Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

There’s muted beeping from the cockpit, the world outside rushing past, fire and smoke and ruined buildings. What might be another plane, burning, turned on its side.

The shaking should have stopped by now. We should have come to a halt. Instead, I swear we start to move faster , the engines roaring. What does that mean? Is the pilot trying to outrace something? Another plane? Not knowing is killing me, but I don’t dare get out of my seat. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance for more than half a second.

And then, just like that, the engines start to slow.

The plane is still shaking, but not quite as badly. Outside the window, the runway is torn to pieces, cracked and jagged. Smoke drifts on the breeze, the clouds hanging low.

Schmidt laughs. Softly at first, but then he breaks out in huge, loud, gusting laughter. It makes him look like a teenager, shaving years off his face.

I stare at him. The words Have you lost your fucking mind ? are right there, but I don’t have the energy to get them out.

There’s a crackle, and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. I don’t catch what he’s saying, which is still in German, but the reaction in the cabin is immediate. Schmidt reaches across the aisle, high-fiving Gerhard. Rodrigo clambers up from his seat, envelops Mikhail in a shaking hug.

Schmidt unbuckles, staggers over to the cockpit, delivering shaky instructions in rapid German. Moving very slowly, I unbuckle my seatbelt. It takes more than one try to stand up. My eyes feel curiously gritty, like I’ve just woken up after a long sleep.

“We will taxi off the runway,” Schmidt says, reappearing from the cockpit. “I do not think that the air traffic control will mind. The tower…” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not there any more.”

Fuck me .

The plane is still moving, trundling down the runway. Hopefully trying to get off of it as fast as possible. I have to find China Shop – like, right now. My phone still has zero signal – not exactly surprising. What about my earpiece? It wasn’t working before, but now that we’re on the ground…

I tap it. There’s a very faint burst of static, then nothing. “Paul? You reading me, dude?”

“Paul? This is your handler?”

It’s Schmidt. He has two glasses in his hand – plastic flutes, filled with pale yellow liquid.

“Something like that,” I say.

“I see.” He hands one of the glasses to me. “Champagne?”

“Uh… what?”

He looks faintly embarrassed. “One of the bottles survived our landing. Champagne is not useful in a disaster zone, and since we are all still alive, I thought…”

I don’t listen to the rest. I down the glass, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. The drink wakes me up, gives me the kick I need. I have to get the fuck out of here.

“That was Krug Private Cuvée,” he says, staring at me. “Seventeen hundred euro a bottle.”

“And it was delicious.” I point at the door. “Pull over. I gotta go find my friends.”

“Friends?” He takes a sip of his champagne, smacks his lips. “I have met spies before, and they do not describe their colleagues as friends. It is a strange agency you work for.”

“We’re more like a moving company.”

“I am not understanding?”

“Never mind. You gonna let me off, or not?”

“Shortly. We are taxiing to a safe space, where another plane will not hit us.”

Gerhard overhears. He jabs a finger at me, looming over Schmidt, speaking rapidly. Too fast for me to follow – not that I understand German anyway, most of the time – but I get the gist. Hey, boss, do you not remember this lady trying to steal your shit? You should totally not let her go because she’ll, like, completely ruin your day .

Schmidt listens to his bodyguard, expressionless. Mikhail joins in, and it’s not hard to see he feels the same way as Gerhard. Great. Just what I need right now – to be imprisoned on a private plane in the aftermath of a deadly quake.

If that happens, then I’m totally drinking the rest of the seventeen-hundred-euro champagne.

The plane bumps and jerks as it trundles over what is presumably pretty fucked-up tarmac. Schmidt and his goons go back and forth for a minute before he shuts it all down, turning away from the glowering bodyguards with a muttered snatch of German. He sips his champagne, removes his jacket. He has a pretty nifty tattoo, sneaking out from under his T-shirt sleeve: a pattern of geometric dots, swirling around his bicep. “I must ask a favour of you, Jay.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

He leans on the back of his seat. “I cannot detain you. No – excuse my English. I am able to, but I cannot. Gerhard and Mikhail wish me to do so, but I do not think they understand our situation. Soon, we will have people coming to this plane who need help. They will need food, or medical supplies, or communications. We cannot have a prisoner that we must watch.”

His eyes find mine. “We will be vulnerable when this is happening. It would be easy for you or your agency to come on board and take my list.” He pats his breast pocket.

I say nothing.

“I must ask you, as someone who helped get you back on the ground safely. Let us work. Leave us in peace.”

For a second, I have a real urge to just grab the list and run. Disable him, get it from his pocket, take out his goons, and get the hell out. It’ll be tricky, maybe even almost impossible, but…

Fuck it . Who cares about the stupid list? If he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t plan to release it anyway, and I’d say there are bigger things to worry about.

“It’s cool,” I say. “I’ll tell them… you didn’t have it. That our intel was wrong.”

Another ghost of a smile. It only lasts for a second, and surprisingly, I find that I miss it when it’s gone. “Thank you.”

We come to a shuddering halt, the floor tilting slightly. As the engines power down, Schmidt directs Gerhard to pop the exit door for me. The bodyguard gives me a scowl that could freeze Niagara Falls, but does as his boss asks.

The door opens, and there’s a hiss as the evacuation slide inflates, a ballooning expanse of orange rubber. Spitting rain gusts in, carried on air that is hot and angry, stinking of smoke.

Schmidt gives me a nod of thanks, already turning away, firing instructions at Mikhail.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks over his shoulder.

“That was pretty awesome. Coming back to help. You didn’t have to do that.”

This time, the smile stays. “You are kind to say so.”

As I’m halfway out the door, he speaks again. “What is your real name?”

“Huh?”

“You are not named Jay, are you?”

I stare at him, not sure what I want to say. If there’s even any point in lying about it.

“Never mind,” he says, looking ever so slightly disappointed. “Maybe you will tell me another time. If we meet in better circumstances, perhaps.”

Then he’s gone, heading to the back of the plane. Gerhard taps me on the shoulder, jerks his head at the slide and I’m gone.

Straight into hell.

The first time Matthew caused an earthquake, he’d had to react fast. He had an idea of what would happen, but he wasn’t prepared for how sudden it all was. He’d only just managed to shield himself and Amber in a cocoon of dirt. It kept them safe from the worst of it.

Today is different.

It’s even better .

The earth beneath him drops a full foot in under a second, spilling him onto his backside. Amber does better – she’s prone already, bloody and shaking from when he had to throw stuff at her. He scrabbles towards her on all fours, falls, gets to his knees. He starts laughing, goofy with joy.