“I don’t know,” He finally blurted out. As I sat quiescent, I couldn’t sense the cues that the engines were delivering a great quantity of power. There was no sensation of acceleration pushing on me, and there was no roar of the exhaust. Turning back to my left, I gazed out the window to the outside, and I viewed a quick large spark, a flash. For a split second it looked like lightning, but then I thought the craft was striking some debris.
All at once the spaceship pitched violently upward. The raising of the plane’s nose caused a great cheer in the cabin areas. I sighed in relief believing that something positive was being done to take all of us out of the uncertainty of the mist.
“He’s taking us out of here.” I allowed this pleasing thought to sweep over me. Suddenly the plane began to deviate once again and I cautiously brought my attention to the aft center portion of the cabin. Looking down, I noticed the floor was cracking open. The fissure was dynamic, widening and lengthening menacingly. The DC-10 was splitting open from within like an eggshell ready to eject its contents. No one around me expressed overt fears. It seemed as though there was absolutely no noise other than the sound of breaking metal, yet the atmosphere in the cabin was saturated with peace.
“This is not really happening.” I read the thoughts of everyone on the doomed flight. I fell back to my childhood and faced the turmoil in the sort of the way a small child might look at a wild animal he’s never been warned about, in wonderment and total innocence. At that moment, I imagined myself just along for a ride in which the current sensations cast irrelevance on what may happen next.
The aft, the entire rear of the metallic bird started to shift away, failing to line up with the fuselage any longer. The noise became deafening. Nothing in training had prepared me for the viciousness of the multiple sounds that proclaimed our demise. A lavatory door blew open and pieces flew, hitting me on the leg and face. Dirt was flying, pinning my torso against the back of my jumpseat as I was pegged in such a way as to be the target of the next set of debris that came my way. Only my right arm was raised up to protect my face, my brain. The jumbo jet continued ahead when the aft section split into two or three pieces. At that moment, the others were gone. Forever.
A massive explosion appeared from above where the number two engine sat atop the craft. I witnessed the fuel line detach from the burst metal, whipping about like a wild serpent striking at its prey. The fuel gushed out and was instantly ignited and the fire swirled along in rhythm to the broken line. In an instant, a huge fireball formed a meter or so above me then shot past me moving forward. Leaning to get out of the way, patches of my uniform dress shirt were sucked from my body by the violent energy. The hair on the right side of my head was singed. The explosion's true intention was to take me on its designated course forward but the jumpseat harness did its designed job and held me firmly. Eldritch missiles then appeared shooting through the cabin at great velocity. I became frantic and turned inward gasping for air. There was another massive explosion in what I determined was left of the forward section of the aircraft. The fire sucked the air from my body and my lungs were filled with the foul fumes of jet fuel. Heads and various other body parts flew past, singing a grotesque whistle as the reverberation of the full impact made itself known, revealing the ominous impression of death and misery.
“It’s gonna be okay,” whispered the voice once more. The paramount problem facing me was the pressure on my head. Suddenly there was an alluviation and all fell still and silent. The overwhelming smell of jet fuel and burnt metal started to dominate as the diabolical amusement ride came to an abrupt halt.
Chapter V
The nightly ritual of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s helicopter patrolling above the streets of East Los Angeles is par for the course in the community. I would recall how foolish my brother and I were when as youngsters, we would attempt to try and convince the flying bird to shine it's great light upon us in our backyard, feeling a sense of accomplishment if we succeeded. In the early morning mist of October 31, as the helicopter briskly raced across the sky, the beam from the spotlight randomly ran transversely over the bedroom windows of Alicia and Reynaldo Valenciana., illuminating the dark spaces for mere seconds. Alicia awoke, beckoned by an unfamiliarity, the sight- the silhouettes of her statues of the holy saints that stood guard on her dresser. There was Saint Therese, the little flower, the family patron, clad in the familiar dressings of the Sisters of Carmel. She was my mother's favorite. The Holy Mother stood beside her in a crimson gown and a blue mantle ornamented with gold, holding the precious Baby Jesus. The Madonna’s glance with her light brown eyes seemed concerning. Alicia lazily scanned the room sensing an unusual presence but, initially, nothing seemed out of order. She then strained to noticed a fog-like haze outside the window in the backyard. It had a ghostly appearance, a heavy mysterious glare that immediately grabbed her attention. The good woman studied it carefully and could make out the figure, a hideous face and an arm that reached again and again through the bedroom window, as though breaking an invisible barrier seeking to claim something that belonged to him. My mother's life in the community and faith in her church made her instantly aware of the ashen figure. By her fostering, she recognized Death, who seemed to desperately want to cross the threshold into the realm of the living.
