by M. C. Norris
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re next in line for take-off. Please fasten your seatbelts, and please remain seated until you’ve been notified that we’ve reached cruising altitude. Thank you, and enjoy your flight.”
Lonny reared up on his knees to peer over the seat in front of him.
“Weren’t you paying attention?” the woman said. “Sit down, and fasten your seatbelt.”
“Those guys up there aren’t sitting down,” the kid grumbled, dropping back into his chair. His Tarzan comic slid down onto the floor as he groped for an elusive buckle.
The first beads of sweat welled up on Hart’s brow. He was quick to wipe them away. Once a plane reached altitude, he was able to relax a little bit. It was getting up there that bothered him.
His height provided him with an unobstructed view over the tops of twenty-eight rows of oscillating heads crowned with variously styled hair. From this angle, they looked like a bunch of motorized androids programmed to swivel back and forth. Invariably, some kid was bound to peer up over the back of his seat, and try to make a game of staring at him. Hart hated that. He hated being stared at when he was feeling anxious, out of control, and just trying to avoid the spotlight. Mean-mugging a staring kid by making a scary face was a temptation, but it almost always resulted in a backfire. It only increased their fascination with him, or worse, would prompt them to tattle.
Hart narrowed his eyes at a dark recess near the forward boarding hatch, where three, new men appeared. They turned, and began to walk single-file down the aisle. They had an official look about them. The first and the last wore matching suits, sunglasses, and black hats. The figure shuffling in between was less distinct. Slumped forward at the waist, he tottered side to side with every abbreviated step. As he swayed in and out of visibility, Hart noticed that he had a jacket draped over his clasped hands.
Hart’s brow furrowed. His gaze flicked from the strange trio to the three, empty seats in the half-row across the aisle, and slightly behind him. Row twenty-nine was always kept empty, reserved for use by the stewardesses during times of turbulence. However, there was no question in Hart’s mind where these goons were headed. They’d remained out of sight until just seconds before take-off, when there was no chance of turning the plane around.
“They said something earlier about non-routine procedures, and federal authorities,” Heather muttered, rifling through her purse. “I’ve only flown one other time, and they didn’t check our boarding passes once we’d gotten on the plane. Oh, my gosh. Here they are. I’m so glad I didn’t throw them away.”
“Hello.” A stewardess materialized beside him, causing Hart to jump involuntarily. “Would you care for any refreshments?”
“Coors.” Hart dropped the pad of his index finger to the armrest, as if there was an invisible button there that made cans of Coors appear.
The fixed, professional smile of the airline stewardess wavered, struggling to maintain perfect form as Hart revealed his imperfect face. He doubted that it would’ve much mattered what he ordered, or how politely he ordered it. She was the sort of person who was revolted by his appearance, and was unable to mask it.
Snapping out of her momentary shock, the phony smile was reactivated. “For you, ma’am?”
“Tab, thank you. Lonny?”
“What’s a Coors?”
“He’ll have a Tab, too.”
“Two Tabs and a Coors, right away.”
The turbines began to whine. Jet engines ramped up to a deafening roar. Forces gathered upon his chest, and began to press down. Skeins of Baltimore fog and ghostly airfield imagery rushed past Lonny’s window. Hart gritted his teeth, scowling over the top of the seat at the wooden face with dark glasses that showed every intent to invade Hart’s personal sanctum at the back of the plane. A white cord dangled against the side of the man’s neck. It stretched from beneath his collar to his ear. Above the howling turbines, Hart could hear the ring of what sounded like chains against metal shackles.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered.
They’d pulled a fast one. A real dirty trick. Kept them stowed in the cabin until the point of no return to avoid a big fuss from the passengers. U.S. Marshals, FBI, CIA, or worse, whoever these G-men were, their exact affiliation was of less concern to Hart than whatever atrocities the man in their custody might’ve committed that required him to be transported across the country on a commercial airliner.
