“What’s going on up there?” she asked, glancing at the man next to her. I figured he was her husband, or that they at least knew each other, because he leaned over to listen.
“I’m not really sure,” I said, with a shake of my head. “There’s a man, he looks like he’s passed out.” My voice was shaking, and I really wanted to sit down.
In fact, as the commotion grew behind the curtain, all I could think about was doing was getting off this plane and getting on another one back home. This was not how I imagined my triumphant year of self-discovery to begin.
“Probably drunk,” the man muttered with a tut.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, he didn’t seem drunk.”
“Are you British?” the woman asked, her concern for the man vanishing.
“Yeah,” I replied with a smile. “Is it that obvious?”
She smiled back. “It’s the accent. I love the British accent.”
“She’s obsessed with all things British. She must have watched every episode of Downton Abbey at least four times over, and don’t get me started on Outlander!” he mocked.
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Can you say, ‘would you like a cup of tea and a crumpet?’ Please,” she giggled.
My cheeks grew hot. “Umm, sure. Would you like a cup of tea and a crumpet?”
They both erupted into fits of laughter, and I excused myself to go back to my seat in morbid embarrassment. Despite the typical aeroplane noises—the engine and the hundreds of people on board talking amongst themselves, music playing, etc.—the unmistakable sound of someone screaming cut through the air.
I stopped walking, my feet stubbornly refusing to move any further. I looked up and saw that the other people in coach were watching me, their own actions now paused as we all listened to the screams coming from first class. Even the children had stopped their crying, deciding that whatever was going on deserved their undivided attention.
I wanted to run to my seat and plug in my earphones, tune the world out until we landed, which should be any moment, but an older lady caught my attention.
“What’s going on up there?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Some man collapsed—” Another scream interrupted me, and I flinched at the terrifying sound, accidently biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.
“Well, go look!” she insisted, practically shooing me back the way I came. “Go on.”
I should have said no.
I should have gone back and sat in my seat and tried to enjoy the last half hour of my flight without the burning in my overly full bladder.
I should have sat down, buckled myself in, and watched as our plane came in over Los Angeles and landed while simultaneously thinking about how many missed phone calls from my parents I would have when I turned my mobile phone back on.
But I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead I let an eighty-year-old lady shoo me towards first bloody class again. I glanced back at her, silently pleading for her to let me go sit down.
“Go on,” the woman insisted again, and then more people nodded and muttered in agreement—grown men, mothers with children, and yes, an old lady.
I stared at everyone in disbelief, wondering how and when everyone turned into such selfish pigs. I was a short, twenty-two-year-old woman, yet these people were urging me back to see what was going on as if I were Lara Croft from Tomb Raider, when I was in fact the very opposite.
“Fine!” I snapped, and turned back towards the curtain, willing my inner Lara to make herself known.
My fists were clenched at my sides as I retraced my steps, and my heart hammered in my chest. There wasn’t just one scream now…there were many. But it wasn’t so much the screams or the cries that scared me. It wasn’t even the weird noises that sounded like growling and tearing. It was the scent of blood that hung in the air that made my heart feel like it was going to explode from my throat any second.
Another stewardess came up behind me and we shared a brief look, both of us with the same terrified look in our eye.
“What do you think’s going on?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“No idea. I’m sure it’s nothing though,” I lied.
I must have lied badly because despite the thick beige foundation on her face, I could see how she paled as another cry tore through the cabin. We’d reached the curtain then, and the stench of blood and sick was so strong that I gagged.
“You should go first,” I offered, stepping to one side, more than glad to get out of that job.
She shook her head. “No, it’s fine, you seem to know what you’re doing.”
I glared at her but she was unfazed by it.
Lifting my hand to the maroon curtain, my gaze fell to the dark stain growing across the light blue carpet from the other side. Sickness clawed at my belly and my heart rammed against my ribcage. My breaths came quick and shallow as I peered over my shoulder at the waiting stewardess. Our eyes met and I saw the same fear in her eyes as was no doubt in mine. My gaze drifted further back to the rest of the cabin, who were still watching me. Still waiting. Some people had stood up to get a better look, but none had come forward to help me, or whatever situation was unravelling in first class. Instead, everyone waited in total silence.
I slowly pulled the curtain back, my gaze roaming quickly across the situation in some of the longest seconds of my life, before dropping the curtain back in place. I turned back around, putting my back to the curtain, and gave a nervous smile at everyone still staring at me.
The plane lurched forwards before dropping down a couple of feet in the air, and I gripped the seat next me to steady myself as the stewardess grabbed my shoulder to steady herself.
“It’s okay,” she muttered, “it’s just turbulence.”
I wanted to breathe a sigh of relief that the plane wasn’t about to crash from the sky and land in a fiery heap on the ground, but there were bigger things to worry about now. God, I wished I would have stayed at home. I could have been at work, photocopying important documents for my dad and learning on the job. I’d finished university. I was ready to be an accountant—at least on paper I was. I just needed the experience, the mentoring, and that had been handed to me by my dad’s company.
