Sanity is a revolving door…
Not quite certain if
I'm on my way
In or
Out
On the Other Side of the Electric Chair
Moderate
drought in the lower valley had lasted almost eight months, so when the first
specks of rain dotted the parched July roadways, it was an event to make the
early news.
Jim Fagan, pen name Spy Weaver, awakened with a head-full of
groggy celebration, in climax of his fourth novel. On The Other
Side of the Electric Chair
was due to release the following week; and Spy’s first book signing for
this latest bestseller was set for Wednesday morning. He’d fly to LA a few days
in advance, for excitement and downtime with some West Coast buddies.
Throwing his legs off the side of the bed, cradling his
head, he mumbled, "Must have been some night." With a clumsy hand, he
fumbled around inside his nightstand drawer. "Aspirins. I need aspirins."
His stomach growled. "Phew. I hope I enjoyed it."
After a quick shower, Spy dressed and picked up his bag. No
time for his usual breakfast of champions. There would be plenty of food and
more celebration aches and pains during the next few days, he reflected. "Will
I ever get used to the price of fame?" With a chuckle, he flung his brown leather
tote and garment bag into the back seat of his green Jeep Cherokee.
Spy checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, running a
hand over his five o'clock shadow. "Quite
attractive for a thirty-five
year old workaholic … and a cool dude if I say so myself." With a
laugh of approval, he shoved a lock of thick dark hair to the side of his
temple and pulled the driver’s door shut.
Spy traveled light. No more than three pairs of soft jeans,
crisp Dockers, tee shirts, a pair of shorts and one formal; these along with
the Nikes and 505’s he was wearing would last the week. Of course he never
left town without a supply of Hanes, Lancôme and king size can of Lysol.
He’d drive to Stewart for a direct flight to LAX, arriving
in time for drinks and dinner with close friends. Reservations had already been
made for more than a dozen people at the Canyon Inn, a favorite resort catering
especially to authors and screenwriters.
Spy’s stomach gnawed, either from too much of last night, or
no breakfast, and his head still ached a bit, even after the juice and aspirin
he had snatched from his bedside during his first moments of consciousness.
After running a hand over his empty gut, he started the SUV
and flipped on the radio. A low-hanging gray marbled sky looked ominous. "Check for
weather alerts," he spun the dial through several stations before hearing
the announcer's voice.
"Heavy rains expected, accompanied by thunder and
lightning. Low-lying areas may flood, so take care and have yourselves a
wonderful day, despite the rain. We really need it folks."
Spy pulled the Jeep from the garage, glancing at his
browning lawn. "You're not kidding, pal. Although storms will make for a
crap drive and traffic, and we don't want to miss our flight, do we, big shot?"
He paused at the end of the long driveway, catching one last
look at the ranch, making certain everything appeared in order and that the automatic
garage door had shut properly. Recently it had been closing partially and
re-opening by itself, exposing his perfectly organized belongings to any
stranger who might happen by. Still his six acres of wooded privacy held more
wildlife than humans, so setting aside his paranoid tendencies, he began his
drive down the gentle incline of the mountain. Elevation: Three thousand, eight hundred, ninety-six feet, the green
sign read as his speedometer reached 45.
Once down the mountain, Spy would proceed to the main highway,
Interstate 84. A variety of vehicles, including many 18-wheelers shared his
route, leaving scars and ruts and depositing a dangerous oil slick upon the
roads. On occasion, Spy had hydroplaned going up the mountain, so he paid careful attention
when occasional rain gathered in puddles beneath his tires — especially on his way down. Winter travel
could be treacherous; more than half a dozen lives had been lost in the eight
years since Spy moved to Edgewood. But summer roads were usually safe, so Spy felt comfortable accelerating to a road-humming 55.
Spy flipped the wiper lever to high and decelerated, as driving rains now
began to flood the thirsty land around him. As soon as he crossed the short
stone bridge squatting ahead of him, he’d make a left onto 84 and should arrive
early for his flight. He checked the green LCD time on his dashboard: 8:47. His flight would depart at 11 a.m., so he’d have time to grab a danish and coffee, the
new issue of Investments Daily and head for his gate.
With the cool rain hitting the warm roads, a low fog formed over the blacktop and drifted protectively over the river beneath the bridge which was just beyond the Jeep’s low beams. With thoughts of the success of his
book signing and making another few million in movie rights, Spy turned his
attention to the radio, and the newscaster’s male voice reporting major delays
on the Beacon Bridge leading to Stewart. Now that was a bridge you had to be
concerned about, whether crossing in wet or dry conditions. It towered in
excess of a hundred feet over the Hudson River and spanned two miles, with
three lanes of fast moving traffic – and the usual lunatics weaving in and out to
get to the front of the line.
