by TJ Park
Doug stopped a few paces short of Cutter, not trusting his intentions.
Cutter was winding a clean, starched handkerchief around his hand. Who knew where he’d procured it. Doug sincerely doubted it was his. The large man looked up at him with an untroubled brow.
“Got something to say?”
Doug seriously considered shooting him.
“Why didn’t you just let that kid go?”
“Your plan was cute, but it wouldn’t have worked.”
“Everything was working fine.”
Cutter betrayed not a trace of doubt.
“He wouldn’t have given up his gun. He wouldn’t have let us tie him up.”
Doug nearly choked.
“You got a diploma in headshrinking? What makes you so sure?”
“The same thing that told you to let him keep a gun, instead of taking it off him straightaway.”
“Torlach would have been as docile as a lamb once he got his boy back.”
Cutter shrugged.
“Yeah, maybe. Chalk it up to experience. Better luck next time.”
Doug took a shaking, impulsive step toward him.
Cutter remained seated, but his relaxed pose became fixed. Doug felt more than ready to take him on, but he came to his senses. A cramped tube flying at several thousand feet wasn’t the best place to sort out such business.
“It all worked out, didn’t it?” Cutter said, mock-conciliatory. “We got what we came for.” He gestured at the sprawled, wheezing Fatboy. “And there’s even one less share to divvy up. What do you reckon, Mick?”
Mick’s tone was neutral. “I reckon it could have gone better.”
Cutter involving Mick in their tête-à-tête only enraged Doug more.
“From now on, you don’t show initiative. You do as Mick or I say and only what we say, or there’ll be another less share to worry about.”
He turned away, unable to look at Cutter any more for fear of losing control. He felt sullied just from the association. Cutter sneered at what he took to be Doug’s backing down.
“I’m not here just to make you look good. I’m on this job to do the hard stuff, the stuff you weren’t up for.”
Mick rose from his seat, trembling.
“Just settle the fuck down, will you!”
Doug didn’t thank Mick for that. He couldn’t look at him either. Otherwise, it would be a choice of who to rip into first.
***
They weren’t fifteen minutes in the air before Doug felt a queasy shift beneath his seat. He stood up in the aisle only to have the floor drop from under him. It was no exaggeration. For a moment, he felt an actual gap between his soles and the carpet. His elbow rapped a compartment door with enough force to pop it open. Somewhere behind him, Mick swore. Warlock squeaked. Doug glanced over at Cutter, wanting to blame him for this too. But the other man seemed just as bedevilled. It was the most discomforted he’d looked.
The plane lurched again. Doug stumbled for the cockpit.
The co-pilot was hunched over the controls while Warlock was halfway out of the adjoining seat. Doug shouted at him to rejoin the others in back, falling sideways into the seat Warlock had just vacated.
“Tell me it’s turbulence.”
The co-pilot had nowhere good to go, terrified by what was going on and Doug’s likely reaction.
“We’re running out of fuel.”
“I thought you said we had enough.”
“We do! We did! There’s a leak somewhere. It probably didn’t start until the engines got going or the air pressure changed.”
Doug tried to summon what Fatboy had told him about the plane’s make.
“Don’t you have reserves?”
“That’s what we’re using now. It’s emptying faster than the main tank. I don’t know why. Maybe something happened to the fuel line.”
Doug looked over the plane’s bank of incomprehensible controls, imagining a solution would present itself if he stared long enough.
“What options do we have?”
“None. I have to land the plane.”
Doug shook his head. “That’s not an option.”
The co-pilot thought furiously, his eyes darting everywhere.
“Well … we can crash.”
Doug tensed his jaw. “Think of another.”
The co-pilot’s mouth opened and shut, opened and shut. Finally it caught on something.
“What?”
“Jettisoning some weight might buy us a few more minutes.”
“Is that all?”
“We could all sprout wings.”
The co-pilot’s face lit up crazily, fearlessly, before, like a flick of a switch, he reclaimed his composure again.