“Holy God, His Holy Strength, and His Holy Immortality, save us dear God from all that is evil.” The words came forth from her lips but were rooted in her very soul. Alicia, with her faith, stood her ground and soon viewed the phantom mist back away. She settled herself and returned to a peaceful slumber. Only the hum of the police helicopter remained to break the stillness in the neighborhood.
The phantom was very much present in the Mexican capital that misty morning. My mind was in a daze and I struggled to grab hold of some sense of logic.
“Hurts are where?” I was a battered mess. “The inner right thigh, I hurt in the inner right thigh.” My fears were heightened. “My leg? Is my leg broken? Is my leg still there?” I rambled with fear. “My hands? Do I have all my fingers? What about my knees? My back and shoulder are burning with pain.” Finally focusing through the debris I became aware that parts of my F/A uniform were missing. But amazingly I still had on my company service apron. It seemed as though its fabric was more resistant to the fireball than the other materials of my uniform. I desperately reached for the harness release and found it jammed, possibly locked.
“Oh, shit! There's fire all around I am going to be trapped.” The very act that saved me now became my executioner. I was unmistakably strapped in the jumpseat as tight as possible, snug enough to survive massive “G” forces which were strong enough to rip the heads from the torsos of some victims.
“There!” I had continued to fumble with the harness belt. The restraints fell loose and I crumbled from my position. I gazed back up to see that there was no seat, just the backboard of my jumpseat, harness securely attached. I was entombed under a ton of rubble with vicious flames everywhere. My little section of fuselage was intact and it initially seemed as though I was also. Cement and iron beams were now my companions in an inferno maze that offered no sense of direction.
“I'm standing on tarmac.” The entire floor of the DC-10 was gone.
I became frantic as I hoped and prayed in random mutterings that someone would save me. The crackle and dance of flames became more imposing and its blackened smoke was already upon me.
“Damn you God! Why did you save me if I am to burn like a rat?” I could not tolerate the lack of options. My fear revealed an anger which grew with each precious second.
“I am going to be trapped and burn alive.” Like the church martyrs of old was I expected to take this honorably? Stubbornly, I fought the urge to cry and tried to distinguish my surroundings. I visually placed myself at the base of a building the spaceship had struck. The light moved erratically as a result of the dancing flames that encircled my location. I could only make out one direction in which there seemed to be a spot
of darkness, a possible escape. I staggered
through many broken chunks of concrete as I tried to stand up and straighten my sore body. There was destroyed metal and plastic that had moments before been the proud bird of our airline. I was pissed not just because this had happened to us, the crew and passengers, but because the magnificent craft that I streaked across the heavens in was no more. I attempted to clear burnt, blackened rubble away. The air now smelled of poison, much of what I inhaled was jet fuel. My entire body was saturated with the substance. I fell and crawled as best I could into the dark spot that looked like a tunnel in the labyrinth of devastation. The fear inside speculated that it could be a dead end, sealing my fate.
