He chanced a peek and saw that they were over land. Hallelujah. Most of the way home. SFO was a barf-bag's toss away, so figure a half hour to descend, another half hour to find his bag on the carousel, and a twenty minute cab ride home. Inside of two hours, he'd been on his own toilet, in his own shower, and drinking his own beer in front of his own TV with his ass comfortably ensconced in his own goddam recliner. Halle-fuckin'-lujah!
He cracked both eyes open and looked to the little video screen on the seatback in front of him. He'd left it tuned to the flight information channel, and sure enough, it showed the little airplane icon hovering directly over San Francisco. Thank Christ. But according to the numbers, they were still at 20,000 feet, circling the airport. What the…… Fog? What else could it be. Damn! Suddenly, thoughts of diverting to another airport came to Mason's mind, and he grimaced angrily. Two hours to divert, twenty minutes to deplane, another thirty for the baggage carousel, then an inglorious overnight bus ride with the same sweaty, irritating humans he'd been cooped up with all day.
Christ, no! Just get me home!
Suddenly, the issue of keeping his neighbor from knowing he was awake returned to top priority. Even if they had to divert, not having to speak to that incessant boor until they were on the tarmac would be half the battle. Still, as much as he liked his Floyd, he was growing tired of hearing the same album on the same endless loop, but he couldn't very well fiddle with the iPod without alerting his neighbor. He felt the cord lying across his lap, so he slowly and surreptitiously twisted the cord around his index finger, and once he'd taken up all of the slack, the earphones popped out of his ears.
One second, Roger Waters was insisting 'there's someone in my head, but it's not me'. The next, his ears were assailed with the sounds of pandemonium.
What the hell……
It sounded to Mason as if a riot had broken out at a funeral. There were angry shouts and anguished pleas, indignant cursing, and impassioned wails of abject misery. It was almost exactly what Mason imagined one of those old lunatic asylums would sound like. Chunky Monkey next door was one of those crying. His pudgy face was down, his abundance of chins were piled up against his chest like a meaty washboard, and he was bawling his eyes out. No gentle sobs for the big man, either. His flabby chest would rise ponderously as he sucked in a great lungful of air, then he'd release the breath in a flood of anguished tears and loud, mournful howls.
Sonuvabitch, the plane's crashing! They're waiting to die, and everyone knows it but me…..
Oddly enough, Mason wasn't frightened at the prospect, nor was he angry. If anything, he almost admired the way the universe had managed to stitch everything together. His world had crashed down around his ears, the future he'd been anticipating had gone up in a puff of smoke, and now he was to be splashed across a tarmac with a few hundred members of the species he liked the least as his only company. After the past few weeks, a fiery death in an explosion of twisted metal and mangled flesh seemed to him to be just about perfect. He couldn't even be allowed the mercy of sleeping through his last moments on earth. Hell, no……that would be cheating.
Just then, the speaker overhead hissed. The pilot was going to make another announcement. No longer concerned with interference from his neighbor, Mason sat bolt upright. Go ahead, he thought morosely, there's nothing more that can happen to me, so give it to me straight…..
"Attention passengers," the captain's voice came through loud and clear, but the woman's tone was subdued, even meek, "We are over San Francisco and, God willing, will be on the ground shortly. Once we touch down, ambulances will be dispatched to tend to those who require attention. Please bear with us, and try to remain calm. You will soon be in the hands of the best medical minds on the planet, and they'll have this whole thing quickly sorted out."
Huh? So, we're not crashing, then? Ambulances? Those who require attention? What the hell did I miss?
As the captain's voice clicked off, a stewardess appeared at the front of the plane. It was the cute little thing who'd brought Mason his over-abundance of drinks, each one delivered with a sly grin and a cute little wink. Oh, she was a doll alright, but it looked like she'd been spending her down time sampling her own wares. She stepped to the front of the aisle, looking vaguely ceilingward and stumbling awkwardly. Finally, she grabbed a nearby seatback for stability and brought a metal tray up to her chest. A crude message had been scrawled across the tray in bright red lipstick, and Mason gawked at it curiously. The words were printed clumsily, letters bumping into letters and words overriding one another, but the message was clear enough.
