Терри Биссон - The Left Left Behind

“I wonder why he has such a heavy Brooklyn accent?” Vince mused to himself. “There are mysteries everywhere I turn.”

ELEVEN HOURS LATER

Except for take-offs and landings, which still require our hominid skills, modern airplanes fly themselves. Which is a good thing. The EconAir 777, high over the Atlantic, was on autopilot, and so was its pilot, Captain “Cap” Church. He wasn’t thinking of the gigantic machine stuffed with dozing passengers that was in his command, or even of the faithful (if slightly dotty) wife, troublesome punked-out daughter and grubby son he had left behind in the USA.

He was thinking only of the lovely young stewardess, Amy, who was sitting on his lap, and of the hominid task at hand (literally): the unhooking of her brassiere.

Just as he managed to skillfully undo the clasp with two fingers, he heard a ding.

Amy stiffened. The Captain was already stiff.

“That was a call button,” she said.

“So what?” the Captain murmured, waiting for her ripe full breasts to fall into his eager hands, like oversized fruit from the Tree of Life. “Let ‘em wait.”

“First Class,” said Amy, rehooking her bra. “It’s a special ding.”

“Then let ‘em eat cake.”

“We’re out of cake,” she said, hurriedly buttoning her blouse.

MOMENTS LATER

Amy softly shut, sealed, locked and secured the cockpit door behind her and tiptoed into the First Class cabin.

It was quiet and dark, just as it should be. She tiptoed toward the lit call light.

The white-haired old lady in seat 4E looked alarmed. “Where’s my husband?” she asked. “He was sitting here, in 4F, reading the Bible, when I dozed off, and when I woke up, he was gone!”

“Are you sure?”

“OK, maybe it was The Wall Street Journal ,” the old lady sobbed.

“Perhaps he’s in the bathroom,” suggested Amy.

Old men peed a lot, she knew, from personal experience.

“With all of them? Doing what?”

“All of who?”

“Them!” screeched the old lady, waving her hands in the air. “They’re all gone!”

Amy turned and looked around. It was true! First Class was empty, except for the clothes that lay neatly folded on the seats. But how could that be? She had attended to them all, heard their complaints, served them their “champagne” (a fun California varietal) and fluffed their pillows herself.

“Calm down,” she said. “Let me check.”

Amy tiptoed up and down the aisle. All the seats, except for 4E, were empty. Each had only a little pile of clothing left behind. Even the socks were neatly folded in the shoes.

Strange.

There was no one in the bathroom. Then she heard a tapping noise from the back of First Class.

One man sat alone, in seat 12A by the window, working on a laptop computer. As she approached, Amy saw that it was Vince Kirkorian, the famous TV journalist. She had noticed him boarding. He was even cuter in real life than on his award-winning TV news show.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kirkorian,” she said.

“Sorry but I can’t give autographs while I’m working,” he said politely, without looking up. “I’m in the middle of a big story. I’m on my way back from Israel, where-”

“Who was sitting next to you?” Amy asked. “Did you see what happened to them?”

“Some supermodel,” he replied, tapping away furiously without looking up. “She was cute. I was telling her about how I saw, or thought I saw, actual Angels with Uzis knocking Arab jets out of the sky during an unprovoked sneak attack on Israeli settlements, and she dozed off. Is she not there? She must be in the bathroom.” Supermodels had to pee a lot, he knew, from personal experience.

“In the bathroom with twenty-two other people?”

Amy asked. “All naked?”

That got Vince‘s attention. He looked up, then down at the almost-empty seat beside him.

“That’s her underwear!”

“How do you know?” asked Amy.

“Just a guess,” said Vince, eyeing the lace-trimmed Victoria’s Secret bra and panty set, neatly folded on top of a Chanel gym suit. Like most TV celebrities he had a keen eye for nice things. “Those must be her shoes on the floor. Prada, and not a knock-off either. Something very strange is going on here.”

“You’re telling me,” said Amy. “I’m going to get the Captain.”

“Isn’t that him?” asked Vince.

It was. Captain Church was standing in the open cockpit doorway, struggling into his uniform jacket. It was a little tight across the belly.

“Zip up your pants, Cap,” said Amy. “We have a crisis here.”

SECONDS LATER

“Done,” said Captain Church. “Now, what’s the problem?”

Amy told him. “First Class is almost empty. All that is left behind, except for Vince here—do you mind if I call you Vince?”

“Not at all,” said Vince. She was kind of cute.

“—and the old lady blubbering in 4E, is little piles of clothing, neatly folded, one on each seat.”

“Perhaps they are in the bathroom,” offered the Captain. “They have their own, you know.”

“All of them at once?” said Amy. “I checked. It’s empty, except for a neatly folded pile of clothing on the toilet seat.” She shuddered, remembering the skid marks. “Somehow they all just suddenly disappeared.”

Hmmmm , thought Vince. He wondered if it had anything to do with the mysterious Angels he had seen downing Arab jets, or the crusty old Prophet who had sputtered some nonsense about the Anti-something or other.

“Jesus Christ!” said the captain. “Pardon my French but we’re looking at a paperwork nightmare. I wonder if it could be the Rupture.”

“The what?” asked Vince.

“The Rupture. It’s some Bible thing my wife back home is always mumbling about. Everybody goes to Heaven all at once or something.”

“First I’ve heard about a wife,” muttered Amy.

“Rupture. That doesn’t sound right to me,” mused Vince. “There must be some logical explanation for all this.”

SUDENLY

Suddenly they heard shouts and cries from the back of the plane—the narrow, dimly-lighted tube where the Economy passengers sat squeezed together like pig parts in a long sausage.

Ayiesha Washington, the cute Economy atten- dant stuck her head through the curtain that separated the classes.

“I need help back here!” she said. “Hey, where did everybody go?”

Amy told her.

“That explains it,” said Ayeesha (she spelled it differently every time herself ). “Somebody must have peeked through the curtain and saw the empty seats in First. Now they’re all demanding upgrades.”

“Has anyone disappeared back there?” asked Amy.

“I wish!” said Ayessha. “Only the two Air Marshals. I went to wake them up, and their seats were empty. Nothing but two jump suits, neatly folded, and a couple of Glocks.”

“Jump suits?” asked Vince.

“Orange,” said Aiyesha. “They were traveling disguised as convicts. They were handcuffed together.”

They heard shouts from the back of the plane, then a deep, calm voice said, “Let’s roll.”

“Uh oh,” said Amy.

“I’ll handle this,” said the Captain, grabbing an intercom from the bulkhead. “This is your Captain speaking!” he said. “Return to your seats immediately.”

“No way!” came a shout. “We have miles. We have weapons. We want upgrades.”

“I shoulda grabbed those Glocks,” mused Iyesha.

“I can help.”

“Who?” They all looked at Vince. “You?”

“I’m a TV newsman,” he reminded them, straightening his tie. “I’m all about reassuring people.”

SEVERAL HOURS LATER