Monstrum (4 page)

Snuffling and wiping her cheeks, Espi nods and collapses back in her seat.

We sit, frozen with horror, as the wailing coming from the speakers finally trails off into one whimpered word:

“Why?”
It's Rizzio's voice, followed by the wet rasp of his labored breathing. Another voice—Mr. Stroh's?—is murmuring in the background, but his words are garbled and distant, and I wonder if he's been attacked, too.
“Why?”

I'm gasping and trembling, and my fumbling hands need a couple of tries to undo my seat belt, but I'm determined to do
something
. I use the back of Espi's seat to heave myself to a standing position, and it's anyone's guess whether I mean to run, screaming, to the bathroom and barricade myself inside, or try to help those poor men in the cockpit.

An grips my arm even tighter. “No!” she says. “It's not safe!”

I have no plan and no weapon, but all I can think about is those poor men being attacked in the cockpit while we all sit around and listen.

“We—we have to help,” I say. My voice is wobbly and weak.

Apparently I'm not the only one who's had this thought. Gray is already halfway in the aisle ahead of me, and Carter accidentally bumps me as he hurries to follow him.

Before any of us can get anywhere, though, the flight attendants come charging up the aisle and nearly mow us down.

“You three,” shouts Gordon, his expression ferocious as he shoves us out of the aisle. I stagger and land on my butt, back in my seat; so does Gray, which blocks Carter from getting anywhere. “Sit down and buckle up,” Gordon continues. “We'll handle this.”

Axel's father runs up the aisle to the flight attendants. Tall, red-faced and burly, he's just the kind of guy you'd need in a situation like this. “I'm coming,” he says.

“Dad,” calls Axel from the back.
“Dad!”

Mr. Hendersen pauses long enough to point at his son, who looks like he wants to follow him. “You sit your butt down, boy,” he barks. “There's nothing to worry about. I'll be right back.”

With that, the three adults run through the galley and toward the cockpit just as a cheery new voice with a southern accent comes over the speakers.

“Good afternoon, folks. Captain Cummings, here.” In the background, moaning sounds are clearly audible, but the captain ignores them and speaks louder. “Welcome aboard, and thanks for flying with us today. Flight time is an hour and forty minutes, so we'll get you to Atlanta right quick. The temperature there is a hot and sticky ninety-two.”

“Oh, my God,” I say. I can't breathe. Terror has collapsed my throat to the size of a coffee stirrer, and I strain for air, openmouthed, like a fish on a line. An's fingernails are still biting my arm, and across the aisle, Gray is rigid and pale.

Sammy stares at me over his shoulder, white-faced. “He's insane.”

I can only nod. Then I hear rattling and pounding, and realize, in a tiny, still-functioning corner of my brain, that the flight attendants and Mr. Hendersen are trying to break into the cockpit.

“It's locked,” Gordon yells. “We need one of the food trolleys! Hurry!”

The three of them rush into the galley. They're out of my line of sight, but I assume they're looking for weapons and something to use as a battering ram.

Meanwhile, fear and paralysis keep the rest of us silent. By this point, I've all but forgotten about the weather, but I glance desperately out our window, hoping . . . I don't know what I'm hoping for. To see city lights beneath us? The lights from several Air Force jets scrambling to intercept us and get us to a safe landing?

But there's nothing other than that black void in every direction.

“We're next in line for takeoff, so we'll be on our way in the next couple of minutes, and we'll have a light snack once we reach our cruising altitude,” Captain Cummings continues over the speakers. He's still speaking in the upbeat but slightly bored tone that pilots always use, as though this is his third routine flight of the day and he's ready to get home for a shower and a beer. “We'll start the drink service in just a few minutes. I'll let you know when you can get up and move around the cabin.”

An, Maggie and I look at each other. We reach to hold each other's hands. I'm trembling. An's white-lipped mouth keeps opening and closing, but she can't seem to make it work.

“I'm . . . scared,” she finally manages.

“It'll be okay,” I say soothingly, like that means anything.

“No, it won't,” she says, shaking her head. “Sammy!” she calls.

Sammy twists at the waist and cranes his neck to see his sister. “What's up, A?”

“Don't do anything stupid. Keep your seat belt on,” An says, tipping up her chin so she can see Sammy over the seat.

Sammy's lips twitch with a grin that never quite takes root. “Stop bossing me.”

“Asshole,” she replies.

“Love you, witch,” he answers.

“The Lord is my shepherd.” Next to me, Maggie is sobbing quietly in between a few words of prayer. “The Lord is my—”

I can't remember any official prayers, and God would probably laugh at me anyway, because he hasn't heard from me in a long time. I also can't seem to manufacture any words of comfort for either An and Maggie, so I glance over at Carter and Gray to see how they're holding up. Carter is slouched back into his seat with his arm over his eyes, but Gray is watching me.

For once, I can't read his expression.

My hand trembles as I reach for my necklace and hang on to it. “This is pretty messed up, isn't it?” I ask.

One corner of Gray's mouth lifts. “Yeah. I'm kind of wishing we were back on the island counting sea slugs.”

I make a choked sound that may have been either a laugh or a sob.

“Bree,” he begins, his face tight and urgent.

I cut him off, pointing to the galley, where Gordon, Emily and Mr. Hendersen are now maneuvering one of those heavy metal food carts into the aisle in front of the cockpit door. They work together, their faces dark with strain, and it's as though the last few minutes of crisis have shaped them into a powerful army already.

All of us kids crane our necks to watch.