'If you can see, please come forward,' it read.
What the hell?
Mason read it again, and then again, and once again just to be sure. 'If you can see, please come forward'. Nothing more. No explanation, no qualifiers. 'If you can read this, please come forward'. What in God's name did that mean? Was it a joke? What the hell did he sleep through?
He watched and waited, but no one came forward. Well, if it was a joke, the cute little stewardess was committed to it, that was for sure. She stood there for three long minutes, grasping the seatback for support and holding that stupid tray higher and higher in the air.
'If you can read this, please come forward'.
Okay, if she was that determined to have her silly joke, Mason would play along. And then, once everyone dropped the act and had a good laugh at his expense, he'd give his best 'aw-shucks' expression and pretend to be a good sport. Really, being laughed at now would be the best thing that'd happened to him in a long time.
He began to stand, assuming his neighbor would take the hint and follow social convention by swinging his legs to the side or hoisting his big, fat body up and out of the way. No such luck, though. The man with the pudgy face and the big belly simply cried and dabbed at his eyes with a soiled handkerchief and heaved his ponderous chest outward every time he needed to draw in more air for another round of wailing. Mason gruffly cleared his throat loudly, but to no avail. The fat man was too absorbed with wallowing in his own personal misery to pay attention to anything else. Finally, and reluctantly, Mason tapped the whale of a man on the shoulder.
"Huh? What?" the man finally became aware. He gazed across at Mason's crotch and squinted desperately. "What? Who'zat? What do you want?"
Surprise, jerkhole, it's Marilyn Monroe, and I'm here to sing Happy Birthday, he wanted to say. Instead, he whispered quietly, "Would you excuse me, please."
"Huh? What?"
The man looked positively addled. He made no move to stand or sidle sideways or otherwise remove his prodigious bulk from the pathway to freedom.
I thought booze and Dramamine were good, Mason thought to himself. Maybe I should try a little of what Fatty's having….
He finally pushed his way gruffly past a thick pair of legs, and a pair of meaty hands groped at him as he passed.
"Christ, dude, I just wanna take a leak. Do you fucking mind?" Mason snapped and shoved himself out into the aisle.
"Sure!" the big man howled, somewhere between pissed off and full-on crazy, "Why not! Take a leak! Take a leak wherever you like! The world's your toilet!" And then he laughed and laughed and ended up crying again.
"Please, everyone!" someone spoke up a few seats away. It was an older fellow with wire-framed glasses and a crucifix around his neck. "We must not fight among ourselves!"
"He's right," a tiny woman agreed from across the aisle, "We should remain calm and work together."
Suddenly, a chorus of voices rose up, some agreeing, some arguing, and some downright crude. Those who didn't join in were too busy either sobbing quietly or staring at the seatback in front of them, all but insensate. A baby started crying like an air raid siren, and his mother spoke to him in a calm, soothing tone, holding it to her breast and sobbing quietly.
Jesus…..you pass out for a few hours and everyone loses their shit..…..
Mason strolled up the aisle toward the stewardess with the tray. As he
moved, he was impelled to push one man back into his seat to get by, then he became aware of a little old woman groping about in the aisle. A string of rosary beads lay in a ball a few feet further up the aisle, so Mason collected the beads and placed them in the woman's hands. She stared up at his belt buckle with red, moist eyes and held the beads to her frail little chest.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," she purred, then she fell silent and brought the rosary up her chin, moving her lips in silent prayer.
The stewardess had given up by the time he arrived. She had dropped the tray to the ground and was groping her way back behind the curtain. Mason tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around, her face a mask of horror.
"Please don't hurt me!" she gasped.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Mason said as gently as he could. Christ, his head hurt! He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the contemptuous rabble behind him and leaned in to whisper in the girl's ear. "I got your message."