Doug nearly hit him, but leapt up from his seat instead.
“We’ll dump some weight.”
“Wait! I’ll have to take the plane lower to depressurise before you can open the hatch. But doing that means drag, so we could waste the fuel we’re trying to save.”
Looking out the cockpit window, Doug saw the steep curve of the horizon.
“What’s your call?”
The co-pilot didn’t fear Doug any longer. He had bigger worries.
“We may as well jettison what we can. One way or another, we’re going down.”
***
Doug gave the order and the hatch hissed open. The hiss was promptly sucked away in a roar. He could feel the sudden drop in pressure snatching the air out of his mouth, and wanting to deflate his lungs. His ears ached fiercely, then popped.
The plane listed to port from the breach. Doug could feel the co-pilot struggle to keep the plane’s nose level. At the hatch, Cutter dug in his feet. Tethered by cargo straps, he began chucking out everything handed to him. The rest were braced in a swaying, rocking line, passing along every scrap they could find in the hold.
The cabin was wind and white noise. Paper debris whipped about them, racing down one side of the aisle and up the other. Doug had no idea where it had all come from. The plane seemed spick and span before.
It was not dust, but unadulterated wind that forced their eyes into slits. Turning away did not help; the wind seemed to come from every direction. A twister encircled Doug. Practically blind, he reached for things butted up against him and passed them along, holding them out until they were taken, all of it done on faith.
He became deaf to both the roar of wind and the plane’s engines. What remained was a heavy soughing that lay in the well of the ear like a great volume of still water.
After they were done tossing out the smaller crates of less valuable showpieces, they broke the line, picking apart the cabin at random, snatching glimpses before the stinging whip-end of wind gusts forced their eyes shut again. The off-loading was reduced to objects that took up more room than weight – cushions, and sheafs of transit papers. Most of what Cutter threw out flew back into his face again.
“Enough!” Doug shouted, repeating himself before everyone heard.
Cutter leaned into the wind and heaved the hatch door shut. Doug had to add his muscle before it could be firmly latched.
Suddenly bereft of noise, the cabin took on a false silence. Everyone began settling, relaxing death grips, closing braced legs, finding seats to stagger into, knowing they were alright, if only for the moment. The ride was not ending just yet.
Mick noticed first, alerting Doug when he suddenly froze in place, eyes fixed to the place on the floor that previously hadn’t been empty. Warlock observed their visible shock, then saw for himself. Only Cutter was indifferent, busy reapplying his hand’s makeshift bandage after it had become partially unravelled. He ignored the bloody drag marks across the floor, intermingled with his own scuffed footprints. They began from a pool of blood and soaked cushions, crossed the aisle, and ended at the hatch.
Disbelieving stares were shared as Cutter lounged in his preferred seat. He sat against the side of the aisle, keeping his back from anyone.
Warlock broke the silence, his
Adam’s apple bobbing like a ball in the surf.
“Was he still … did he …?”
“Does it matter?”
Warlock looked from face to face, realising his only ally on this job was now no longer. Doug and Mick shared a look, during which they made an agreement: ditch him or kill him, they would be rid of Cutter.
A brittle Mick shifted higher in his seat, much more mindful of Cutter now. Doug started moving toward the cockpit for an update when the intercom crackled into life. The co-pilot didn’t hide his dismay. The jettison was unsuccessful. Their fuel was out. They had to land “right now”.
Warlock joined Mick and Cutter in taking a chair, scrambling to fasten his seatbelt. Doug wavered between staying put and joining the co-pilot up front. He wanted to think himself brave. He didn’t want to cower back here, ignorant of what was happening, yet at the same time he didn’t want to see what was in store.
The plane dropped. If not for his grip on the aisle seats, Doug’s skull would have shattered against the bulkhead. Instead, his legs shifted from under him and he stretched horizontally in a lazy kind of free fall. Then gravity returned with a wrench. Doug tried to land on his feet, crashing down painfully on his knees instead. He was able to pull himself up quickly, never having relinquished his death grip.