A thin thread of hope winds its way through me. If anyone can save us, they can. That cart is solid, and they're determined. No cockpit door stands a chance against this battering ram.

“Please God,” Maggie says, her hands clasped in prayer under her chin. Other than her raspy voice, a hush has fallen over the passengers, and even the random sobbing has stopped.
“Please
.
”

There's not much space, but the three adults manage to position themselves behind the cart and lean into it, bracing their feet and locking their knees.

“On three,” Gordon directs. “One . . . two . . .”

Without warning, the plane goes into a steep climb. The force of it slams me back into my seat and crushes my chest, emptying all the air out of my lungs. Screaming and breathing are suddenly impossible even though my mouth is open and twisted in a silent shriek. A chorus of shocked gasps and screeches rises up all around me. Several of the overhead bins flap open, spewing bags onto the passengers.

I hear the crack of hard-sided luggage against skulls . . . piercing cries of pain . . . frenzied pleas for God's help and protection.

I don't have anything to say, though. God, in my experience, doesn't step in and stop nightmares. He certainly didn't stop Mona's cancer nightmare, so why would I bother asking him for anything now?

All I can do is hang on to the arms of my seat and dissociate myself from the events unfolding around me. I can detach. I've had so much practice that it's second nature for me to pretend that something isn't happening, or that it's happening to someone else, or that I will wake up back in Normal and discover that Nightmare doesn't exist, after all.

This is not happening . . . This is not happening . . . This is not—

The plane climbs harder. Its angle gets sharper, heading for ninety degrees as though it's the space shuttle during liftoff. As though it wants to touch the invisible sun.

Detachment isn't protecting me like it should.

The three adults are now engaged in a death match. Their enemies are gravity and the cart.

The adults are losing.

They are still in front of my row, but the plane's angle means that they are also now above me, and I have to tip my head back to keep them in sight. Their mission has changed. They no longer want to break into the cockpit. They just want to control the cart because otherwise it could become a missile in this confined space.

The plane banks sharply left, then right, and the cart rolls with it as Emily struggles—and fails—to lock one of the wheels by stepping on it.

This is bad. It's not hard to envision the plane tipping higher . . . the cart going airborne . . . the cart nailing people in their heads as it sails past, crushing and possibly decapitating them.

All three of the adults plant their feet wide and brace their backs against the cart. Which means that I have a clear shot of Emily's grimacing, sweat-drenched face as she struggles to prevent the cart from careening down the aisle and possibly hitting one of the kids . . . as she weakens . . . as her knees begin to shake . . . as the plane inches toward vertical . . . as she slowly loses her struggle.

Time freezes.

Her wild hazel gaze connects with mine, and I feel an excruciating jolt of her desperation.

And then I feel the moment when that desperation gives way to resignation.

The men are still grunting and straining, but Emily is out of strength, and it takes all three of them to keep the cart where it is.

My throat loosens enough for me to scream a single word.
“Emily!”

The plane's nose tips just an inch higher, and her feet slide out from beneath her.

The cart wins. Gravity takes over.

All three of them go airborne and streak toward the back of the plane at something approaching the speed of light. They fly over our heads while the rest of us duck and protect our skulls with our arms.

The cart goes too, cutting off their screams as it crashes into them at the back of the plane.

I don't need to see them to know that they are all dead, but I look anyway.

The three of them are at the very back of the plane, in a heap of obscenely contorted limbs splattered with blood. I can't see much of Gordon, but Mr. Hendersen's body is bent at the waist in an impossible position that has his face pressed to the floor between his ankles. The edge of the now upside-down cart has come to rest on the side of Emily's battered head. Her eyes are wide open and staring. One of the cart's wheels spins another time or two, then slows to a stop.

“Dad!” yells Axel. “Dad! You okay? You answer me!
Dad?
Daaaaaaaaaad!
”

The plane climbs higher.

The cabin lights flicker and then die, leaving us in absolute darkness except for the light strips down the aisle.

Outside our windows, that malignant black void seems to have come alive. It undulates, pulsing against the plane and revealing patches that are lighter than others. Part of it seems to glitter, but I can't tell if it's a trick of the dim cabin light or signs of the sun trying to break through.

I have two frantic thoughts:

The darkness wants to come into the plane.

We must not let it come into the plane.

The speakers chime and the pilot's voice, cheery over the moaning of the injured men in the cockpit with him, comes over the speakers again. “Folks, I'm experiencing mechanical difficulties up here, but I don't want you to worry. I've got everything under control.”

The speakers are quiet again.

Beneath our feet, we feel the unmistakable rumble of the landing gear easing down, into position, as though we're circling the Atlanta area for our final approach. One astonished beat passes, and then Captain Cummings's intentions become clear even to our panic-dazed brains.

The passengers' terrified uproar fills the cabin.

With all the commotion, I almost miss the moment when the plane slows and the force pressing me back into my seat eases. But suddenly we're sitting like normal airplane passengers again rather than imitating astronauts on liftoff.

Resistance drags on the plane for several excruciating beats and it hangs, suspended, for the length of time it takes for my heart to stop. And then it begins to lose altitude.

My stomach drops and then goes weightless as the plane's nose levels off and then dips toward the sea. I am paralyzed and numb, buried so deeply inside myself that the chaos all around me is nonexistent.

“Brace yourself!” roars Carter. He gives his seat belt one last yank to make sure it's tight, bends at the waist and wraps his hands around his head, watching to make sure the rest of us do the same. “Crash position!”