The girl's expression changed instantly.
"You can…." she began, then she stopped herself and reached out toward him. Her fingers played over his face, then she gently pulled herself close until her lips were nearly pressed against his ear. "You can…...see?" she asked, a distinct desperation in her voice.
"I can," he breathed in a whisper, then he stood back and waited for the punchline and the gales of laughter.
To his amazement, there was neither. The stewardess grabbed him by the arm and turned on her heels. She started to grope her way away from the main cabin, but she stumbled over the discarded tray and would have fallen on her face had Mason not caught her. He took hold of her hand, laid it gently on his outstretched elbow, and guided her into the galley. The drink cart was standing in the way, so he pushed it to the side, helping himself to a few tiny bottles of scotch on the way. He slipped two of them into his jacket pocket and snapped the third one open, downing it in a single swallow. Maybe it would help dull the throbbing headache, and if not, what the hell. Either way, they could add it to his bill.
"Gloria?" the stewardess called out.
An older gal was standing against a little metal sink, weeping. She pulled herself together long enough to mutter a solemn, "I'm here, Katie."
"Gloria!" Katie said in an excited whisper as she lugged Mason along, then she lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper, "This man says he can see!"
"Oh, thank the Lord…." Gloria hushed. She choked back her tears, wiped her eyes with her handsand stumbled her way across the galley. She reached out blindly as she drew near, and Mason took one of her hands in his. When she felt the grip, she nearly collapsed. "Oh, thank you, thank you….." she gushed, "Who are you?"
"The name's Mason," he offered vaguely.
"What seat number?"
"Uhhh….10B."
"Scotch, rocks, and a beer, and keep them coming," Gloria managed a weak smile through her tears.
Mason pressed the heel of his hand against his throbbing temple and sighed, "Yeah, that's me."
Katie spoke again. "Mr Mason, we need your assistance if you would be so kind?"
It was phrased as a question, but her tone of voice declared it as an imperative, rather like 'Excuse me, sir, would you mind terribly stemming the flow of blood from my jugular vein?' or 'Begging your pardon, young man, but would you be so kind as to telephone 9-1-1 while I have this heart attack?'.
Mason nodded, but he quickly realized the stupidity of the action and answered aloud.
"I'll do whatever I can," he said honestly.
Gloria lugged him along with her and reached for a phone on the wall with practiced familiarity. She pushed a button, waited a few seconds, and said, "I think we found someone."
She hung up the phone, and a buzz sounded from the door directly opposite. Gloria opened the door, and Mason found himself looking directly into the cockpit. The pilots at the controls half-turned in their seats, though neither one looked directly at this strange intruder standing on the verge of their inner sanctum.
"Hello?" the man on the right said.
"Hello," Mason replied warily.
"Please come in, sir. Thank you, Gloria. Please close the door."
They both did as instructed, and Mason found himself gawking through the large windscreen at a clear night sky and a grid of city lights far below.
"Excuse me, sir," the one of the left spoke up. She was older, and with an air of authority that identified her immediately as the one in charge. "Who are you?"
"Uhh….10B," Mason said awkwardly, "Scotch, rocks, and a beer."
The captain smiled affably.
"I could use that myself right about now, Mr Tenby," she said, and waved him further into the cabin. Before Mason could correct her, she held out her hand and Mason took it. "Mr Tenby, my name is Katherine. This man beside me is Aaron."
"Hello," the copilot repeated, looking over Mason's shoulder.
"Hello," Mason said again.
"Mr Tenby," the woman looked anxiously at Mason's chest, "can you tell me how many fingers you see?"
She held up three fingers in a boy scout salute. Mason shrugged, "Three, but I don't understand……"
The copilot cut him off.
"Thank God! Mr Tenby, would you come forward please? We could use your help."
"I don't .…." Mason started again, but this time the pilot interrupted.