And I had walked away from all of it for this shit?!
A couple of people had finally worked up enough courage to venture forwards, and I held a hand up to them and shook my head, my expression grim.
“I don’t think anyone should go in there,” I whispered, scared to speak any louder. A shiver of fear travelled through my body. “It’s not safe.”
A light sheen of sweat had broken out on my top lip. I wanted to be cool, calm, and collected, but all I could think was run, run, run!
A handsome, rugged man with dark hair looked at me with concern. “What isn’t safe?” he asked in a slow Southern drawl. He swaggered forwards, every bit the movie cowboy with his huge belt buckle and cowboy boots. I would have found him attractive if I weren’t so preoccupied with being completely and utterly terrified right then.
“First class,” I said, taking a slow breath to stop myself from hyperventilating. The urge to scream was slowly crawling up my throat, barely seconds behind my heart, which was now firmly lodged in my esophagus. “First class…I don’t think it’s safe. I’d rather travel coach any day,” I said with a pained laugh. “Who needs all that uppity crap when you can have a tiny window seat next to complete strangers, right?” I knew I was verging on hysteria, but I couldn’t stop the words from falling. “I mean, does anyone even really use hot cloths? What’s the bloody point of them, right?” I laughed humorlessly again.
Mr. Sexy Southern looked at me condescendingly before reaching out and gently easing me out of his way. “Let a man deal with this, ma’am.”
“I’m serious, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
“Calm yourself, little lady.” He gently pushed me out of the way like I was a silly little girl. And maybe I was
, but I was a silly little girl that was glad someone had taken over from me so I could back the hell away from the curtain. Because whatever was going on behind it, I didn’t want any part of.
“Someone collapsed,” I offered helpfully. “He wasn’t breathing.” I shrugged and he nodded and smiled at me.
“It can’t be that bad,” he said, and I scowled at him for being so patronizing. I don’t even think he realized that he was being condescending. I think, to him, he was being chivalrous or something.
“Fine,” I said, stepping out of his way, my arms wide open. Because if he wanted to see behind the curtain so bloody much, I couldn’t exactly stop him. And as long as I was far away from it, I didn’t care.
Why should I care?
Oh god, should I care?
The plane lurched again, and the utter horror of the situation hit me.
He straightened his collar and smiled at me before turning back to the curtain. I don’t think he even noticed the blood on the floor as he reached up and pulled the curtain wide open, revealing the carnage behind it. “What the fuck?” he drawled out.
“Exactly,” I replied, fear lacing my words. My gaze fell over his shoulder, towards the bloodbath beyond. My stomach hit the floor and I covered my mouth with my hands. “Oh my god.” I turned and looked at the old lady next to me. “We need to get off this plane.”
Chapter Two.
Sam
I rolled my eyes at the movie the young guy in a nearby seat was watching. I remembered seeing trailers for it a few months back—a viral outbreak, a kid with dark humor, and his family that would put the Cleavers to shame. Then the mother gets infected and instead of cutting beautifully made cakes with a kitchen knife, she started cutting chunks of her husband for a sweet snack.
It was all ridiculous, slapstick-style horror.
The movie was at a point where the horny teenagers were having sex in a closet while avoiding the rabid dead outside, and I just couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the disgusting cliché.
Or maybe it was the fact that the kids in the movie, no more than sixteen and seventeen, were having sex. And I’d just gotten back from what was supposed to be an insanely romantic trip and I hadn’t had so much as a French kiss.
You know, on a honeymoon you’re supposed to have oodles of sex, wine, and frivolity.
I’d had plenty of wine, but sex and fun were absent assholes.
Worst trip of my life. The worst. And, laughably, this had been the first real international trip I’d ever been on; the experience hadn’t enamored me to world travel. I’d been in the epicenter of love, for Christ’s sake, and I’d had a terrible fucking time. Everywhere I’d gone, it seemed every nook, cranny, and romantic shadow was filled to bursting with people maddeningly in love.
Kissing and cooing and talking nonsense about what a brilliant future they were going to have.
Paris had been torture. Utter torture.
And then London. Artistic, culturally rich, museums-for-days London. Let’s just say if I ever had to look at one more painting alone while some uppity bitch nearby, who knew everything about Gauguin and Monet, word-vomited incessantly about the meaning behind impressionism and bold, thick brush strokes, I would go on a serial killer rampage and basically kill every human being in sight. It didn’t help that the weather was depressing as hell—clouds and rain and everyone racing around in rain coverings while holding umbrellas. No, thank you. I’d take sunny California any day. Any. Damn. Day.
Shifting in my seat, letting the cool white leather of the plush first-class accommodations press against the thin, pale pink material of my chiffon dress, I sighed. Only a few weeks ago, everything in my life had been perfect. Storybook perfect. And now I had a one-way ticket toward divorce papers, nowhere to live, and I didn’t even know if I felt…in love with dancing anymore. As if Travis leaving me had killed not only that relationship, but also my relationship with movement and music.
