Departure by A.G. Riddle
For those stubborn enough to dream.
PART I:
SURVIVORS
1
In one hour, this plane will land, and I’ll be forced to make The Decision, a call that I may regret for the rest of my earthly existence. Depending on how it goes, chaos and poverty may follow. Or pure bliss. Fifty-fifty odds, I’d say. Not dreading it. Barely even thinking about The Decision most seconds.
Like most writers, I don’t get out much. Or get paid much. I fly economy, and nine times out of ten I’m sandwiched between a feverish person who coughs when I least expect it and a married man who inevitably asks, “So how’s a cute little thing like you still single?” I suspect the airlines have a flag in their system for me: “Not a complainer, reassign to misery row.”
Not this flight.
Approximately six hours ago I entered a magical world, a place that only exists for brief periods of time forty thousand feet above Earth’s surface: first class on an international flight. This joyous land that pops into and out of existence like an alternative universe has its own strange customs and rituals. I’ve taken it all in, knowing that this will likely be my last glimpse. The ticket probably cost two months’ rent at my microscopic flat in London. I would have rather had the cash, but the ticket was a gift, or more precisely an attempt at manipulation by the billionaire who laid down The Decision at our meeting in New York. Must not think about that now.
The flight time from New York to London is just under seven hours. Every fifteen minutes I switch the screen to check where the plane is, willing it to just keep going, to fly until we run out of fuel. Maybe I’ll slip the flight attendant a note: “Drop below 40,000 feet and it blows!”
“Hey, who do I have to kill to get a refill here? And what’s the deal with the Internet?”
Trouble in paradise. As far as I can tell, there are only two unhappy inhabitants of First Class, Pop. 10. I call this pocket of unrest The Aisle of Brooding and Snide Remarks. Its thirtysomething residents have been waging a drinking and sarcasm contest since takeoff. I know one of them, the individual currently pressing his drink request, and I know what’s eating him because I’m involved in it. His name is Grayson Shaw, and I’ve made every effort to avoid him.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Grayson yells.
A thin dark-haired flight attendant whose name tag reads “Jillian” pokes her head out of the galley and smiles weakly. “Sir, the captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belts sign and suspended drink—”
“For god’s sake, just throw me two mini bottles. We’re like eight feet apart.”
“Ignore him, Jillian,” the other brooder says. “Two mini bottles won’t fix his problem.”
“Thanks, random guy in 2A. Really insightful.”
Grayson jumps up as another wave of turbulence rocks the plane. I feel him pulling on the back of my headrest as he wades forward. His long blond hair falls around his face, hiding me from his view, and I’m glad for that. He stops in front of my first-row seat, at the entrance to the galley.
“Okay, it’s not that hard. You’re a cocktail waitress in the sky. Now hand me the bottles.”
Jillian’s put-on smile recedes. She reaches for something, but the plane phone rings, and she grabs it instead.
Grayson massages his temple and turns to the side. His eyes meet mine. “You. Jesus, this flight keeps getting worse.”
He’s about to launch into me, but the other brooder is here now, standing uncomfortably close to Grayson. He’s quite handsome, his dark hair short, his face lean, his eyes unflinching.
Grayson stares at him for a second, then cocks his head. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, I came up here to help you.”
Normally I don’t go in for this sort of macho stuff, but I have to say, I like the hero from 2A.
There’s turbulence, and then there’s what happens next. The boom is deafening. Time seems to stretch out. The battling brooders are on the floor in front of me, rolling around, maybe fighting, I can’t tell.
Chaos erupts. The flight attendants race through the plane, stowing articles, shouting at people to get back in their seats and fasten their seat belts. A voice comes over the PA, but I can’t make out the words.
Compartments overhead pop open, and an oxygen mask dangles in front of me, a round, yellow plastic bowl with a flat bottom. It bounces up and down on the clear plastic tube like a dangling pi?ata, just out of reach.
Grayson is gone—to where, I don’t know and don’t care. The other brooder gets up, steadies himself on the bulkhead, peering down the length of the plane, squinting slightly, his eyes moving left and right, seeming to calculate something.
Finally he plops down in the seat beside me and pulls the seat belt tight.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I mouth, not sure if my voice is audible over the ruckus around us.
“Can you hear me?”
For some reason, his voice is crystal clear. His accent is American, its calmness a sharp contrast to the pandemonium around him. We seem to be in a bubble, he and I, while outside the world disintegrates, time accelerating dizzily.
“Yes,” I say, finally hearing my own voice, as if from far away.