Dragged into Darkness (23 page)

“We can’t just melt the bags down as they are.  It would take too long and wouldn’t mix well with the color pigments we put in.  So, Jose junior takes care of it for us.”  Jose patted the machine and showed Patrick to the rear.  “And, this where little Jose takes a dump.”

A mobile hopper was pressed up against the back of Jose junior.  Scattered in the hopper lay the remnants his last meal—various colored penny-sized pellets.

“Can I leave you to get on, man?  I want a smoke.”

“No worries.”

“Cool.”

Jose started the machine.  Jose junior whined into life.  His blades flashed in anticipation of a feeding.  Jose dropped in the first body bag.  Little Jose gobbled it up with relish.  His wail changed momentarily as he chomped through his rubber snack.  Patrick demonstrated he understood Jose’s directions as best he could above the din and Jose slipped out a side door, cigarette in hand.

Patrick continued to feed Jose junior.  Each body bag disintegrated on contact.  Rubber shards spewed upward only to fall into Jose junior’s unforgiving teeth for a second time.

Happily, Patrick disposed of the body bags.  They were ugly things in shape and purpose.  It was a pleasure to see them destroyed.

Patrick snatched up the next bag and shook the folds out of it.  It hung like a cheap suit and he shook it again.  The body bag refused to lie flat.  In fact, the bag had shape.  He felt the shape develop in his grasp.  He now held a pair of rubberized wrists.  He wanted to let go but couldn’t.  The wrists slipped his grasp and rubber hands seized hold of his arms.  A black-gray face bulged in the fabric and stared him in the eye.  It tried to speak but only the putrescent waft of death slithered from the slit.  This body bag hadn’t been cleaned.

Patrick fought his gag reflex.  He was wrong.  He didn’t want to know these people.  He got rid of the curtain people and he would get rid of the body bag man.  He edged over to Jose junior and
flopped
the bottom of the bag over the side.  The body bag man gripped even tighter to Patrick as he dropped him into the hungry blades.  The blades tore at the rubber flesh.  The body bag man’s face contorted and his grip loosened. 

Patrick, dragged down by the body bag man, straightened as Jose junior took over.  But instead of his balance returning, it worsened.  He glanced at the floor.  It writhed with body bag people coming to life.  They trembled beneath him.  He couldn’t ride their rubber wave and toppled into Jose junior.  He watched the body bag man disintegrate before him and knew he shared the same fate.

***

The woman panicked.  She clutched her towel like it could help her.  Patrick reached out for help.  His plasticized flesh stretched easily to touch her.  She slapped his hand away.  She didn’t understand.  She was like all the others before her.  He hadn’t understood at the beginning but he did now.  The curtain people had explained it all.  They were the restless and they needed their release.  Would they ever find anyone who could help?

The United flight bound for London climbed out of SFO.  The 747 punctured the thick cloud base, giving Captain Scott Harrison and David Garcia, first officer, a clear view of the world above.  Garcia took instruction from San Francisco’s air traffic control and changed radio frequency.  The altimeter registered seventeen thousand feet and climbing. 

Harrison settled into the flight.  Damn it, he thought, did I write out that check?  He couldn’t remember if he had sent the mortgage payment.  When he reached London, he would have to call Karen.  An explosion rocked the aircraft, hurling Harrison back to the task at hand with a bang.

“Christ!” Garcia shouted.  “What the hell was that?”

The view out of the windshield explained everything.  Instead of blue skies, it was white clouds again.  The Boeing was plummeting, full nose down. 

“Help me!” Harrison shouted over the deafening wind noise whipping the aircraft.

Both pilots fought the yoke for control.  But they had to do it in a delicate fashion.  With an out of control aircraft, they trod a fine line.  There could be no violent control inputs.  If there were, the combination of weight, speed and stress could rip the wings off. 

But for all their effort, the load on the column had intensified a hundred fold.  They could do nothing to restore control to the falling aircraft.  Thousands of feet were being wiped off their altitude by the minute.

With all four engines on a hundred percent, the acceleration was phenomenal.  Harrison cut the power back as far as he dared.  The effect was the same as slamming on the brakes.  Harrison and Garcia were thrown against their belts.  The 747 seemed to stop midair, although the air speed indicator said otherwise. 

But with the retarded speed came control.  The load on the yoke lessened and control was theirs.  The nose rose, approaching the most beautiful sight Harrison had ever
seen,
the horizon.  Albeit five thousand feet lower than it had been,
United
flight UA1068 was straight and level.  Harrison fed the power back in to maintain height.

