Beverly Long - Trapped

He closed his eyes again, hoping they got out of the storm soon. But his eyes opened fast when he felt the plane start to lose altitude. What the hell? They were descending fast. Way too fast.

The young copilot stumbled out of the front. His face was pale and he was sweating. “Captain Ramano says to prepare for a crash landing.”

* * *

ELLE VOLLMAN WASN’T prone to regrets, but when she realized the plane was going down, a few thoughts flashed through her terrified mind. Mia, sweet Mia. How could the little girl endure another loss? Elle had wanted so desperately to give her the life she deserved.

She would miss Father Taquero, too. He’d first become her friend, then her employer and, most recently, her confidant. Then he’d taken on his most important role—Mia’s protector.

And then, of course, there was her biggest regret. Brody Donovan. The only man she’d ever loved. She wished she’d had the chance to tell him. Not that he’d probably have been interested in listening. He had to hate her for what she’d done.

She leaned forward in her seat, crossed her arms in front of her, bent her head and prepared to die. Her ears were roaring, her head was pounding and when the plane skimmed the first tree, she heard branches crack and bust and then the scream of metal tearing. The plane tossed from side to side, then rolled and rolled again.

Something hit her in the head, right above her left eye. She felt her seat belt give and she pitched sideways. Blindly, she reached out and grabbed air. Suddenly the plane came to a bone-jarring stop. She fell forward, catching her shoulder on the seat across from her. She felt it give and a searing pain stab at her.

She lifted her head. She felt sick and disoriented, and where the hell was the emergency lighting that every airline promised in the event of emergency? It wasn’t pitch-black but pretty dark. She couldn’t see much of anything.

A horrifying thought struck her. Maybe she was blind. Maybe the knock on her head had taken her sight. She was seconds away from full-blown panic when she remembered that she had a flashlight in her backpack. Keeping her injured arm anchored to her side, she used her other to claw around on the floor, feeling her way, until finally her outstretched fingers snagged a backpack strap. She pulled the heavy bag toward her and unzipped it. She reached in, past the extra clothes and the books that she carried with her.

There it was. She pulled out the light, turned it on and very quickly realized that sight wasn’t always a gift.

It was a gruesome scene. The inside of the plane had been torn apart and strips of metal and chunks of glass were everywhere. There was a gaping hole in the roof at the very rear of the plane, less than three feet behind where she’d been sitting.

The elderly woman across the aisle was leaning back in her seat, her eyes closed, and blood was running down her face. Her husband was still bent over, in the crash position, with a section from the roof of the plane, probably four feet long and at least a foot wide, pressing on his back.

They were holding hands. And the man’s thumb was stroking the woman’s palm and her index finger was gently tapping on his gnarled knuckle.

It was witnessing that small connection that gave Elle the strength to move forward. She was alive. Others were alive. All was not lost.

She fished inside her backpack again and pulled out her cell phone. She turned it on, knowing it was a long shot. Still, when there was no service, she experienced a sharp pang of disappointment. She dropped it back into her backpack.

It felt surreal. Like one of those dumb movies where the world has ended and there’s only a few mopes to carry on.

Get a grip, she lectured herself. The world hadn’t ended, and she wasn’t the only one left alive. She’d been in a plane crash. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And she needed to figure out what to do next.

The elderly couple was likely injured, but before she assisted them, she needed to determine how the rest of the passengers had fared. She flashed her light into the seats directly ahead of her. There had been a woman there. She’d had her face buried in a thick book when Elle boarded.

She was still there, her arms wrapped around her middle, silently rocking back and forth. Her eyes were wide-open. Blank.

“Are you all right?” Elle asked.

The woman slowly nodded. She did not make eye contact with Elle.

“What’s your name?” Elle asked.

“Pamela,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Okay, Pamela, I’m going to check on the pilots. I’ll be right back.” Elle flashed the light forward to the front of the plane. In the aisle was someone’s overnight bag, several magazines and other papers, a coat and more pieces of the plane’s interior wall.

Elle stepped over the debris. When she stopped to yank back the partially closed curtain that separated the cockpit from the cabin, Pamela almost rammed into her back.

Elle understood. The need for human contact, to know that she wasn’t alone, was almost overwhelming.

Elle could see that the pilot was still in his seat, slumped over the controls. The copilot had been thrown out of his seat and was awkwardly sprawled in the small space between the two seats. He was moving, thank God, picking himself up. Half-up, he suddenly crumpled on his right side. Arms flailing, he grabbed for his chair and sank down. “Oh, damn, that hurts,” he said, reaching for his lower leg.

His hand came away with blood and Elle thought she might be sick. She forced herself to step closer.

The man had pulled up his loose pants, and sticking out of his lower leg was the sharp, ugly end of a bone. There was blood. It wasn’t spurting out, like when Father Taquero had cut his hand at the church a month ago, but to her inexperienced eye, there did seem to be a rather lot of it.

“Don’t move,” she said instinctively.

“Not much chance of that,” he said, his jaw tight. He turned his pale face to the man at his side. “Captain Ramano.” His voice was a plea.

The older man groaned but didn’t push his body back or lift his head.

They were both alive but certainly hurt.

“Can you call for help?” Pamela asked, over her shoulder, evidently not caring about their injuries.

To his credit, the young copilot fiddled with several switches. “No power,” he said, his young voice showing the strain. “There’s no radio.” He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket and pressed a couple keys. “No signal.”

“That’s okay,” Elle said, attempting to stay calm.

“It’s not okay,” Pamela said, her voice too loud for the small space. “I smell fuel. We’re going to blow up. We have to get out. Now!”

Elle turned. She spoke with the authority that had always successfully quieted a room of preteen girls. “We will. Now, you need to stay calm and help me. We have to help the others.”

Pamela pressed her lips together. Then she whirled suddenly, her arm flailing to the side. “What about him?” she asked, pointing to the front row. “Can he help?”

Elle had forgotten about the man who had boarded late. She’d been writing in her journal and had looked up just as he swung his body into the seat. She’d caught a glimpse of broad shoulders in a pale green shirt.

She turned back to the young copilot and swallowed hard. “I am going to help you.” She wasn’t sure how, but she would do something. “But first, I need to see how badly the rest of the passengers are injured. Can you hang on?”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Elle turned and stepped past Pamela, to the point where she could shine the light on the remaining passenger’s seat. Because the man had been in the front row, there hadn’t been any seat for him to use to brace himself. It appeared as if his belt had failed, as hers had, and he’d been pitched out of his seat onto the floor. He was under debris from the wall and ceiling. She could see an arm, a leg, a portion of his back.