A. G. Riddle - Departure

“There’s no risk of fire,” he says, still typing, his eyes moving quickly side to side. “I need to finish this.”

I’m about to ask what could be more important than surviving in the aftermath of a plane crash, but Harper is at my side now, handing me a bottle of water, and I decide to focus on the people who want my help.

“Remember,” Sabrina says, “any excess exertion could be fatal. You may not be in pain, but your life could be in danger.”

“Got it.”

As we leave, Sabrina moves to the young Asian man and begins speaking quietly. By the time we reach the exit, they’re practically shouting at each other. Clearly not a doctor-patient relationship. They know each other. Something about the scene doesn’t quite sit right with me, but I can’t think about that now.

At the bottom of the chute, three people are hunched over on the ground or leaning against trees, holding their heads. But I saw at least two dozen people exit. Where is everyone? I stare into the woods.

Slowly I start to make out glowing lights bobbing in the forest, moving away from the plane—a stream of people spread out in the darkness, a few running. The light must come from flashlight apps on their phones.

“Where’re they going?” I ask no one in particular.

“Can’t you hear it?” says a woman sitting on the ground right next to the chute, though she doesn’t lift her head from her knees.

I stand still, listening. And then, in the distance, I hear them.

Screams.

People crying out for help.

THE DENSE ENGLISH FOREST IS DARK, LIT ONLYby the dim crescent moon hanging above and the smattering of cell phone lights through the trees ahead. The beady white lights thrash back and forth in the hands of runners, their twinkling loosely synchronized with the snap of branches underfoot.

My legs are burning, and my lower abdomen and pelvis send waves of pain through my body every time my feet hit the ground. The words stroke and hemorrhage run through my mind, along with the doctor’s warning: Any excess exertion could be fatal .

I have to stop. I’m holding Nick back, I know it. Without a word I let up and put my hands on my knees, trying desperately to catch my breath.

Nick halts abruptly beside me, sliding on the forest floor. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say between pants. “Just winded. Go on. I’ll catch up.”

“The doctor said—”

“I know. I’m fine.”

“Feel light-headed?”

“No. I’m okay.” I glance up at him. “If I live through this, I’m going to get a gym membership, go every day. And no drinking until I can run a five-K without stopping.”

“That’s one option. I was thinking that if we live through this, a stiff drink will be my first order of business.”

“Excellent point. Post-drink, it’s straight to the gym for me.”

Nick’s staring at the stream of glowing lights, which have begun to converge like a swarm of fireflies on something beyond the trees, something I can’t yet see. His face is a mask of concentration. I wonder what he does for a living. Is it something like this? Crisis management? He’s good at it, comfortable telling people what to do, for sure. I’m not. I wonder how else we’re different, whether we’re anything alike at all. And I wonder why I’m curious at all, especially in the middle of all this.

“I’m ready,” I say, and we resume our jog, a bit more slowly than before. A few minutes later the forest gives way to open air.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I see.

About twenty people stand close together just beyond the tree line, on the shore of a lake that strikes me as odd. Its shoreline is too round and well-formed, as though it were man-made. But it’s the thing that rises from the lake about fifty feet out that terrifies me: a jagged dark hole like the mouth of a massive fish—the open front end of the main section of the plane, broken off roughly where the wings begin. One row of chairs faces us at the front of the passenger compartment, but they’re all empty.

The plane’s tail must be resting on the bottom of the lake. What’s holding up the middle, propping the ripped end up out of the water? The landing gear? The engines? Trees? Whatever it is, it’s giving way. The lower edge of the torn fuselage is about fifteen feet above the water, but it’s sinking a little lower every few seconds.

It’s chilly for mid-November. My breath is a white plume against the night. That water has to be frigid.

Movement inside the plane. A balding man runs up the aisle but stops at the precipice. He grips the seat back as he peers out, his face white with fear, trying to work up the nerve to jump. His decision is made for him. A burly younger man slams into him from behind and they tumble over the edge together, the second man’s leg catching briefly on a piece of twisted metal. He spins, hitting the water at an awkward angle but missing the first man. The movement pulls my eyes down to the water, and I realize that two other people are already thrashing there, swimming toward the shore. More who’ve made it are huddled together on the bank, shivering, drenched. I step closer, trying to discern what happened from brief snatches of shaky speech.

We hit the water going backward …

The force—I thought I was going to go through my seat …

I crawled across three people. All dead, I think. I don’t know. They weren’t moving. What was I supposed to do?

I wonder just how cold that water is, how long it will take to die of hypothermia out there.

A man in a navy sport coat appears in the mangled opening. He’s crouching at the edge, steeling himself to jump, when Nick’s booming voice echoes across the lake.

“Stop! You jump, and you kill everyone left on that plane.”

It’s bloody dramatic, but it’s got the man’s attention—not to mention mine and everyone else’s on the bank.

Nick steps to the water’s edge. “Listen,” he calls to the man, “we’re going to help you, but you’ve got to get everyone left alive to the opening.”

The man on the plane—around fifty, I would guess, a little paunchy—just stands there, looking confused. “What?”

“Focus. The plane is sinking. When the water starts pouring into the cargo hold below, it will pull the plane down fast. You—and anyone else still conscious—have got to work together. Wake up as many people as you can, then find anyone who’s alive but can’t move and get them to the opening. You do that, and we’ll do the rest. Understand?”

The man nods slowly, but I can tell he’s in shock. He can’t process it all. Nick seems to realize that, too. He continues, his voice calmer and slower this time.

“What’s your name?”

“Bill Murphy.”

“Okay, Bill. You’re going to get everybody alive to the opening, and then you’re going to wait. Everybody to the opening and wait. Understand?” Nick pauses, lets his words sink in. “Bill, is there anybody else conscious in there?”

“I think so … yeah.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Five. Ten. I don’t know. It’s dark.”

“That’s okay. Go and talk to them now. Tell them to help you get everybody to the opening and wait. Everybody to the opening and wait.”

Bill turns and vanishes into the darkness of the cabin. I move to Nick’s side. “What’s the plan?”

“Still working on it,” he says under his breath, glancing over at the crowd. There are about thirty people on the shore by now, bloodied people from the front of the plane and the shivering, wet survivors who’ve made the swim. He turns toward them, raising his voice. “Do any of you know CPR?”