The Flight and Fall

The blaring sirens were the first thing to enter Alan’s conscious mind. Starting first as a low, muted whine, the sound grew until it became a choir of squealing pigs, unable to end their crescendo. He opened his eyes to the familiar cockpit of the PC-12 he’d been flying for the last four years. His vision blurred as he tried to make out shapes in the glare of the warning lights. After several seconds, he finally became aware of himself, his arms dangling high above his head, and the seatbelt taught across his chest like an anaconda squeezing as he breathed. He tried the buckle, but it was jammed, its casing caved in from the impact.  He reached for the emergency pack behind the empty co-pilot seat next to him. As his fingers brushed the hard canvas, an echo of a memory washed over him.

Jane, his co-pilot, watched him with a smirk on her face. “Why do you bother replacing that thing so often? You know if we crash, we're the most likely to die.”

Alan double checked that the new emergency pack was securely fastened, before picking up the previous pack, only six months old, and carrying it past Jane. “Because one day, we might crash. And it's supposed to be there. Even if I die, maybe it’ll help someone else.”

The velcro tore as Alan pulled it open, groaning with the strain of the movement. Most of the contents came tumbling out. Bandages, disinfectant, and other medical supplies littered the roof of the cockpit like a scene from a war torn country in a documentary. Alan’s prize, however, was a small utility tool strapped to the inside of the flap. He slipped it free of its bindings with ease, and used the razor on the back to quickly sever the belt holding him to the seat. The ground rushed to meet Alan’s head, and he barely registered the impact before the black consumed him, and another memory flooded his dreams.

Jane had asked him to get Thai food outside the airport hotel to celebrate their first flight together. Usually, Alan would decline such an offer having just met her the day before, but something about the way she asked made him reconsider. On that walk to the restaurant, they heard the screech of tires on the pavement, and watched as an out of control vehicle slammed into a truck, and burst into flame. 

Without thinking, Alan rushed to the wreck, finding an old man unconscious in the seat. Alan tried to check his vitals but the fire grew quickly, and licked his arms. Without thinking, he pulled the man from the car, and laid him on the sidewalk to begin CPR. He never saw the fireball, but Jane told him later how quickly it had consumed the cab of the vehicle. 

Alan woke again. The sirens had stopped, and only a small hum was audible. Alan groaned with effort as he pushed himself up to his knees. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his left leg, the sensation spreading like heat after the first bite of something warm. Alan looked around in a daze, his fog-ridden mind struggling to decide what to do next until he spotted the door to the cabin. Using the bottom of his seat above him, he pulled himself up on his good leg, and hopped over to it. 

The handle felt pleasant, like warm steel beneath his fingers as he wrenched it open. A large cloud of smoke engulfed his head, causing his eyes to squeeze shut, and violently wracking his body with coughs. Losing his sense of direction, Alan tumbled over, falling face first into the main cabin. His vision swam as his head once again struck metal, but he managed to remain conscious. What felt like years passed before his senses started coming back to him, and it was at this point that he could hear a voice.

“Jane?” Alan called out into the blurry picasso painting in front of him. “Ja-” more coughing silenced him, somehow the smoke had grown claws, just to rake at the inside of his throat.

As the coughing slowed down, he started to make out the other voice. It was familiar, but not Janes.

“Get up! Please Alan GET UP. HELP ME!” Mr. Regius was still in his seat, pulling violently at the buckle of the seatbelt. Alan met his upside down gaze, but Mr. Regius's panicked eyes made little sense. 

You’re fine. Alan thought. What's the fuss? The dancing colors just beyond Mr Regius looked like a kaleidoscope. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled in a mesmerizing dance, casting Mr. Regius in a dark, undulating shadow. Alan found it very humorous that a man like Mr. Regius would be cast in such a performance. He smiled, and laid his head back down on the floor, ready to sleep away this weird dream. 

