Is the automatic pilot engaged? Will we plunge nose-first in a fatal dive? Will he attempt an ocean belly-landing? Will he be able to cruise at ten thousand feet long enough to reach land? We’re over open water, so it should be safe terrain to drop to where oxygen levels won’t be as critical. How long will the emergency oxygen reserves last?
Did he get his own mask on in time?
Being a nerd sucks, sometimes.Thisis one of those times, all the information I absorbed about pilots and flight and airplanes when I went through that phase around age ten, when I wanted to be a commercial jet pilot. Until I discovered my best bet was to enlist in the military first and get flight training there, and decided no, thanks.
Amazing what runs through your mind when you’re facing death.
All of this happens in less than fifteen seconds, because Susa is a motherfucker in a crisis, all those years of Girl Scouts and camping with Daddy—and campaigning with Daddy—and learning how not to panic now paying off.
But as Susa is struggling not to think about things like proximity to land, how rough the ocean is, and how long it’s going to take to die like this, pet is desperately wishing for one last chance to speak to Owen and Carter and tell them how much I love them.
Susa is grateful they are not here right now, or Dray and Gregory. They are all safe at home, in Florida.
Because there’s a damn good chance one of them would have been in Mike’s seat, or I would have.
Susa also forces herself not to look over at what’s left of Michael Drucker, still strapped in his seat, or think about the fact that the woman in the seat ahead of him must be dead, too, based on what little is left of her head.
Pet remembers Carter’s last order via text—Stay safe.
Susa prays this cheap-ass charter flight has fucking life vests under the seats—and that someone has actuallycheckedto make sure they’re there and not expired.
Pet dives into Susa’s brain for a moment and remembers the crash brace position and takes it, because even if there is an announcement on the PA, with the wind right there and roaring through the side of the fuselage, I can’t hear it. I give thanks I’m wearing my sneakers and jeans, and had kept my sweater on against the cabin’s chill.
Then I think about life rafts. We’re far closer to the rear of the craft than we are the front, and this is where I do wish Carter was here. I risk sitting up and craning my head around into the aisle to look back. Over half of the passengers are unconscious and aren’t wearing oxygen masks. I spot a terrified-looking flight attendant strapped into a rear jump seat and wearing a mask.
But there are two rear exit doors, and I know there should be life rafts there, if not the slides themselves set up to be flotation devices, depending on the model.
I face forward again. Next to me, Connie is sobbing, still holding Michael’s hand.
As horrible as it sounds, maybe I shouldn’t have put her mask on her. At least she’d be unconscious.
I resume my brace position and notice the woman across the aisle from me, who also wears her mask, is doing the same.
We’re not banking any longer. I feel the rapid descent from the way the plane is pitching forward and how my ears are popping again. Except the entire airframe is shuddering in a way that piles an extra layer of terror on top of what I’d assumed was the maximum quota my brain and body could already process.
I thought I knew fear, terror. Not from my play with the bastard extraordinaire, either, but from that day of the school shooting. And from when Daddy collapsed with his heart attack.
Wrong.
So,sowrong.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
As my teeth chatter from cold and fear, I close my eyes and picture Carter and Owen’s faces in my mind while I chant those three words over and over again, as if they could fly through the jagged, fatal wound killing this metal bird and into my husbands’ ears.
Will they identify me by my necklace? Or my bracelet?
Will my head still be attached to my body?
Will it be my wedding rings, or the ring Owen gave me that I wear on my right hand, that identifies me?
Will it be the tattoo on my right wrist?
Will they even find my body?
Do I wish for a quick, immediate death too fast to process? Or do I want a chance to fight for my life?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
