Falling(64)

Jo froze. Should she run after it? Or should she maintain her defensive post in case another canister appeared? But if she—

A jarring boom in the back reverberated all the way to the front of the plane as the retractable jump seat slammed against the wall. Daddy appeared a split second later, sprinting up the aisle toward the canister.

A woman in an aisle seat unbuckled her seat belt and skittered toward the window, trapping her seatmates. Other rows followed suit. Someone kicked the canister and Daddy’s head bobbed as he tried to locate where it went. Passengers jostled as the canister rolled toward them underfoot until moments later when it reappeared, flying through the air after someone tossed it out of their row. Everyone scrambled to get away from the thing or to get it away from them, but the whole time, a steady stream of white poison snaked out of it, filling the enclosed cabin that now had no secondary oxygen.

Jo’s heart beat so fast it was painful. She alternated focus between Daddy and the cockpit door, desperately wanting to assist. Stay put and protect the front, she told herself. Let them handle the back. They got this. But the urge to help was overwhelming.

With a glance back, Jo saw the canister drop in the middle of the aisle just ahead of Daddy. He lunged with a grunt, his outstretched body completely airborne before he fell onto the floor with a thud, trapping the canister underneath him. Daddy curled himself into a ball, wrapping his arms around his shins. The stream of white residue ceased—the poison canister was trapped inside his awkward fetal position.

He stopped moving and yelled something and a moment later a wad of red fabric was tossed in his direction. Jo thought it looked like a sweatshirt.

Daddy laid the sweatshirt open beside him on the floor before he outstretched his legs and rolled on top of it as fast as he could. Jo wanted to cheer. She got it now. The canister was now lodged in between his body and the sweatshirt. Awkwardly, with the oxygen bottle sliding across his back, he shimmied his hands under his body to grab at the fabric, wrapping it around the canister. Jo could see him trying to press his body into the floor with all his weight as he maneuvered. That’s right, baby, she thought proudly. Smother it.

He was fighting brilliantly, but his movements began to slow and look uncoordinated. Jo fought the urge to run to him. She knew it was the poison. He needed help. She could hear Kellie in the back galley opening and closing carriers with a slam. Jo knew she was looking for the trash bags and wished Kellie would hurry the hell up.

The canister was now rolled up tight in the sweatshirt and Daddy clutched it to his chest. He struggled to get to his feet before a man across from him stood up and took him under an arm. A woman on the other side did the same in spite of her relentless, involuntary cough. The whole cabin was filled with screaming and coughing.

Damnit, Kellie, c’mon. Daddy needs—

Jo’s stomach turned as she remembered.

Catering had shorted them on trash bags. What few they had, Jo had taken for the attack. They didn’t have any trash bags in the back. Jo and her ABPs had them all up front.

“Josip,” Jo yelled, pointing to the bag dangling from the seat-back pocket in front of him. “Take that and—”

Kellie burst out of the back galley, extending something to Big Daddy as she ran up the aisle toward him. Daddy shifted and Jo could see the coffee carafe Kellie held out. The plastic vessel had a wide mouth—but most importantly, it sealed up airtight. Jo didn’t know if the canister would be small enough to fit inside, but if it did, the carafe was perfect.

Daddy held out the rolled-up sweatshirt and went to unfurl it, but he stopped, looking around at the passengers. Jo saw them breathing through their shirts, covering their mouths with their hands, coughing compulsively. They had no clean oxygen.

Daddy ripped the container out of Kellie’s hands and squeezed past her, sprinting toward the back of the plane, the sweatshirt tucked into the crook of his arm like a football.

Kellie yelled something after him, seeming to understand his next move.

He stepped to the side. She passed him and yanked open the door to the lav. Daddy ducked inside and she slammed the door closed behind him.

Jo kept looking from the cockpit door to the back galley. Kellie stood outside the lav, waiting, her heavy breathing apparent all the way in the front. Kellie turned forward and, seeing Jo looking back, ripped the interphone off the wall. Jo answered before the green light even lit up. Kellie’s voice was high-pitched and panicked.

“We didn’t have any—”

“I know,” Jo said, trying to sound calm. “You’re doing great. What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Nothing. I think—”

The lav door flew open and Daddy came tumbling out of the bathroom backward. Tripping himself up, he fell against the cabin divider before falling to the floor. He kicked at the door and it slammed shut, the coffee carafe and poison canister inside. Kellie let go of the phone and ran to him, dropping to her knees at his side. She recoiled instantly, her hands flying to her mask as she scrambled back up and ran to the other side of the galley. Jo could hear a carrier opening and closing through the open line as the interphone dangled off the hook.

With the phone pressed against her ear, Jo looked back and forth between the front and the back. Afraid another attack would come. Worried they wouldn’t have the tools to fight it if it did.

Kellie reappeared holding a large water bottle. Jo kept the phone pressed to her ear, barely able to hear what was happening. Kellie squatted beside Big Daddy.