“NONONONO! WAKE UP.” Mr. Regius' voice was a million miles away. ”THE FIRE IS COMING!” In Alan’s stupor, he finally began to understand. Mr. Regius' face grew clearer as the swirling art behind him coalesced into a deadly inferno, consuming the back half of the plane and slowly making its way forward on the  carpeted ceiling. As if on autopilot, Alan reached for the escape exit, using his bodyweight to wrench the handle down, forcing the door free.

A rush of fresh air slapped him in the face, making him feel truly awake for the first time since landing. His heart was racing as he looked out at the forest surrounding the plane. “PLEASE!” Alan looked back to Mr Regius at the sound of his voice. Alan tried to remember ever hearing the large man’s voice sound so scared, but a different memory came to him. 

“Sir” Alan said to the finely dressed man sitting in the large arm chair. Mr. Regius shot a sideways glance at Alan, and shifted to face the window, the engine and wing softly humming beyond. The back of his head and the top most edge of a cell phone stared back at Alan. “Sir, you really shouldn’t use that up here.” He tried again. Mr. Regius waved dismissively at him.

“Yeah. Yeah, tell them I will be there in 2 hours,” Mr. Regius said into the phone, his voice rising in volume as he shifted quickly in his seat again. “And if they so much as breathe on this before I’m there,” his finger violently jabbed the air in front of him, “I’ll end them. Got it?” He slammed the phone down on the table, and seconds later there is a beep as whoever was being yelled at hangs up the call on their end. ‘What, Pilot?” His icy expression mismatched with the intensity in his stare.

Alan cleared his throat and shifted his weight to the other foot. “It's Captain, Sir. And you really shouldn’t use that up here. It messes with our sensors.”

“Aw horse shit.” Mr Regius' face softened as he turned his attention to the glass in front of him. “I paid millions for this plane, Pilot. And a little bitty phone is gonna mess with it? Right.” Mr. Regius took a swig of whiskey as if to indicate the conversation was over.

“Also, Sir,” Alan’s face tightened with strain, and he stood straighter. “It’ll be more like 3 hours. There's a storm over most of the Northern half of New Hampshire. We have to go around.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Mr. Regius slammed the glass on the table, spraying liquid everywhere. Alan tried and failed to stifle a flinch. “You will fly this damned bird through armageddon if it gets us to Montreal on time, do you hear me?” 

Alan’s shoulders dropped. “But Sir, the storm will-”

“I didn’t ask for your input, pilot.” Mr Regius took his time with that last word, letting spittle loose from his mouth. “I said fly through it. I pay you good money to get me where I’m going, WHEN, I’m going. If you can’t do that, I’ll find someone who can!”

Alan sighed as he turns towards the front of the plane. He had flown for Mr Regius for 4 years now, and nothing had changed. He walked back to let Jane know.

The air outside the plane tasted sweet to Alan as he stood in the doorway of the wreck. “Help me…” Alan watched the consciousness draining from Mr Regius’s upside down face. He tightened his grip on the multitool, miraculously still in his hand.

“And THAT, your Honor,” Mr. Regius' attorney proclaims to the courtroom at large, “is not my clients’ fault. He is by no means a pilot himself, and relied on the knowledge and intelligence of Mr. and Mrs. Rustici to fly safely, even if that means ignoring his request to maintain course. The accident was terrible, absolutely. And Mr. Regius feels horrible about what happened to Mrs. Rustici, but Mr. Rustici’s choices to fly through the storm, and to go back into the plane and help, choices made knowing full well the potential consequences of his actions, must not be blamed on his passenger.” 

Alan watched the judge as they studied the presented slides. After far too long, they made eye contact with him, and the sorrowful look told Alan the verdict before they even began to speak. Alan realized that despite providing only the truth in everything he said, truth doesn’t buy the best lawyers in the country. His mind drifted to the funerary urn on his kitchen table, delivered that morning with a bouquet of flowers. He gripped the sides of his wheelchair as he began to cry quietly to himself. The scars on his hands and arms strained painfully, a dull reminder of the flames that caused them.