, scared lady captain will land the plane well enough for you.”

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” the captain said, getting back to her feet. Her blond hair was blown back behind her shoulders. “When you said you needed help landing a plane, I thought you meant a Cessna—and that I’d do it from a nice, warm tower somewhere …”

  “Yeah, no hero points for that,” Sienna said casually, unflappable. Her eyes fell on Tara. “I don’t know if she’s going to be able to find the cockpit in her current condition; you mind showing her the way?”

  “I know where the damned cockpit is,” the blond pilot groused, making her way forward on the DC-9. “Get everyone ready for landing. Crosscheck and all-call.” She disappeared down the hall and slammed the door to the cockpit. Tara heard muffled swearing from beyond it before swiveling back to Sienna Nealon.

  “You just saved everyone on this plane,” Tara said, looking at her in awe.

  “Yeah, well, we’re not on the ground yet,” Sienna said, adjusting the straps on her dress uncomfortably as she peeked around into the first-class section. “Got any extra seats or am I standing for landing?”

  “Uhm …” Tara said, thinking quickly. “You can sit up front with me. The, uh, captain and co-pilot are both strapped in in first class, the last two empty seats we had before—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sienna said, eyeing the jump seats next to the door. “Okay, then. Gives me an easy exit if I have to jump out and guide the plane down anyway.”

  “Uh … in that?” Tara asked, pointing at the dress. It looked nice, like maybe she’d been out for the evening, but it didn’t go so well with the hair, which was windblown, to say the least.

  “I could do it naked, I guess,” Sienna said, “I’m getting kinda used to that at this point, unfortunately—”

  “Can I get you anything?” Tara asked as the plane swept wide around, under professional control feeling once more like it was—well, like it was under control.

  “I could use a drink,” Sienna said, settling back into the first seat with a thud. “It’s been a day—or actually, a night.”

  “That makes two of us,” Tara said and grabbed a half dozen of the little bottles out of the storage case, using her skirt to hold them like a parachute as she made her way over to strap herself in for landing, handing the other woman three to start with and watching her chug them lightning fast. “That makes two of us.”

  5.

  Kat

  Los Angeles

  The red-haired homeless-looking guy had come out of nowhere and killed both the Bruces so fast that she hadn’t seen anything but a flash of blood as it sprayed across her white suit. Kat Forrest had seen death—up close and personal, in ways that most people couldn’t even imagine, so when the red-haired guy grabbed her by the wrist and twisted it down, her first instinct wasn’t to just go along with it. He had a good grip, though, and locked her in place until he could throw her down.

  She hit the pavement hard, went sprawling, heard him say something about showing the world what she was, but Kat was too busy trying to not die to pay much attention. Though she might not have anyway, because the dude was a creepy bum with unwashed hair and—let’s face it—some B.O. like he’d come straight out of Topanga Canyon. Kat rolled hard, her meta strength carrying her away as the bum’s hand descended to the pavement—

  And passed right through it like it wasn’t even there.

  Kat rolled and spun back to her feet, not nearly as gracefully as Sienna would have, but enough to get the job done. The redhead looked up in surprise at her fast motion, blinking away his surprise with dark eyes.

  A concentrated spray of water hit him in the side of the face, stunning him for a second. Then his washed-out features suddenly took on an even more washed-out look, like smoke dissipating in the wind as Scott’s attack went right through his face, a stream of liquid that tapered off quickly.

  Kat shot a look at Scott, his finger extended, the water blast he’d directed at the redhead dropping off to the intensity of a water pistol. “Why are you stopping?” she asked.

  “There’s a drought,” Scott said. “I can’t pull water out of the air when there’s no water in the air—”

  “You’re all scheming against me!” The redhead erupted, causing Kat to take a few more steps back. His hair fell in front of his eyes, still ragged and disheveled, though now a little damp from the squirting Scott had given him.

  “Dude, I don’t even know who you are,” Scott said.

  “Neither do I,” Kat said, holding up both her hands, her Fiji water bottle still clenched tightly in one of them. “I’ve never even seen you before in my life—”

  “Of course you don’t know me,” he said, his face twitching. “You don’t even notice the little people as you step on them, do you? You’re just like the others—”

  “Other whats?” Scott asked, holding his own hands up now, matching her non-offensive posture. “Metahuman reality TV stars? Because there are very, very few of those, pretty much just the one right now—”

  “Leeches,” the redhead pronounced, brushing shaggy, stray hairs out of his eyes with a hand. He blew out of his lips, stirring the wild mustache on his upper lip. “That’s what you are.”