And that was what I was born for—to dance. From the day I was old enough to walk, I had danced. That’s what my dad used to say, at least. That I danced to everything. Elevator music, tunes in a grocery store, the on-hold music Dad would put on speaker and stream through the house as he waited to talk to one of his clients. And I danced for him as he played violin and smiled. I’d had an easy, beautiful life with Dad. It hadn’t mattered, usually, that I had no mother. Only on occasions like my first big dance. Then, the absence of a female parent was a bit keen.
Music was threading through first class at just the right tempo and volume. It was relaxing without lulling everyone into a warm sleep. Of course, most of the passengers were snoozing away, their faces covered with the flight-provided satiny sleep masks and earphones cupping their heads like massaging hands. Unlike some other domestic flights I’d taken in the past, this flight had not a single annoying person in my section, which was both baffling and amazing.
Really my only complaint about the longest flight of my life—it was a bit too hot in the airplane. Seventy-four, seventy-five. Seventy would have been perfect. I could have nuzzled down in my seat with my cashmere blanket, courtesy of the attendant with the warm smile and navy-blue eyes. But no, instead I was almost uncomfortable in the thin outfit I wore. At least the leather was cool to the touch.
I pushed even harder into the seat, reveling in the relief from the warmth it provided.
A little ping told me that the “seatbelt” light had come on. The captain would probably be making an announcement soon. I was almost home. And then what? Everything was such a mess; I didn’t know how to even begin putting my life back together.
“Sir, are you all right? It’s time to buckle up now; the captain’s turned on the light.” The voice of the stewardess who’d given me the blanket sounded calm, adding to the lovely music. She didn’t sound worried—not at first. When she didn’t get a response, she spoke a bit more firmly. “Sir, are you all right?”
I hadn’t buckled in yet and so I turned easily in my seat to get a better look at what was happening in the row directly behind me. An artificially blond woman was asleep next to the man the attendant was speaking to. The man, for his part, sat slumped in his seat, his eyes partially open, his tongue sticking out just a bit from his mouth like a fat, reddish grub pushing from beneath the earth. He was unattractive, in an interesting way—like a person with a nose that had been broken too often to ever heal back correctly added to already-existing misshapen features.
The attendant spoke once more and then she leaned over to touch the woman’s shoulder gently.
The blonde woke up instantly, her eyelids flashing open. “What, what’s wrong?” Her voice was slightly frantic, like the dream she’d been having was something heart-pounding, and its interruption had left her confused.
“Does your husband have any medical issues we should be aware of? He’s not responding and he doesn’t seem okay.” The attendant spoke confidently, but it was easy to tell that she’d received little training in the way of “what to do if one of your passengers is sick or incapacitated.”
“Charles? No, why? He’s fine. We’re just coming back from a trip. It’s our twentieth anniversary today.” She said the words before she turned to look at her husband. The sleep was still playing across her face, reluctant to leave her. As she turned to see her Charles, she moved her hand to lay it against his, which was resting limply on the wide, plush armrest beside hers. “Charles has always been as healthy as a…” Her words trailed off as she took in the sight of her husband, sitting there looking like death. Foam had begun to bubble from his mouth. “Charles, Charles!”
She screamed then, wordlessly and with so much worry and pain that it hit my heart like a cannonball.
“God, is he okay?” A woman in a red pantsuit was standing next to her chair, holding onto the plush headrest, her matching over-long nails digging into the leather. She seemed more interested than worried. “Max, help them.” She spoke without looking at the young man seated near her. He’d been the
one watching the zombie flick. Now that I could see his face, I could tell he was about seventeen, maybe eighteen, with raven-black hair and lashes nearly too long for a boy. An older man beat him to the punch, though, closer to the confusion and already helping two of the female attendants lift a now-convulsing Charles out of his chair after unclipping his belt.
They laid the older man down as gently as possible in the wide aisle. His wife was upon him in a second, her face inches from his and her hair falling down in a golden wave to obscure his face from the people surrounding them.
She yelled her husband’s name twice more and then she crumpled into incoherent whispers, tears falling from her eyes to wet her husband’s brow.
“It’s okay. I’m a doctor,” said the man who’d helped lift Charles, crouching down beside her and pushing her gently out of the way. You could tell he’d been in this sort of situation before, with a distraught loved one blocking the path and him determined to do what he could to save the patient.
His fingers moved deftly, loosening the ailing man’s tie until it came all the way undone, and then he made short work of unbuttoning the designer-looking blue checkered shirt. As we all waited in various states of unrest—some were standing up, some sitting stiffly in their chairs, some covering their faces—the doctor started mouth-to-mouth, counting out chest compressions and blowing fast and fully into the prone man’s gaping mouth.
As the CPR dragged on, the wife hit a new level of hysterics, clinging to the flight attendants with clawing, brutal fingers. She was saying things between the hiccups and muffled screams. Things like “save him, please,” “save him, it’s our anniversary,” “twenty years,” “I can’t live without my Charles,” “save him, save him, save him.”
She devolved once more into tears and those last two words then. Save him.
I closed my eyes against her pain.
Red Eye | Season 1 | Episode 1 Page 2