Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“It’ll be over—”

But he never finished that sentence. Everything was on the move: their seats, the floor, he saw something black and heavy spin into a part of a person, he thought he was sideways and he shut his eyes and he melted to nothing except for his eyes, he was alive inside his blinded eyes until the crash engulfed him and Max was alone in his brain, cornered.

Goodbye , he whispered to life.

Carla dodged her bobbing son’s head to keep what she could see of the airport in sight. Bubble was excited, although she couldn’t imagine by what, since he faced the back of the seat in front of him, a dull sight made less interesting by its empty pocket. Both the plastic card which illustrated emergency procedures and the airline magazine had long ago been taken out. Bubble had used the card as a sword until he swiped her across the cheek. Carla retaliated with confiscation. Then he tore up the magazine until there were so many bits of paper all over the place that Lisa, in passing, embarrassed Carla by asking if she could throw the magazine away for her. Both removals provoked fits, two of three quarrels that were resolved only when Bubble passed out shortly after takeoff. He had been tired, poor baby. His strong will degenerated into petulance when his body was exhausted; otherwise he was demanding, not whiny; charming and manipulative, not sulky and a complainer.

While they came down toward the airport his post-nap energy was comforting. She needed encouragement because after first seeing the runway and enjoying a moment of complete relief, Carla lost some of that hope at the additional sighting of the fire trucks and ambulances waiting for them. And her fear came back completely when the jet, which had seemed to be going smoothly as it went lower and lower, suddenly rocked back and forth. It swayed so far to the right that Bubble’s head went below the seat level and then jerked him back with such violence that she had to restrain him with all her might to prevent his skull from colliding with the curved window frame.

This isn’t safe .

She decided the aisle seat was better because of the cleared space on both sides. “Come on, Bubble, we’re going to move.” She fumbled between his back and her lap to release the seat belt with one hand, while she clutched her baby with the other.

When she made the short hop over to the aisle seat, Bubble resisted. Only his lower half came with her. He had hooked the pouch with both hands and clung to it, stretching the elastic band to the limit.

“You’re going to break it!” Carla shouted, ridiculously she knew. You sound like Mama , she mocked herself.

The bottom of her seat hummed, her feet rumbled.

“Jesus!” she yelled, frightened by the noise and vibration, and worse, panicked at their vulnerability. She was unbuckled and Bubble was stretched out as if he were a diver frozen in midair.

A loud mechanical whine overwhelmed her shout and even the noise of the engines. What was happening? It sounded as if her part of the plane were coming apart.

Carla yanked hard and Bubble lost his grip on the pouch. They were flung back into the aisle seat. His head struck her chin and she was stunned.

For a moment she made no move and watched the passengers. It was surprising that they all faced forward, ignoring her area. No one seemed to care about the noise she had just heard. Also it confused her that the sound was gone and the trembling had been stilled yet there hadn’t been any result.

Bubble was complaining. “Mommy hurt me,” he said. He tried to reach around to touch the back of his head, but his arms were too short.

“Sorry,” she whispered and kissed his black head of hair. She glanced out the window. They were almost down. The earth scared her: huge and clumsy and gray like a whale, the runway filled her porthole. It seemed in the way.

She hurried, fastening her seat belt. She opened her legs wide until Bubble slipped down onto the cushion and then squeezed them together, wedging her baby between her thighs. He squirmed and complained. She put her arms over his shoulders and crossed them in front, imitating the secure style of Bubble’s car seat. She was proud of her invention.

The engines were quiet. They must have touched the ground, she assumed. Everything felt smooth and the sound was gentle.

Bubble bumped his head back and then forward, rocking his body to gain momentum to break her grip while making noises of protest.

Carla glanced at the middle rows of the plane and across to the far rows on the right side. Most people were bent all the way over. Very few were sitting up like her—

Beneath her there was a bump.

The wheels had touched the ground!

“Yay!” she called to all those huddled people. She wanted to lead the cheers. They were safe!

She released her fingers from their entanglement in front of Bubble’s stomach just enough to free the tips. She clapped them together delicately.

A woman screamed.

A shudder went through her right side and her row of seats rose up above the others. She hung there for a weird second, twisting. The middle rows moved by her as if they were a car passing hers on a freeway, passengers’ profiles zooming out of sight until a man’s head and shoulders flopped like a doll and were squashed by something and she knew that what she was seeing was horrible and her brain went numb.

Her eyes shut. She heard and sensed the rest of the crash—

The tigers roared. She was spinning up and around and over, like a sock in a washer, and she prayed hard—

Please God, please God, please God , at last filling her mind with Him and longing for life and wishing herself away from this…

Something hit her legs. Then her back. A hand was burned.

It was over. The tigers had gone and she smelled their rage: everything stung her nostrils and only then did she remember Bubble. She clasped her arms tight. She touched nothing but herself. Her baby was gone.

Carla screamed, opened her eyes and couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe. Her face fell free. She had been inside the ceiling. Only it wasn’t the ceiling anymore. It was foam rubber. Also the floor wasn’t beneath her — the blue carpet was to her right. Where was the aisle? The windows?

A cloud of smoke washed over her face. She reached around for Bubble and called to him.

Somebody passed her, breathing hard, and she remembered her seat belt. That’s why she couldn’t move. And the smoke meant fine…coming at her.

Panicked, she released the buckle and tumbled sideways onto a lump. It was the middle of someone’s body. She felt liquid on her bare wrist that she realized was blood. “Help me!” a voice cried. There were lots of sounds she didn’t recognize. She smelled things burning; she feared to know what. Terror was alive in her bones and she screamed, rolling off the corpse. She crawled away and got up as best she could with the space so squashed. Behind her, the other way, were light and voices. People called and pleaded.

Flames appeared ahead in the dark. She turned to the sunlight behind her and ran for it. She passed a lifeless face staring upward. She ignored a man digging for something in the foam. He yelled at her for running but she couldn’t stop, she had to get out from the horror, the torn-apart world, and the fire.

Max was alive. He knew that first. And so was Byron. He knew that when he opened his eyes. He did not understand much else, especially what he was seeing: Byron’s hair floated in a burst of yellow light.

That was the sun.

The hair wasn’t floating — the boy was upside down.

Facts gathered speed, catching up to each other in his head, and soon he could make sense again.