  “Listen, Red Lebowski,” Scott said, “I don’t know what she’s done to offend you, but I’m sure it was really bad—”

  “I didn’t do anything—” Kat protested.

  “You just tried to frame me as your stalker,” Scott said, glancing sideways. Kat followed his gaze. The cameraman was there, filming, Mike the sound guy had his boom mic extended toward them, catching the whole exchange.

  This was going to be great TV. Ratings gold.

  If she survived.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, shrugging at the camera since she’d already broken the fourth wall without thinking about it. It was a crisis; these things were understandable. She’d just had some crazy man jump out and assault her, after all.

  “You know what, angry ginger homeless guy?” Scott said, exasperated. “Whatever she’s done to you, you can’t have her.”

  “That’s really not very nice,” Kat said.

  “Which part?” Scott snapped. “Angry, ginger or homeless?”

  “The part where you just act like you can decide what I get to do, like I’m property or some kind of gift you’d deign to hand out—”

  “You’re the worst gift I could imagine giving, like a whoopee cushion filled with nerve gas or—”

  “SHUT UP!” the redhead screamed. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” He shook in the middle of the street like he was about to explode. He extended a finger right at Kat. “I’m telling you this now—you live your life in the spotlight, sucking dry every dramatic bone you can get your grubby hands on—”

  Scott frowned at her. “Is this metaphorical or is he talking about—”

  “I’M SPEAKING NOW!” the redhead exploded again, jabbing his finger in her direction again. “You live in the spotlight, you’ll die in the spotlight—and no one—not your manager,” he gestured to Taggert, who was trying his hardest to blend into the crowd of paparazzi next to the SUV, “not your little friend with his little squirtgun action—” He waved at Scott.

  “Usually it’s a powerful torrent, okay?” Scott said, annoyed. “It’s not my fault you people live in the middle of the damned desert.”

  “—none of your little friends can save you,” the man said, shaking with rage. “You’re going to die, and the world is going to watch it happen.” He waved a hand at her again and then sprinted off in the other direction, passing through the crowd like he was made of smoke itself, people gasping as he ghosted his way through them.

  “Holy hell,” Taggert said, stepping b
ack up now, his eyes locked on the place where the redhead disappeared into the crowd.

  “Kat,” Scott said, easing over to her, cautious. “You okay?”

  “Tell me we got that.” Taggert tossed a look at the cameraman, who gave him a nod before receiving a thumbs up. Taggert grinned. “We got it.”

  “Your bodyguards are dead,” Scott said, wide-eyed, kneeling down next to one of the Bruces. “That guy just killed them—and he said he’s going to kill you.”

  Kat blinked, not sure what to say. There was a faint screaming sensation somewhere in her throat, clawing to get out.

  “Kitten, baby,” Taggert said, still grinning, “this is ratings diamonds. You’ll go up by—”

  “Are you kidding me?” Scott stood up. “Kat! Wake up! Your life is in danger. That guy can pass through people, probably through walls—he just ripped your bodyguards’ hearts out.” He put both hands on her thin shoulders and shook her. She locked her eyes on him, the faint memory of the Bruces’ dying gasps echoing somewhere inside her head. “He’s going to kill you.”

  “You can’t stop him, can you?” Kat asked faintly, her voice coming back at last. She blinked at him, suddenly acutely aware that her glasses were gone. She felt as brittle as she realized, dimly, that she needed to feel. No awards for this, but it wasn’t really hard at the moment, either …

  Scott looked in the direction the redhead had run, shaking his head. “Not me alone, no.” He held up a hand and it spritzed faintly, causing her to jerk away from him. “I think you know who you need to call.”

  “No,” Kat said, staring into space. “You think she’d come?”

  “Your life is in danger,” Scott said, looking a little torn himself. “Yeah. I think she would. Old loyalties and all that.”

  “I can see it now,” Taggert said behind her, voice low, the paparazzi closing in and shouting questions she couldn’t hear over the sound of silence in her head. “‘Special Guest Star—Sienna Ne—”