Stephen King - The Langoliers

“It’s real.”

“It doesn’t seem real,” Bethany said. “It seems like one of those stupid disaster movies. Airport 1990, something like that. I keep looking around for a couple of old actors like Wilford Brimley and Olivia De Havilland. They’re supposed to meet during the shitstorm and fall in love, you know?”

“I don’t think they’re on the plane,” Laurel said gravely. They glanced into each other’s eyes and for a moment they almost laughed together. It could have made them friends if it had happened... but it didn’t. Not quite.

“What about you, Laurel? Do you have a disaster-movie problem?”

“I’m afraid not,” Laurel replied... and then she did begin to laugh. Because the thought which shot across her mind in red neon was Oh you liar!

Bethany put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Jesus,” she said after a minute. “I mean, this is the ultimate hairball, you know?”

Laurel nodded. “I know.” She paused and then asked, “Do you need a rehab, Bethany?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to look out the window again. Her smile was gone and her voice was morose. “I guess I might. I used to think it was just party-time, but now I don’t know. I guess it’s out of control. But getting shipped off this way... I feel like a pig in a slaughterhouse chute.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurel said, but she was also sorry for herself. The blind girl had already adopted her; she did not need a second adoptee. Now that she was fully awake again she found herself scared — badly scared. She did not want to be behind this kid’s dumpster if she was going to offload a big pile of disaster-movie angst. The thought made her grin again; she simply couldn’t help it. It was the ultimate hairball. It really was.

“I’m sorry, too,” Bethany said, “but I guess this is the wrong time to worry about it, huh?”

“I guess maybe it is,” Laurel said.

“The pilot never disappeared in any of those Airport movies, did he?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It’s almost six o’clock. Two and a half hours to go.”

“Yes.”

“If only the world’s still there,” Bethany said, “that’ll be enough for a start.” She looked closely at Laurel again. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any grass, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Bethany shrugged and offered Laurel a tired smile which was oddly winning. “Well,” she said, “you’re one ahead of me — I’m just afraid.”

Some time later, Brian Engle rechecked his heading, his airspeed, his navigational figures, and his charts. Last of all he checked his wristwatch. It was two minutes past eight.

“Well,” he said, to Nick without looking around, “I think it’s about that time. Shit or git.”

He reached forward and flicked on the FASTEN SEATBELTS sign. The bell made its low, pleasant chime. Then he flicked the intercom toggle and picked up the mike.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Engle again. We’re currently over the Atlantic Ocean, roughly thirty miles east of the Maine coast, and I’ll be commencing our initial descent into the Bangor area very soon. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t turn on the seatbelt sign so early, but these circumstances aren’t ordinary, and my mother always said prudence is the better part of valor. In that spirit, I want you to make sure your lap-belts are snug and secure. Conditions below us don’t look especially threatening, but since I have no radio communication, the weather is going to be something of a surprise package for all of us. I kept hoping the clouds would break, and I did see a few small holes over Vermont, but I’m afraid they’ve closed up again. I can tell you from my experience as a pilot that the clouds you see below us don’t suggest very bad weather to me. I think the weather in Bangor may be overcast, with some light rain. I’m beginning our descent now. Please be calm; my board is green across and all procedures here on the flight deck remain routine.”

Brian had not bothered programming the autopilot for descent; he now began the process himself. He brought the plane around in a long, slow turn, and the seat beneath him canted slightly forward as the 767 began its slow glide down toward the clouds at 4,000 feet.

“Very comforting, that,” Nick said. “You should have been a politician, matey.”

“I doubt if they’re feeling very comfortable right now,” Brian said. “I know I’m not.”

He was, in fact, more frightened than he had ever been while at the controls of an airplane. The pressure-leak on Flight 7 from Tokyo seemed like a minor glitch in comparison to this situation. His heart was beating slowly and heavily in his chest, like a funeral drum. He swallowed and heard a click in his throat. Flight 29 passed through 30,000 feet, still descending. The white, featureless clouds were closer now. They stretched from horizon to horizon like some strange ballroom floor.

“I’m scared shitless, mate,” Nick Hopewell said in a strange, hoarse voice. “I saw men die in the Falklands, took a bullet in the leg there myself, got the Teflon knee to prove it, and I came within an ace of getting blown up by a truck bomb in Beirut — in ‘82, that was — but I’ve never been as scared as I am right now. Part of me would like to grab you and make you take us right back up just as far up as this bird will go.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Brian replied. His own voice was no longer steady; he could hear his heartbeat in it, making it jig-jag up and down in minute variations. “Remember what I said before — we can’t stay up here forever.”

“I know it. But I’m afraid of what’s under those clouds. Or not under them.”

“Well, we’ll all find out together.”

“No help for it, is there, mate?”

“Not a bit.”

The 767 passed through 25,000 feet, still descending.

All the passengers were in the main cabin; even the bald man, who had stuck stubbornly to his seat in business class for most of the flight, had joined them. And they were all awake, except for the bearded man at the very back of the plane. They could hear him snoring blithely away, and Albert Kaussner felt one moment of bitter jealousy, a wish that he could wake up after they were safely on the ground as the bearded man would most likely do, and say what the bearded man was most likely to say: Where the hell are we?

The only other sound was the soft rii-ip... rii-ip... rii-ip of Craig Toomy dismembering the in-flight magazine. He sat with his shoes in a deep pile of paper strips.

“Would you mind stopping that?” Don Gaffney asked. His voice was tight and strained. “It’s driving me up the wall, buddy.”

Craig turned his head. Regarded Don Gaffney with a pair of wide, smooth, empty eyes. Turned his head back. Held up the page he was currently working on, which happened to be the eastern half of the American Pride route map.

Rii-ip.

Gaffney opened his mouth to say something, then closed it tight.

Laurel had her arm around Dinah’s shoulders. Dinah was holding Laurel’s free hand in both of hers.

Albert sat with Robert Jenkins, just ahead of Gaffney. Ahead of him was the girl with the short dark hair. She was looking out the window, her body held so stiffly upright it might have been wired together. And ahead of her sat Baldy from business class.

“Well, at least we’ll be able to get some chow!” he said loudly.

No one answered. The main cabin seemed encased in a stiff shell of tension. Albert Kaussner felt each individual hair on his body standing at attention. He searched for the comforting cloak of Ace Kaussner, that duke of the desert, that baron of the Buntline, and could not find him. Ace had gone on vacation.