“My adrenaline’s going,” Garcia managed, panting.  “It was really tough there for awhile.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a hold of it now.”

“What do you think happened? 
Stabilizer maybe?”

“God knows, but I’m not planning to work it out up here.”

Harrison noticed a frightened SFO air traffic controller pleading for contact.

“SFO, this is
United
one-zero-six-eight.”

“What’s going on up there, guys?”

“Control problems.  We had an explosion from the tail and lost elevator control.”

“And now?”

“Seems okay.
  I want to do some checks.  But, I want to request an emergency landing.”

“You’ve got it.  Let me clear things on the ground.  I’ll be back to you.”

Harrison took a deep breath and exhaled.  “David, let the passengers in on the games.”

Garcia nodded.  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is first officer Garcia. 
Apologies for the rough ride.
  We experienced flight control problems and will be returning to San Francisco International.  We will advise you of the emergency landing procedure shortly.  Thank you for your attention.  Chief Cabin Officer to the cockpit,
please
.”

A minute later, Petra Davis entered the cockpit.  She wasn’t her perfectly groomed self.  Her hair was out of place and her blouse needed straightening.

“How are things?” Harrison asked.

“Scary.  What the hell happened?”

“We don’t know yet,” Garcia admitted.

“Anyone hurt?” Harrison asked.

“Just one.
  Some idiot in business didn’t have his belt fastened.  Didn’t think he needed it but now he knows better.”

“Shit,” Garcia hissed, disgusted.  “There’s always one.”

“Well, he’s nursing a bloody nose.  I don’t think it’s broken, though.”

“How’s everyone else?”

“Frightened.”

“Well make sure everyone is strapped in, and that includes your staff.  We’re going to run some test exercises to make sure everything’s okay before the emergency landing.”

The cockpit door flew open.

“Tammy?” Petra demanded.

“We’ve got a problem, captain.”

Just as Harrison thought things were getting back to normal.  “What problem?” he asked, calmly.

“A passenger.”

“Which one?”
Petra asked.

“Thirty-three-B.
  The guy gives me the creeps.  He wants to talk to the captain.  He says he has important information.”

By the looks on all their faces, they were thinking the same thing—hijacker.  “Do you know what information?”

Tammy shook her head.  “He won’t say. 
For your ears only.”

Air traffic control was back.

“Go ahead, San Francisco.”

“You have your clearance.”  The controller proceeded to reel off the runway details.

Harrison interrupted.  “San Francisco, we have another problem.”

“What?”

“A passenger says he has information for me.”

“Code seventy-five hundred?”

“
Maybe,
or some plane nerd.”  In the event of an act of terrorism or violence, pilots could alert air traffic without transmitting a message.  They set their transponder to seventy-five hundred.  “If it looks that way, I’ll change the squawk.”

“Keep it over the ocean until you know.”

“
Wilco
.”  Harrison nodded to Garcia to follow the instruction.

He knew why SFO wanted them over the ocean.  If it was a terrorist with an explosive device on board, the last thing the airport wanted was a hundred ton bomb coming anywhere close.  It wasn’t nice, but it was damned practical.

“What do you want me to do?” Tammy asked.

“Send him in,” Harrison replied, nonchalantly.  “I like meeting passengers.  They are the backbone of this airline.”

Tammy returned with the passenger.  At first, Harrison thought the tall man with the sunken cheeks was a priest.  He was dressed entirely in black, black jacket over black pants and a black Henley shirt with a white collar.  But his long, drab and thinning brown hair tied back into a ponytail didn’t gel.  Even if his passenger was a trendy priest, Harrison doubted the Catholic Church allowed that sort of thing.

Tammy made the introduction.  “Mr.
Tobe
Smith.”

Smith?
  Harrison caught Garcia’s glance.  It didn’t bode well.

“Captain Scott Harrison, I presume?” Smith said, offering a large hand.

Was that the hint of an Irish accent?  He knew he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but fuck it, the last thing he needed was an IRA bomber on board.  If Smith was, he guessed they would be flying to London.  San Francisco wasn’t a target.

“David, you have control.”  Harrison took Smith’s hand.  The mysterious Mr. Smith’s grip was impressive for a man who looked desperate for a good meal.  “Mr. Smith.”

“Captain, can we dispense with the formalities?  I prefer to keep things friendly.  I’m
Tobe
.  Can I call you Scott?”

Harrison wasn’t a hostage negotiator but he knew enough to build trust by giving in to simple things that cost nothing.  Surrendering formality was a simple gift.  He nodded his agreement.

“Thank you, Tammy.  You can go back to your station.  Strap yourself in.”