“Doug! For Christ’s sake! Sit down!” Mick yelled.
Doug didn’t have to be told twice. He clambered into the nearest seat. His state of panic must have been greater than he’d thought, because the mechanics of clinching a seatbelt eluded him. He banged the connections together until finally they locked. He pulled the belt so tight his insides had to redistribute before he could breathe again.
Meanwhile, the co-pilot told them through the intercom he could see a clear tract of land on which to attempt a landing. The panicked warble brought no confidence. The plane began to drop rapidly, a series of uneven, plummeting steps. The ride down lifted stomachs and nodded heads.
“Don’t you dare,” Mick growled behind Doug. “I’m not going to spend my last minutes with the stink of your vomit up my nose!”
Somewhere close, Warlock wailed.
“I’m just trying not to shit myself!”
Doug had no idea how fast the ground was coming up to meet them. The view out the nearest window was obscured by a broad slash of blood. Wiping it only made it worse. All he could see up the aisle, past the swaying concertina door upfront, was a glimpse of ethereal blue, the plane clawing to stay with it.
But the landing was too slow coming. The sweat on Doug’s skin was clammy, his muscles ached from being braced too long. Through the smeared glass, trees and vague shapes could just be made out, passing by faster and closer. The anticipation was torture. Doug could hear laboured breathing, the co-pilot over the intercom.
Warlock spared any further suspense.
“Fuck!” the punk shouted, staring bug-eyed out his own window. “We’re going to hit!”
Warlock ducked, sticking his head between his knees, lacing his fingers over the nape of his neck in a classic crash position. Doug saw Mick internally debate whether to copy someone he held in such contempt, before he followed suit. Even Cutter deigned to do so, albeit slowly, a mad grin creeping across his face as he bent his head.
But Doug couldn’t bear the thought of cowering during what could be the last act of his life. He pressed himself rigid back into the seat, squeezing the armrests until it hurt. The sound of heavy breathing above him stopped; he realised the co-pilot, too, was holding his breath.
Touchdown.
The first sensation was barely detectable, the faintest of shivers through his feet. Then a sense of complete motionlessness, a feeling of utter peace that only great speed about to be brutally arrested could give. Then a crunch as Doug’s seat whipped him back and forth, working to shake him to pieces while the plane came apart around him.
***
“Are we alive?”
Trust Warlock to state the obvious as a question: the answer, for him at least, was yes. The swirling clouds that filled the cabin were cause for panic at first, until each soul understood it was only dust and not smoke.
Coughing, Doug managed to open the hatch wide, presented by an uncertain hop to the ground. Getting out was all he wanted. He didn’t check to see if the others were okay, nor himself. Even the precious crate was forgotten. All he wanted was to feel the sturdy, motionless earth beneath his feet.
He needn’t have struggled with the jump from the hatch. A new way out had presented itself. Where the tail had been there was now just a gaping hole. But something insisted he exit the proper way.
Warlock pushed roughly past him. He had no qualms about making the short leap. He landed flat on his stomach, as intended. He stopped short of kissing the ground, but his cheek was pressed hard against it, his arms hugging it fiercely.
Doug alighted beside him, landing like a dopey frog. He called back inside.
“Mick?”
A shaky, “Yeah.”
“You alright?”
A crankier, “Give me a fuckin’ second.”
Mick came into view. He gave the step down proper consideration, before sitting carefully on the threshold and sliding down. Cutter followed soon after, stepping out in one large, jerky stride. Both had to step over Warlock, still prone on the ground.
Each instinctively put space between himself and the spineless punk. They kneeled, or sat down heavily, riding out the body-shakes that came and went. There was no sense of urgency about moving away from the wreck; they knew there was no fuel left to ignite. Completely inert, the aircraft was part of the stillness they craved.
Doug offered up his cigarettes. Packet and lighter were passed round.