Adrenaline, what was left of it, had started to kick in. I stood and moved remnants of what seemed like cabin seats and a portion of the aft service center, revealing the effects of the fire ball. I continued down the potential passageway and carefully entered its narrowest point trying to be aware of the hundreds of exposed pieces of metal all around, razor-sharp and capable of inflicting a deadly wound. Twenty feet within I encountered a large slab of concrete more a big chunk of what use to be a building, which inhibited any further movement. The block was squared off but it was not going to be easy to move, not in my state. I gazed around looking for an alternate route but there was none. I got right up to the concrete as the crackle of the flames filled the moment. I leaned forward and tilted my head up. I imagined I saw stars. I squinted and looked again. Above, through a hole in the mass of destruction, I spotted a star. There was a small opening revealing the early morning sky. I had to move the debris. The smoke insistently made its lethal presence felt as the fire grew and continued to feast on the carcass of the dead vessel.
My first attempt at pulling the slab completely failed. It was wedged into what I determined was left of the interior of the aft fuselage. I was unable to loosen the rock's foundation by any measure and the strain it required only deepened my injuries.
“Move the slab,” I shouted in a panic. I leaned my entire weight into the barrier in one grand effort. It proved to be useless. I broke down and began to cry, teetering on the edge of total despair. Like a child torn from a mother's grasp, I wept. I began to attack the slab like a deranged man, clawing at it, hurting my scorched hands on its course surface.
“It’s going to be okay.” The soothing warmth returned as I gathered my emotions and straightened my posture as best I could. I began to work the problem.
“I lift everyday. What is the best way to move this obstacle?” Marilyn’s voice entered my thoughts as I embraced the idea of surviving.
“If you survive, others will have a better chance of surviving.”
“Use leverage, like in squatting,” I whispered to myself. I pulled aside a metal panel and positioned my back against the side that created a wedge. If I could lift it but inches, I could use gravity to my advantage. I did not have much time left before the fumes induced their own solution to my dilemma. It actually felt good when I lifted. Instantly, it became apparent why I had just dedicated nine months of my life preparing for this very moment. It gave me a sense of purpose; with support from a greater source, the stone began to move. The block shifted a foot or so, just enough for me to slide through to sheer ecstasy. I excitedly climbed upon the slab and emerged at the top of the twisted rubble. What I viewed tore me apart once again. There, before me, Muerto feasted on several large fiery heaps. I was overwhelmed by pain.
In the opposite direction in a long ditch, seventy or so yards from the inferno lay the rudder of my DC-10 with its massive lettering. My airline did not deserve this catastrophe.
“Just look at what happened,” I cried. Suddenly I thought about the crew. “The others? Where were the others?” I frantically began to focus on the piles where flames were becoming visible. There was a hunk of the DC-10 over there-could that be the mid section? Wait, where was Reina?” I spun in confusion not knowing which direction to go or what I should do. All at once the magnitude of what was happening to me fried my mind. I was the luckiest....I hesitated and looked up and acknowledged the true source of my incredible fortune. Then I snapped back to reality. There were others that needed assistance. In the distance the fire's light revealed a mass of dark figures and shadows running a deadly race in pain and sorrow. I tumbled down the edifices of twisted metal and concrete, landing face first upon the scarred tarmac. I painfully struggled to stand, propping myself on a knoll of concrete and steel.
My vision cleared and I hobbled as best I could hurry to some burning debris in the hopes of finding someone, anyone who I could possibly save from this evil occurrence, which seemed to emerge with a life of its own. At the base of the inferno, no silhouettes were seen to indicate life. Then at once there was movement, as one body ran in one direction and another body in a different direction. The cries and screams of men, women began to fill the air. The injured passengers were regaining consciousness. A Mexican man with the face of Muerto himself noticed me as I stumbled about. He recognized I was wearing my blue service apron with the company's logo on my chest. He quickly concluded that I was a crew member aboard this tragic flight.
“Que paso joven?” He shouted from a distance demanding an answer.
“Todos estan muerto,” declared another frantic Hispanic who came running behind him.