Hart glanced over at Heather and Lonny. Both of their smiling faces were pressed to the small window, awing over the terrifying speeds at which ordinary scenery could rocket by. Hart’s gaze fell to the dark crescent on the boy’s knee, and he felt strangely ill. During take-off, the same injury that had intrigued him just minutes ago was now a stark reminder that human beings were fragile creatures. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed. Bodies at high speeds flew right to pieces.
Fear of injury and death was not an unfamiliar sensation. Hart embraced those purest of emotions on a pretty regular basis. Although stunts could sometimes go awry, there was always that illusion of control, because the inherent danger was carefully planned. Control was key. Fear could be just as manageable as a predetermined rate of speed, an angle of approach, the timing of a charge placed in a precise location. He supposed that his obsession to control utter chaos was what compelled him to become an emotional masochist, forever diddling with that entropy he feared. However, on a plane there was no control.
As the trio shuffled by, Hart kept his eyes locked forward. Assuming a sort of trance during take-offs and landings was one of his techniques. He would focus his eyes on the most distant part of the plane until the nauseating hot flashes passed over him. Dozens of heads swiveled around in their seats to stare at the newcomers while the feds secured their prisoner between them in the middle seat. Hart could hear them rustling around, but he didn’t turn his head. He just closed his eyes. It felt like the whole planeload was staring back at him. Beads of sweat cut cold trails down Hart’s ribcage. He just breathed in and out until a familiar numbing sensation displaced the nausea, leaving his skin chilled, and his lips tingling. The airsickness released its terrible hold, for the time being. Sometimes, it was just one wave of nausea, and other times it was two or three, depending on the severity of the turbulence. Alcohol, when available, really helped to take the edge off. Where was that Coors?
With a jolting bump, tires left pavement. The nose of the Boeing 707 lilted skyward, and they were off. The plane wavered in the new stream of air, climbing steadily, as landing gears groaned into retraction. He hated this part so much. Always felt like the slightest puff of air could tip a wing to some disastrous angle, swatting an airliner right out of the sky, and back down to earth like a hawk-struck pigeon.
Another hot flash swept over him, soaking his skin with perspiration. Don’t get sick. Please don’t get sick. Hart squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to dwell on the fact that he was no longer in control of a single thing in his world. He tried to ignore the rasp of chains through steel manacles, the snap of locks, the grumbling of federal goons an arm’s reach back and to his left. Even when everything went smoothly, flying was a horrible experience. The added stress of the unusual situation behind him was about enough to send him over the edge.
“Mom, look how tiny everything is down there.”
“Say, bye-bye, Baltimore.”
“Bye, Baltimore.”
Hart’s eyes flicked open. Both of his hands were clamped like a couple of crocodiles onto the ends of the armrests. He forced himself to relax his grip, to lift one quavering arm to wipe what felt like about a pint of sweat off his face against his denim sleeve. He exhaled through pursed lips, and blinked his eyes.
“Sir?”
Hart cranked his head around in the direction of the female voice emanating from the galley. His hand was already cupped in a receptive gesture, ready to receive his cold beer. The flight attendant stepped forward, pointing her finger in the direction of someone further up the aisle
.
“Sir, you need to take your seat,” she said.
No beer.
While his head was turned in that direction, Hart stole a quick peek at the occupants of row twenty-nine. Flanked on either side by his handlers, the shackled man was slumped facedown over his knees. The position was not one he’d assumed by choice. The feds each held fistfuls of his collar. They were stiff-arming his head down into the well. Looked pretty uncomfortable. Hart could hear the man’s labored breaths, the phlegm bubbling inside his lungs. Nylon straps were cinched around the back of the prisoner’s shaved head, securing some strange device to his face. That’s when Hart noticed the worst scar that he’d ever seen.
A deep channel haloed the captive’s crown. Crimped at regular intervals with surgical staples, it looked like a hot zipper of red flesh hewn above his ears and eyebrows, encircling the circumference of his head. The wound burned an indignant shade of crimson, and it glistened with antiseptic ointment. It looked pretty fresh. The rude path of the incision gave the impression that the top of his head had hastily been removed, as one might pop the lid off a cookie jar, and had been stapled back into place.