Those were Spy’s last coherent thoughts as the Jeep
hydroplaned just before its tires reached the wood planks of the old bridge.
The trusted SUV spun out, gaining deadly momentum and became airborne, The
sharp increase in speed and motion launched it over the low iron guardrail
soundlessly, without even a scrape to a fender.
"Sonofabitch," Spy grunted, strangling the wheel.
His stomach reared to his throat, and his heart began to pound. "What the
hell?"
He lost his bearings as the Jeep began a clunking roll over
and over down the steep embankment, then slid to a near halt in a thick
mudslide that slowed it almost to a dead stop. Inside, Spy fought with the
steering wheel that turned his muddy tires in rainy air, accomplishing nothing.
Spy also fought for his wits and began to fumble for the door handle,
forgetting his seat belt. Within seconds, the soft patch of soggy embankment
that supported the side of the Jeep yielded to the more than five thousand
pound SUV.
Spy felt the movement, something like sleigh riding as a kid,
which was abrupt, yet to him it seemed forever before the Jeep hit the river and
rushing water began to invade the vehicle through crevices and the half open
window. "Holy shit. I need to get out of here," he cried out to no
one, because this area was isolated.
Spy heard a whoosh and felt a cold rush against his face, and then his
extremities as river poured into his Nikes, up his legs, cooling his crotch.
Panic set in. The engine had stalled, so there was no power to open the window,
and his athletic form could never fit through that small opening. The door was
held shut by the river’s clutch as the Jeep quickly began to sink to the murky
bottom of the river’s fifty-foot depth.
"Come on," Spy cried, knowing he could free himself
if only he could disengage the damn seat belt! His mind raced as his hands dove
into swirling water, fingers slipping over the metal belt release. "Christ! Give me a break, will
you?" This isn't happening to me. This shit only happened in the movies. This
was worse than
the fate some of his characters met in his thriller novels… his mind raced
with the irony.
All flights out of Stewart had been delayed due to the heavy
rain that had brought with it powerful winds and lightning strikes that
appeared as sharpened rods, boring holes into the earth. The airport became
crowded and the atmosphere felt stale and very muggy. Passengers of Flight 287
stood in clumped gatherings near the flight boards, awaiting word. A hum of
annoyance filled the terminal until at last a loud speaker announced "Flight 287 ─ New York to Los Angeles
departing gate 17 is now boarding."
Through plate glass walls, Spy stole a last glance at the
runway that was lined with impatient crafts waiting to take flight. With
baggage stowed, 287’s passengers formed an orderly row making their way down
the ramp into the plane. The jet engines idled calmly, while human sounds
filled the cabin as all readied for takeoff.
Spy sat in the last row near the tail. He never flew First
Class in the plane’s forward. For him, that meant bad luck. He preferred
sitting behind all
of the passengers. That way there was no one behind him, which meant
no unforeseen threats. It was one of his paranoid obsessive tendencies. Being
last in line gave you time to think... time to look ahead… time to react… more time.
Time was good. Time was necessary to make wise choices — to write award-winning
novels.
The flight would carry 226 passengers, a bit grumpy from
their wait and anxious to reach their destination. All were seated. The no
smoking sign flashed on and within moments they were smoothly airborne.
Although the storms had ended, the clouds had not yet parted to introduce the afternoon
sun. The terminal clock had displayed the departure time as 1:30 p.m. Spy and his friends would have
a late dinner. He
heaved a sigh; no restrictive deadlines ... for the moment. The book was
finished and it was time to celebrate another easy few million bucks.
Among his friends in LA, Spy anticipated another meeting
with Maureen Lyles, a voluptuous redhead he had met several months earlier when
he had attended a Writer’s Award dinner. Maureen was a flirty romance novelist,
just starting out. When this flight landed in LA, Spy would offer her plenty to
write about. "Keep in touch," she'd said before he'd left her hotel
room. Remembering her creamy curves, only partially hidden beneath a stark
white sheet, his face broke into a smile.
Although Spy was deep in thought, fantasizing about a plush
hotel room and all the erotic positions he could mold Maureen’s long legs into,
he kept an ear and eye open. Spy did not do well in crowds. He was always on guard;
actually friends had nicknamed him Guard dog. A side effect of his obsessive
compulsive disorder was caution, and Spy was the most level-headed of any of
his friends.
