"We'll have you sorted out in no time, Aaron," the captain assured him as the wail of sirens grew close, "It's probably just a delayed stress reaction. I wouldn't worry."
When the copilot started to cough again, Mason saw it was time for him to go. He popped open the door, offered a concerned, "I'll see if I can direct one of the EMT's up front," then he stepped back into the main cabin and closed the door behind him.
He hadn't given any thought to how the other passengers might react at knowing they were safely on the ground, but he could never have expected what he now saw. There was no cheering, no jubilation, no hip-hip-hoorahs for the gallant flight crew who'd fought through a fuck-ton of adversity to bring them back down to Mother Earth. Instead, there was bedlam.
Some passengers were still in their seats, sobbing quietly, wailing at the tops of their lungs or clinging to loved ones, but most were on their feet, yelling, shoving, and throwing blind punches at anyone who stood in their way. It wasn't a mad rush for the exits; it was simply violence for violence's sake. He saw a big man shove another man to the floor and begin to kick him wildly. He called out for the big man to stop, but it was pointless. Another man grabbed a young woman by the scruff of her neck and lined up a vicious punch that knocked her to the ground. An older woman made a grab for the crying baby, and when the child's mother pulled her child desperately away, the old lady actually bit the screeching mother on the arm.
Suddenly, a bit of coughing looked like a pretty damn reasonable after-effect of stress.
He saw cute little Katie still strapped in her stewardess seat. He unclasped the belt, but before he could even begin hauling her to her feet, she clawed at his face without warning, hissing like a feral cat. He shoved her away and stepped back, cursing.
"Yeah, you're welcome, honey," he spat as she fell back and collapsed to the floor.
As he turned away, he noticed that the drink cart hadn't been stowed properly and had rolled to one side, wedging itself against the sink. He helped himself to a double-handful of bottles, filled his pockets, and shoved through the maddening crowd to the closest door. The sirens outside had stopped, and red and yellow lights were flashing through the tiny window in the door. Well, thank Christ! A few seconds later, a face appeared in the window and the door cracked open. A set of stairs had been wheeled up, and a gruff older man was standing on the platform.
"They're all blind, and they're all batshit crazy," Mason told him plainly and shoved rudely past him.
"Are you Mr Tenby?" the man huffed.
Mason rolled his eyes. "The name's Mason. And by the way, the copilot's sick, and those two up front are the only people on this whole damn plane who deserve your help."
"Alright, Mr Tenby, we'll take it from here. See one of the fellows in the white shirts down there, and he'll give you the once-over."
Mason side-stepped several men rushing to the top of the stairs and avoided the EMT's eager to lend a hand down below. He found a quiet little corner of the chaos, reached into his pocket for a bottle of scotch, and unscrewed the cap with practiced efficiency. Turning away from the tumult, he downed the drink in a swallow. His head still ached, but now it wasn't all from the alcohol. Now it ached from a general disgust of his fellow man. The derisive words of Hamlet came suddenly to his mind, and he mentally recited them with a grimace on his face and antipathy in his heart.
What a piece of work is man…..
Here, he'd helped save a planeload of idiots from an ignoble death, and they thanked him by beating the hell out of each other.
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties…… In form and moving, how express and admirable…..
Yeah, okay, the pilots seemed okay, but he'd bet money that if they ever met again, he'd be dismissed with a fake-polite handshake and a 'maybe see you around'. Hell, they didn't even bother to know his goddam name!
In action, how like an angel….. In apprehension, how like a God! The paragon of animals!
He thought of cute little Katie, all smiles and sweetness one minute, and a jungle cat with a burr up her butt the next. Just like Becks. He fished another bottle out of his pocket and snapped it open.
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me….. No, nor woman neither….
With a raising of the bottle in silent toast to the creatures he'd spent a lifetime coming to loathe, he put the bottle to his lips and tossed it back with a shudder.
Stage 3 is available from Amazon
here