"Mr Tenby, how did you come to retain your sight?" she asked, then she turned to her copilot before Mason could respond and said, "Maybe we were wrong. Maybe it wasn't the lights. Maybe it was the food, after all. Mr Tenby, did you have dinner during the flight?"
"If you want to call it that. Some kind of chicken, as far as I could make out."
What was wrong with the chicken? Had he been poisoned? Is that what was wrong with everyone? Why was he brought up here? A million thoughts were buzzing through Mason's mind, but feeling a little like he'd been called to the principal's office, he let the others ask the questions.
"What about the lights? Did you see the lights?" This, from the copilot, Aaron.
Huh? Lights? What lights?……
"I've been asleep for most of the flight," Mason admitted sheepishly, "Scotch, rocks, beer, and Dramamine."
The pilot laughed aloud, and the copilot leaned across a control panel and hushed, "Katherine, if he was asleep….."
The pilot clicked her tongue to cut off Aaron's words. "Mr Tenby, normally I would caution against such a potent cocktail, but I count us as fortunate that you didn't read the instructions that came with your airsickness pills. It's seems that you are the only person aboard this aircraft not suffering from a temporary loss of sight."
Jesus…..
"We hope it's temporary," Aaron corrected her.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph……
The captain slumped in her seat, but her tone remained stalwart. "Yes, we hope. But the fact of the matter is, Mr Tenby, apparently you are the only one aboard who can see."
The full reality of the situation washed over Mason in a wave, and his knees felt suddenly weak.
"You're telling me that you're both blind?" he sighed, and put a hand to his temple.
"I'm afraid so," the captain said frankly.
Back was the vision of a fiery death, and Mason almost chuckled to himself. It was just too perfect. The perfect end to the perfect week. He wondered if Becks would even shed a tear. Then it occurred to him why he had been brought forward, and that new thought unnerved him even more.
"You don't expect me to land this plane!?" he fairly barked, stepping nervously backward.
Despite the copilot's ashen face, the man laughed. He actually laughed! The captain joined in, but it was with a stilted little chuckle that was stifled quickly.
"No, Mr Tenby. We have no need of Karen Black at present. This aircraft if fully capable of functioning without our assistance. A state-of-the-art computer is quite handily running every system from the set of the flaps to the flushing of the toilets. We pilots usually spend most
of every flight simply monitoring the readouts. Trust me when I say that this aircraft can quite literally fly itself and land itself. No, Mr Tenby, thankfully for all of us, this is not the movies."
Mason sighed his relief and retrieved another little bottle of scotch from his pocket. Then he stopped. He was on the flight deck of a jumbo jet, after all. Surely, alcohol was forbidden anywhere near the cockpit. But then he quickly realized the ridiculousness of his situation, unscrewed the cap, and downed the liquor in a swallow.
"Smells like scotch," Katherine smiled, "I hope you haven't had enough of those to blur your vision."
Mason sheepishly tucked the empty bottle in his pocket. "Sorry, Captain. Hair of the dog. I have a splitting headache. What is it you need from me?"
"Just your eyes, Mr Tenby," the copilot said ominously.
There's a panel in front of me," the captain spoke over her shoulder and waved him closer to her side, "Right about here, there's an indicator marked A/P. Can you see it?"
"The one with a green bar? Yes, I see it."
Both officers breathed a heavy sigh.
"Excellent," The captain grinned. "You have no idea what a relief that is. We were 99% certain that the autopilot was active, but we couldn't be absolutely certain because neither of can see that damned twenty cent light."
"You'd think there would be an audio alert," Mason reasoned.
"Or maybe Braille?"
Duh.….. Stupid.…..
"Sorry," Mason offered clumsily.
The copilot ignored the apology and pointed at a vague area of the dash, "Mr Tenby, there's a digital panel right about here. It'll say HDG and then show a series of numbers. Could you tell me those numbers?"
The Creeping Dead: Book 2 Page 27