He
assumed that was why at his age, he was still single, afraid to commit, afraid
of making a mistake, afraid of decisions. Spy needed to be in control at
all times. Control was one of the only things he didn't fear.
An unexpected burst of turbulence rocked the plane, snapping him to full alertness. Although he did not mind flying, he didn’t particularly
like the feeling of being trapped inside the cabin. He’d just as soon travel by
mule train, and would feel much more comfortable with his feet back on land.
An older woman sat a seat away from him. "Oh I hate
when the plane does that," she worried, clutching a book she was reading
to her chest. "Hope we're not about to hit more of that horrid weather
system."
"No worries." Spy smiled, then glanced out his
window. Although he saw nothing but a gray cloud covering beneath them, his
words were reassuring, "Just clear blue all the way to LA." He turned
to her and winked. "Do you live in LA?" He'd begin a comforting
conversation to take her mind off the poor flying conditions they were certain
to encounter.
"No. I'm visiting my daughter−" The woman began
but was interrupted by another jolt and startled voices.
A shapely blond flight attendant, just regaining her
balance, began making her way down the aisles, taking orders for drinks and
snacks. Spy was in the middle of deciding a gin and tonic versus a wine cooler,
when out of nowhere four sizeable men leaped from their seats. This was so
shocking, it took several moments for his mind to comprehend. But his stomach
reacted with a frigid tightening that worked its way to his throat.
Before anyone knew what was happening, or had a chance to
react, one man tackled the startled attendant and folding her arms behind her
back, he held what appeared to be a hunting knife to her throat, dragged her down
the aisle, and began yelling in a foreign tongue.
Spy knew he was warning everyone to stay in their seats or
his accomplices would do it for them.
The woman seated beside Spy gasped. "Shush," he
told her. "It'll be okay."
You know this why? His mind tormented.
Following a round of gasps and whimpering sounds, the rear
cabin fell silent. From the First Class section a commotion erupted with
screams, sounds of scuffling and falling baggage. In moments a fifth hijacker
appeared, the spokesperson for the dark invaders.
In broken English he tried to speak. "Stay in your
seats. Anyone who moves will be silenced. By this." He held up a Glock. A handgun Spy often used in his novels.
Spy’s heart doubled its beats, his natural instinct for
survival and control enlivening every cell in his body. He felt cold, damp with
fear, but ready; if he was going down, it would be fighting, like the heroes
his imagination he magically transformed into manuscripts. Still, he did not like the
choking sensation building in his throat. He could not maintain control if
these adverse reactions to terror continued.
He would take deep breaths, clear his mind, relax and
concentrate, just as he did in the Jeep when he realized he had a war on his
hands against that damn jammed seat belt. What Spy and the other passengers were
now facing might very well be a war for their lives.
The terrorists began to spit out garbled messages to one
another, the ringleader pointing to passengers. Spy could not decipher the origin
of their accents. Although they appeared to be from the Middle East, their
voices shouted a strange language, a dialect unknown to Spy.
The burly, unkempt leader silenced the others, then in a
poor excuse for English, announced they were representing some obscure
fanatical religious cult from some far off country full of oppressed people who
were at that very moment suffering under the reign of a madman— without even
realizing; totally unaware that there was another world outside their guarded
borders— a free world with televisions, radios, restaurants, movie theatres,
sports events, flowers, wine, lovers….
The dark man slowly made his way down the aisles,
brandishing a six-inch blade, his threatening presence producing terror on
every face. When he stood within several feet of Spy, his intense odor of hatred
and lack of hygiene was overwhelming. Spy tensed, but never took his stare off
the face of the maniacal terrorist.
The leader spoke calmly and coldly, without expression, and
one look into his sunken, dead eyes told stories of horror that would stop the
average man in his tracks. It would take a mountain of courage to be a hero on
this flight— but Spy would take the risk.
From the bits and pieces Spy was able to decipher, their
objective in taking control of Flight 287 all boiled down to the insanity the
press reported on a daily basis; they were heartless terrorists. After all
their bullshit rhetoric, ranting and raving, everyone knew they were on board
to either torture or kill innocent, defenseless
souls for their senseless
cause. But to them, this was a mission of their God and a service to
their country. They would carry out their gruesome task eagerly with
remorseless pride.
They would force the airliner and all 226 passengers, along
with eight crew members, to maintain their present flight path, without warning
to the unsuspecting LAX. Once there, their network of fellow cockroaches would
be advised of their success, flood the airport and phase one would be complete.