After a couple of drags, Doug couldn’t help himself. He had to see how close they had come. He got up, wobbling a little as he stepped round a dipped wing, looking at the path the plane had taken. The field they skidded through wasn’t strictly bare. It seemed impossible now they hadn’t hit any of the trees along the way. Through the standing screen of dust he saw a long, straight channel of mashed grass and earth that led to the errant, broken-off tail. Some tall, scrubby bushes on either side of the channel had had their tops sheared away. A direct hit on any might have flipped the aircraft, but the plane had missed them all.
Doug rubbed his forehead, recalling how he’d struck it on the seat in front of him. He began patting himself down, knowing he was okay to look at – one of the others surely would have said something – but just didn’t feel right. He kept swallowing, though there was nothing caught in his throat. He felt heavy in his backside, as if constipated. His feet were blocks of wood. He heard a constant ringing, not so much in his ears, more in the centre of his head. Internal injuries seemed more a possibility when you allowed yourself to imagine them.
He circled back to the others. Except for missing a tail, the plane was still relatively intact. It had finally stopped against a low mound, the eroded remains of a termite’s nest forming a natural crash barrier. The plane had slowed enough by that stage not to disintegrate, or fold up like a wallet on impact.
There was damage at the nose, the point of the collision, although the cockpit windows were still in place. With a grunt, Doug realised his oversight.
“Damn. I forgot about the pilot.”
Mick weakly waved a hand at him. “I already checked. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Dead?”
Mick’s gaze slid toward him and away. “No.”
For someone who had lost a lot of blood, Cutter’s face was suddenly inflamed, whether from fury or anticipation it was hard to tell.
“I’ll fix that,” he said, rising to his feet and climbing back into the plane.
It would have been simpler for Doug to stay put and let him do what he wanted. But fuck that.
“Ah! C’mon, Doug! Leave it,” Mick shouted after him.
In the cockpit Doug found Cutter tapping the co-pilot’s concussed head with his pistol. Cutter was growling at hi
m to wake up so he could see what was coming.
Doug grabbed the muzzle and pushed it way, not letting go. It was still warm from its work at the faraway airfield. The two men squared off and Doug could see Cutter’s eyes pinpointing the prime spot on his face to head-butt.
Before that, or anything else could happen, Mick got in between them. But it wasn’t Cutter he was trying to calm down.
“Doug, mate, you know it has to be done. Look at him. It’d be a blessing.”
Doug did see: the deep dent in the control panel in front of the co-pilot, which looked made by a bowling ball dropped from a good height. A fan of blood projected out from the point of impact. No guesses to figure the cause. The man’s head was a broken, peeled tomato, but in spite of his terrible injuries, the co-pilot was still alive. The breath from his mouth was visible to the eye, all slurry and bubble.
There was no pretending they would be doing the man a favour.
“C’mon,” Mick nearly pleaded, “we can’t look after him.”
“I know, but he likes it,” Doug replied, indicating to Cutter.
Cutter twisted his gun from Doug’s grasp. With a smirk he backed out of the cockpit and took a seat in the first row near the door.
“Suit yourself,” he said to Doug. “I’m just as happy to watch.”
Doug hesitated a moment, then left the cockpit as well, pushing past Warlock as he entered the plane to see what was going on.
Cutter beamed as Doug went past him up the aisle.
“Told you,” he said, to anyone who cared to listen.
But Doug wasn’t leaving, but instead retrieved one of the shotguns. He checked the breach and then presented it to Warlock before the punk could think to escape.
“Job’s yours,” he told him.
“What? What job?” But he knew.
Doug’s eyes were flat.
“The rest of us did our share at the airport. All I saw you do was duck and weave.”
“There wasn’t meant to be any shooting!”
“No, there wasn’t. But that’s the way it went.”
He pressed the shotgun on Warlock, holding it to him until he didn’t drop it.
“You’re not in deep enough.”
He waited for Warlock’s reply. Warlock felt little tremors running through himself like electric shocks.