perspective now. He could and would change a lot of things if he ever got back to New York. But everyone facing death must make that observation. One more chance. But more often than not, nothing changed if you were lucky enough to get a second chance. Still, he didn’t want to lie down and die. That’s what he’d been doing for the last ten years. He had to think it all out. Later.
John Berry turned and looked back through the open cockpit door into the lounge. He could see Linda Farley sitting in a club chair, weeping quietly.
Berry slid out of the captain’s seat and walked back into the lounge. The Captain and the copilot lay near the piano where he and the girl had dragged them, covered with blankets. The body of the flight engineer lay against the far bulkhead, his face and torso covered with a lap blanket.
Berry watched the flight attendant whose name tag said Terri. She was sitting on a small sofa, speaking incoherently to herself. Her face was smeared with blood and saliva. She seemed calm, but he’d have to watch her carefully for signs of violence. He’d have to keep her away from the cockpit, where she could do real harm.
Berry noticed that the old lady had stopped babbling to her dead husband and was now crouched behind a club chair peering over the top and making odd clucking sounds. Blood and drool covered her face also. Her husband’s body was still slumped over the cocktail table, but it seemed to have shifted. Berry wondered if rigor mortis was setting in already.
The five passengers on the horseshoe-shaped couch were still unconscious. One, a pretty young woman, was making odd sounds that came from her throat, and Berry wondered if that was what was called the death rattle.
The lounge smelled of feces, urine, and vomit. Berry closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his temples. His head still ached from the oxygen loss, and he was becoming queasy.
He opened his eyes and surveyed the scene again. He’d thought that the confusion of these people might improve, might be reversible. But he was fairly certain now that it wasn’t. His world was divided neatly and irrevocably, with no fuzzy lines, between Us and Them. And there were a lot more of Them.
Berry walked over to the girl and put his hand on her shoulder. His daughter had been this girl’s age when her remoteness and alienation had begun. But that was on the earth. Here, an adult enjoyed all the old prerogatives. “You’re going to have to calm down and start helping me.”
Linda Farley wiped her eyes and nodded.
Berry walked to the bar and found a can of Coca-Cola and opened it. He rummaged through the debris under the bar and extracted a miniature bottle of liquor. Johnny Walker Red. He opened it and drained off the ounce and a half, then carried the cola to the girl. “Here.”
She took it and drank. “Thank you.”
Berry knelt down beside McVary and pushed his eyelids back. Partly dilated. Breathing regular, but shallow. He looked up at the girl. “Did he move at all?”
Linda nodded. “He opened his eyes once. He said something, too, but I couldn’t understand it.” She pointed to Stuart. “That one never moved.”
Berry turned to Stuart. The blood and vomit on his face were dry and crusty. Berry pushed back the eyelids. The pupils were fully dilated. The Captain’s skin was clammy and his breathing was irregular. The man was dying.
Berry rose and looked down again at McVary. If the copilot regained consciousness, and if he was at all coherent, they might have a chance. The plane was flyable. All it needed was someone to fly it. Berry thought he could do it if someone talked him through it. Someone on the radio, if he could get it working, or this copilot. Without help, he’d have to wait out the hours in full consciousness of his impending death. He almost envied the others.
“Listen!”
Berry shot a glance at the girl, then steadied his breathing and listened.
“The stairs,” she whispered.
Berry nodded. “Be quiet.” The circular metal stairway that led down to the first-class cabin had apparently been loosened, and Berry remembered it creaking when he’d used it. It was creaking now.
Berry heard the footsteps on the stairs clearly now. They were coming slowly, hesitantly. He thought there was only one person, but he couldn’t be certain.
He walked quickly around the lounge searching for something to defend himself with. The barstools were fastened to the floor, the scattered bar bottles were miniatures, and the mixers were in small cans with pop tops, which meant no openers were needed. A canister of precut lemons and limes was in the galley. No knife. “Damn it.” He looked over the floor. Almost everything else that was movable had been sucked down the stairwell. He searched desperately for an attache case, an umbrella, the blind man’s cane, but he knew he would find nothing. The footsteps got louder.
Linda Farley screamed.
Berry looked at the stairwell and saw the top of a man’s head. He shouted at the girl, “Get in the cockpit and stay there. Go on!” He then moved quickly past the stairwell and knelt beside the body of Carl Fessler. He pulled the man’s belt off and wrapped it around his right hand, which still ached from the confrontation in the cabin. He let the buckle end swing free.
Berry stood quickly and moved to the opening in the rail around the stairwell. He looked down and saw a large man looking up at him. “Stop!”
The man stopped.
Berry saw that the man’s hands were on the floor a few inches from his ankles. He moved back a step. “Go down!” He raised the belt.
The man hesitated.
Berry knew that as long as he stood there he could keep anyone from coming up the stairs. But he couldn’t stand there indefinitely. “Go!”
The man backed down a few steps. He looked at Berry with an uncomprehending expression. He opened his mouth and made a small sound, then spoke clearly. “Who are you?”
Berry leaned over and looked at the man’s face. Flecks of vomit covered his chin and white shirt. His eyes looked alive. No blood covered his face, no saliva ran from his mouth. “Who are you?” Berry asked.
“Harold Stein.”
“Where are you from?”
“What?”
“What is your home address?”
The man took another step down. “Where’s the pilot? I was in the lavatory when…”
“Answer me, damn it! Tell me your home address!”
“Chatham Drive, Bronxville.”
“What day is this?”
“Tuesday. No, Wednesday. Look, who are you? Good God, man, don’t you realize what’s happened down here? Where is the pilot?”
Berry felt his chest heave and his eyes almost welled with tears. There were now three of them in that small minority. “You’re all right?”
“I think so.” Things were becoming more clear to Stein. “The people down here…”
“I know. Come up. Come up, Mr. Stein.”
Harold Stein took a hesitant step.
Berry backed off. He unwound the belt from his hand and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Come on. Quickly.” He glanced over his shoulder at the three men and two women sitting on the horseshoe-shaped couch behind him. Some of them were starting to stir. “Hurry.”
Stein pulled himself up to the lounge deck. “What in the name of God…”
“Later. You wouldn’t be a pilot by any chance, would you?”
“No. Of course not. I’m an editor.”
Berry thought he was beyond disappointment, but his heart sank lower still. He regarded Harold Stein for a moment. Fortyish. Big. Intelligent face. He could be of some help.
Stein’s eyes were fixed on the cockpit door. “Hey, what the hell happened to the pilot?”
Berry jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