“Were you in that hell?” An English voice caught me by surprise and I gave it my attention. A tall, dark, sinister figure moved forward and slowly removed his skull mask. As a kindness to my sanity I was allowed to instantly recall that today was indeed Halloween, and some people who began to surround me seeking answers were dressed in the spirit of the day. One woman wore the hat of a witch, another was dressed as some sort of goblin and of course there were skeletons. We were all gathered together in the midst of Death himself, whose stench was all around, in the air, through our noses and caked in our hair.
The people became frantic and began to descend on me with incomprehensible questions shouted out in babble. A figure dressed as a werewolf rushed in and grabbed my arm. Another figure, a hunched back, ghoul-like creature jumped in my direction. They all wanted answers, not necessarily the truth for the truth was much more difficult to face. Filled with dread and feeling physically beaten I hobbled through the crowd to a nearby fence that stood partially upright; the remainder lay buried beneath the debris of the mortally wounded ship. I suddenly started coughing up jet fuel from my lungs and crouched in pain. A few of the crowd moved slowly toward me.
“What happen hombre?” A gentleman in the uniform of a foreign airline squatted beside me. He was an aviator and sympathized with my lot.
“I don’t know,” I stated as I continued to cough up the rancid fluid from my lungs. “I wish I knew.” I tried to find logic in the turmoil that lay all around us. Although I was injured and severely bruised I was in one piece, whole to the sight. By the stunned looks upon the Halloween faces I could see that they expected me to be ripped apart and in pieces: a helpless mess. In their minds, they saw deeper than my beaten body. I was a Phoenix to these religious and amazed spectators, risen from the vivid, colored flames that continued to feast upon and dominate a large region of the airport.
“What of the others?” I composed myself and glanced at the heaps before me. There must be people trapped in the debris. Suddenly I was forced to turn and I became transfixed on a volume of fire near the area I believed I had escaped from. In the dancing light I could see a human hand moving, trying to signal or warn. I had to help. The gentleman who I now determined was a Hispanic pilot remained by my shoulder. At first he tried to restrain me as I moved forward toward the flames, fearing that I might have become deranged, a definite possibility considering the circumstances. I was trying to climb back into the inferno in his mind. I tugged all the more, finally convincing my new friend that someone was there, possibly dying before our very eyes. I dove to the ground, under the rising fires and started to dig. Soon others pair of hands joined in and were blister
ed by the hot metal encountered in the wreckage. Desperate, I scurried about but could no longer detect the hand. I became frenzied and the crazed attitude built to an extreme until out of the corner of my eye I spotted a body.
Lying face down, it twisted and turned in a series of spasms in an effort to free itself from the burning wreckage. Placing my arm over my face, I went forward dodging the flames to reach the figure that I recognized as clothed in a flight attendant uniform, or what was left of it.
“Thank God, I won't be alone.” I was grateful. It was Skip and I became jubilant. I moved forward to see him lying in a manner of awkwardness, his battered body struggling to gain some normal balance of oneself. He was confused and I understood why as I made an effort to lift him to his knees where I could possibly get my shoulder under his arm. He knew enough to realize he wasn't going to let that fiery pit have its way. Suddenly the Hispanic aviator arrived and we lifted Skip from under each arm and we quickly moved away from the flames. Moving as swift as possible I staggered and I looked down and noticed that Skip's foot was pointing in the wrong direction.
“We made it buddy, we made it.” I yelled to him as both the aviator and I struggled to carry him as far as we could away from the danger. Finally we laid him down on the tarmac as vehicles started to arrive. I turned and swore at death in all its fiery rage.
“You didn't get us,” I cursed. “No, we slipped through and got away, asshole.” I began to laugh hysterically as the Hispanic pilot looked at me surmising that I was being driven mad by the mass chaos. I taunted Death because Skip and I will always represent his failure. Other frantic people flagged down a maintenance truck and quickly turned to aid Skip and carried him to the rear of the vehicle. As soon as he was found, he was gone and I was not prepared for that. I once again felt so alone.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 13