Michelle Karl - Christmas Under Fire

The terminal consisted of one open concourse with a few benches, vending machines, workstations and two side rooms marked as Gate One and Gate Two. The waiting areas for these looked about as large and exciting as her dentist’s office—which was to say, not at all. She saw no other passengers and only one other attendant working behind a service desk. At least the place was clean and warm, with bright lighting to counterbalance the diminishing daylight outside and a selection of garish Christmas decorations to celebrate the season. Despite only being around four o’clock in the afternoon, the sun looked ready to call it quits for the day.

Cold, dark and a little lonely. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it?

Cally scanned the room a second time. In an email exchange, her local friend, Ellen, whose wedding Cally had used as an excuse to get away from her life in Amar for a little while, had mentioned that a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer would be arriving to chauffeur her to a rental cabin in Fort Mason. The cozy place was to be her home for the next two weeks or so until the wedding, and she was looking forward to spending Christmas with her friend and finally having some blessed respite from everyone and everything else back home.

Cally had also received official communications from the RCMP before leaving for Canada, but was trying not to think much of it. The message had called her a foreign dignitary and said she’d been assigned a personal concierge for the duration of her trip, a federal law enforcement officer who she assumed was the same person Ellen had mentioned would be playing chauffeur.

But standing in the nearly empty terminal, Cally felt a twinge of relief at the absence of anyone waiting for her. She was no dignitary, and certainly not deserving of any special attention. Yes, she technically belonged to Amar’s royal bloodline, but her claim to the throne was so distant that it barely counted. Back home, it afforded her the lowest possible level of privilege, in the sense of a title and special designation on official forms and documents like her passport—and it got her into certain special events on the guest list—but she lived an average, everyday life. Especially after the sudden death of her husband eighteen months ago in a tragic car accident.

These days, she spent most of her time taking on freelance graphic design projects and binge-watching home renovation shows, in an attempt to hide inside her small apartment and avoid unwanted advice and “help” from her overbearing family. Not that the strategy worked most of the time. They’d never approved of her marrying Esai, a non-Amaran she’d met as a university student, in the first place. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d gone a full night without her mother or another relative phoning to tell her what she should do now that she was “free” and “back on the market.” She’d tried to explain how much their words hurt, but they either ignored her pleas or refused to understand. Some days she almost missed the rigid schedule and isolation of Amar’s compulsory year of military service.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Cally turned around to see the smiling female airport attendant taking tentative steps her way. “Yes?”

The woman clasped her hands together. “I’m so sorry, but the airport closes at four o’clock today, in five minutes. I see that your luggage has been brought inside, but do you have someone coming to pick you up? Or do you need help to arrange transportation?”

It closed at four? That wasn’t something she’d accounted for—evidently she’d missed that on the airport website. But shouldn’t her supposed escort have already arrived, in that case? “I...someone is apparently on their way. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

As the woman walked away, it dawned on Cally that she should probably freshen up before the drive to Fort Mason. The journey from Amar to northern BC had taken all day, and her teeth felt fuzzy. Five minutes was plenty of time to get the job done.

Cally rolled her suitcase from the back doors to a small alcove by the front entrance, then slipped into the ladies’ washroom and headed for the wheelchair stall to hang up her winter gear before landing at the sink. She brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her knotted hair and swiped a coat of gloss on her dry lips. Feeling cleaner and more put-together than she had in hours, she ducked back into the washroom stall to bundle up again. A few minutes later, she was re-dressed and ready to go.

She stepped out of the washroom into a darkened airport.

“Hello? Anyone here?” Her stomach squeezed with confusion. Had everyone left and closed up for the day? How had they forgotten about her when her luggage was still out in the open—

She groaned. Because it wasn’t in the open. She’d moved it off into the alcove where it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. She’d done too good a job at being unobtrusive. The attendant she’d spoken to probably saw the empty space where her suitcase had been and assumed she’d left. Cally hadn’t heard anyone come into the washroom, either, but then again, she’d left the stall door open while taking off her winter gear and putting it back on—so if anyone had glanced quickly inside, they’d have seen a full row of open stalls and surmised the room was empty.

The world outside the bay windows was dark, the sun’s rays having almost fully disappeared below the horizon. She checked the front doors and discovered she wasn’t locked in. The doors swung open when she pressed on the crash bar, but the world outside was nothing but parking lot and empty green space surrounded by heavy forest. If she left the building, the doors might very well lock behind her, and then she’d be out in the cold with no shelter. But what if her ride was still on his way? If he drove into the parking lot and saw a darkened building, he might simply turn around and leave.

Cally looked around for something to brace the door open a crack, to indicate somebody was still inside. Using her cell phone flashlight, she illuminated the space near the doors and saw a triangular doorstop. She shoved it under one of the doors, cracking it open by about ten centimeters.

Her stomach growled as she turned off her cell phone’s flashlight to conserve battery. She took note of the reception icon, which indicated that she didn’t have any service. She supposed that shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering her remote location. There had to be a courtesy phone around that she could use to call a taxi or emergency services to let somebody know she’d been left behind.

She glanced across the terminal concourse, searching for a phone in the dim light. A vending machine gave off a faint glow from the inside, illuminating the potato chips and chocolate bars within—but more important, the soft light reached far enough to reveal a wall-mounted phone next to it.

Perfect. I can call for a ride and grab a snack for the drive, something to tide me over until dinner. She took a step toward the phone.

The shadows to her right shifted.

She gasped and flinched, but sensed no further movement. Had she imagined it? She swung her gaze from one side to the other, but the room’s interior remained still and motionless.

And then the back of her neck felt prickly, as if she was being watched. She whirled around, but saw only darkness and the faint red glow of the emergency exit.

Maybe my original ride is finally here , she thought. Maybe he’s looking through the window wondering where I am. He could be in the parking lot right now, so I should probably check to make sure he doesn’t miss seeing the propped-open door and leave.

She took a step toward the front entrance, but glanced back at the phone and vending machine as a strange sense of wrongness washed over her.