“Sir. Please take your seat!”
Emitting a boar-like grunt, the shackled man reared back his head. Glowering over the seal of a rubber respirator mask, the whites of his feral eyes were stained red with blood. He lurched back, inadvertently hoisting the front of his shirt to reveal another incision hemmed into his belly. The man released a gurgling cry as his handlers grappled him, and forced his head back down between his knees. Jackknifed at the midsection, his back heaved with every strained breath, yet he managed to twist his head back to the side. Bloody eyes shimmering with a nameless emotion, he appeared to plead to Hart for something for which he was unable to ask. A thread of drool dropped from the chin of his mask, and whipped languidly over the tops of his slippers.
“Sir!” The stewardess marched out of the galley. “If you do not take your seat, I’m going to have to—”
Her sentence was cut short by a thunderous explosion, and some screams. Hatless, the nearest fed toppled over into the aisle. His body quivered with reflexive palsies. Gobbets of brain matter drizzled down the galley wall.
Four wolves arose from amidst the sheep, and they stepped out into the aisle. With the exception of the revolvers in their hands, the black bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, they didn’t appear to be dressed to any uniform congruity. Two, clothed in suits, blended seamlessly into the predominant business culture. A third wore a tee-shirt and jeans. The nearest, who’d fired the fatal shot, was the man wearing the Baltimore Orioles cap. Pistols leveled, they pressed their way down the center aisle toward the rear of the plane.
“We’re here for the prisoner,” Oriole shouted, aiming his revolver in the direction of row twenty-nine. “Hand him over, and no one else gets shot!”
A backpedaling stewardess tripped over the brainless corpse. She landed on her rump in a pool of gore. Smearing her hands on the hips of her skirt, she crab-walked back into the galley, whimpering with every breath. The surviving fed was humped protectively over his captive, keeping low behind the seats. A revolver was clenched in his hand.
“We’re not playing games,” Oriole shouted. “Let him go! Now!”
The plane was still gaining altitude. It was tilted at a precarious pitch. The hijackers clung to headrests, sliding their feet as they edged their way down the sloped aisle. Lights flickered along the roof of the fuselage, suggesting that something electrical might have sustained some damage. With a static pop, all the lights went out. A collective cry arose in the sudden gloom.
Hart glanced over his shoulder in response to a whisper. It was the federal agent. The man snatched off his dark glasses to reveal his wild eyes. He jabbed a finger in the vicinity of Hart’s feet.
Shifting his knees to the right, Hart peered down into the shadows of his foot well. His eyes widened. There was a dropped revolver resting right beside his foot. Just inches away from the corpse’s twitching fingers, it had somehow tumbled beneath the chair.
The fed emitted an insistent grunt, stabbing the air repeatedly with his index finger. There was no way. There was no way in hell that he could contort his oversized body into a position that would enable him to reach that weapon without the hijackers taking notice. They’d kill him if he went for the gun, no question. They were only about twelve rows away, and closing in fast. Hart slid his boot over the chunk of steel. Keeping his eyes locked on the four hijackers, he scooted the weapon beneath his foot until it was within Heather’s reach. She was flattened behind the seats with her son. Once he was certain that her eyes were fixed on the suspicious movement of his foot, he lifted his boot, and gave her a quick glimpse of the hidden revolver. The rapid cadence of her breathing stopped. She’d seen it. She understood what he needed her to do.
“Put your hands in the air, and get up from behind the seat!” Oriole halted his advance, a few rows away. “I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to put a few hot ones through those chairs!”
Trembling, Heather’s hand descended.
“One …”
Blood chugged up the sides of Hart’s throat, pulsing wildly inside of his ears. His mouth went dry. He could feel the color draining from his face.
“Two …”
Her fingers curled soundlessly around the weapon. Lifting it from the floor, she passed it right up to Hart in one smooth motion. Before he was ready to receive such a terrible thing, he felt the weight of cold steel drop right into the palm of his hand. It was his turn.
“You idiots have no idea what you’re dealing with.” The voice of the federal agent growled up from behind the seats, better resembling the warning sounds of a cornered animal than the words of a human being. “I don’t know who you are, or who you’re working for, but they’re lying to you. This prisoner is a living, breathing—weapon.”
Oriole popped his neck one way, and then the other. His fingers tightened around the grip of his revolver. “Just let him go.”
“I’ll kill him before I hand him over to you.”
The plane bucked, canted, throwing the hijackers momentarily off-balance. They swiveled their heads, gawping around, as surprised as everyone else by the gaps of silence that interrupted the droning engines. Something was wrong. The grinding staccato of failing turbines gave way to the terrifying stillness of rushing air. An unmistakable stench permeated the gloomy fuselage. It was the reek of hot wires, melting plastic, overheated electrical components. Vibrations coursed through the fuselage, rattling unseen sheets of metal against their rivets. A flash of greenish light through the starboard windows wrought a collective scream.
The furthest hijacker broke rank. He began wrestling some duffle bags out of the overhead compartments. As each identical piece of luggage was freed of its trappings, it was tossed through the air. The other hijackers caught these bags, cinched straps around their shoulders, and snapped tactical clips to metal grommets on the hips of their belts.
“Have it your way,” Oriole said, snatching a thrown duffle from the air. “They never specified whether or not we needed to bring him back alive—not when all they want is that junk sewed up inside of him.”
Hart erupted from his seat. A piercing screech unlike any sound he’d ever produced erupted from his throat as he squeezed the trigger again, and again. Hijackers toppled and writhed before the snapping hammer, deafening concussions, flashes of burning cordite. A couple of them rose, and returned fire. Windows detonated, sucking paperwork and litter from the rows into a howling vortex. Screams filled an airplane that seemed devolved to a canopy of apes alerted to the predators in their midst. Hart’s eyes widened as bullets ripped hot tunnels through his flesh. Blinded by a spray of his own blood, he felt the revolver tumble from his hands. He was done, retired. His last and greatest stunt was complete.
Hart crumpled behind the seats, landing face-down on a Tarzan comic. He moaned in the roaring current of air.
Pages of the comic flapped wetly against his cheek, painting his skin in the feast of blood slaked by hordes of illustrated dinosaurs.
Rending metal delivered the brightest light he’d ever known, peeling back the walls of reality, and scattering its remnants across the zenith. It was all air, out there. A vast openness received him, where flesh and metal enmeshed, where ruby droplets pelted blizzards of paperwork in a plummeting cloud of debris that dreamt it was once a plane, before being rudely awakened.
Flying, dying, beaming up at the infernal sun, Hart sailed through waves of profound gratitude known only to those souls with seconds to live. For the first time in his life, he felt at peace. Death was something beautiful to behold, even as the heavenly effervescence was eclipsed by a passing shadow. Hart blinked. A man came gliding by. Pumping his cuffed limbs through the wailing airstream, he cocked his malformed head to regard Hart through a blood drop eye. An infantile smile crept over Hart’s face. Like a strange bird sprung from the trappings of its cage, the shackled man soared off through littered skies, delivered from peril into paradise.
CHAPTER TWO
28-E
She plunged from one element into another. It was a jarring transition that struck with such terrible force that she felt no specific pain beyond one overwhelming jolt that left her hanging in a blue abyss, wondering how she could be looking at the bottom of her own foot. Agony came when she attempted to thrust herself toward the surface with a kick from pulverized legs, and didn’t move.
A garbled scream spewed from her mouth in a torrent of shimmering spheres. Her nostrils burned with the saline fluid that surged down the back of her throat. Choking. Retching. Must go up. She scooped at the ocean with great heaves of her arms, grimacing at the sound of popping bones in the useless legs she dragged behind. Swallowing great gulps of seawater, she clawed at the suffocating layers that enveloped her, denying her the desperate reunion with her lost surface world.