Inside the cockpit, two other terrorists had overcome the flight crew, who were forced to perform their duties as if nothing unusual was taking place. The pilots reacted in a mechanical haze, guiding the flying bomb as if it were just another routine flight, where they would lay over for a night of dining and relaxation before their return to New York the following morning. Only at this time, the hijacker’s actions had already altered the plans of everyone on board, and would crush many lives forever if they were to succeed with their bloody attack.
The leader paced in a limited area of the
plane, dreadfully close to Spy’s seat. Perhaps it was because he felt ultimate
power in the rear of the craft, for there would be no one behind him to try to prevent
him from carrying out his role of executioner. Or perhaps it was the fact that
Spy was able to stare the leader down, evoking the terrorist’s interest in this
particular passenger; the small victory proving to increase Spy’s level of
confidence and survival instincts, while a plan for overtaking these madmen
began to develop and shoot through his overcharged brain.
In the jet's tail were two men of great power and
determination, each on different planes of life. They would face off. It would
be a battle between good versus evil — life and death. Spy felt this knowledge
flow through his numbing body.
One of the terrorists pulled a carry on from the compartment
above his seat which had been smuggled on by a radical airport employee. Most passengers held their heads in their hands, shielding
their eyes, their actions a defense; a barrier between them and the lunatics —
for if they covered their eyes and could not see, then the terrorists in turn
would not notice them, and they would be clear of harm’s way. And although some
were unwilling to lift their eyes to track their evil movements, others dared watch
the removal of that black bag. Spy stared with rising panic at the contents
brazenly displayed. The bag held grenades which the leader tossed to each of
his companions. More weapons would very likely be inside. Most probably, a bomb
for when the flight finally landed. They would make their arrival with a bang.
Great
airport security Spy thought wryly as he followed the terrorists
intently. The passengers could not do anything to provoke these maniacs into
exploding those grenades, and only Christ knew what else they had in their
little black voodoo bags.
After distributing the explosive devices, the terrorist then
pulled from the bag a cell phone. Spy’s heart skipped several beats.
"Holy fuck," he quietly moaned. As a mystery/thriller novelist, Spy
knew what grisly plan the terrorists might have in mind. Hopefully some of the
passengers would not catch on so easily; the bastards would turn the aircraft
into an amphitheater of terror. Spy's stomach lurched then sank.
In the cockpit the pilots continued with the five-hour
flight, of which two fateful hours had already elapsed. Three more hours of hell, Spy cringed at the terror
and bloodshed that could be carried out in mere moments—no less hours! He would
have to plan well and make his move shortly, before anyone was harmed.
Unfortunately, to the terrorists, time was of the greatest importance. For Spy
it meant planning ... for the terrorists, it meant torture, and videos to carry
out extortion, fear, governmental threats…and murder.
The flight attendants had all been herded into the rear of
the cabin. That appeared to be the most appealing position from which to set up
their central operation. The women had been bound, hands behind their backs,
then tied painfully into a row of empty seats across the aisle from Spy. He attempted
eye contact with the stewardess at the end of the row, in hopes of
communicating his thoughts to her; don't
worry — I won’t let them harm you. I’m here… I’m gonna kick their mothafuckin
asses.
But Spy didn’t think she noticed him. The women sat
stiffened in shock and disbelief, staring straight ahead, tears silently rolling
down their cheeks. Some just stared blankly in shock. The passengers followed
suit, some with the spirit of fight in their eyes, some quiet to remain unnoticed,
some crying, some with blank stares of obvious shock or acceptance of their
fate to be sacrificial lambs.
One of the techniques the terrorists used was mental torment
and intimidation.
For the next hour they patrolled the aisles, staring each
passenger in the face for whatever length of time it took to reduce them into a
crumbling pile of shuddering flesh. The four men did it well, experienced,
cold, calculating while the leader watched from the sidelines, his menacing
gaze aware of every movement around him, especially noting Spy; and although
Spy attempted to concentrate on a plan of combat, physical sensations began to
manifest, hindering his thoughts.
Dizziness accompanied the paralyzed feeling inside his
throat and the heaviness of his chest caused lightheadedness and a feeling of
unreality. Disassociation
they termed it in medical books. When anxiety heightened to such a
level, disassociation was a body’s defense mechanism. This disorder could make
one feel as if they were not a part of this world; as if they were sealed in a
plastic bubble, watching events through a gauzy haze… detached from this
universe. Nothing appeared real, for reality was a privilege stolen by the
incapacitating disorder. Since he was ten, Spy had struggled with anxiety
attacks. Raised in a home filled with stress and apprehension, an alcoholic
father, a submissive mother, Spy had felt alone at an early age. He was no
stranger to fear. Perhaps that was what enabled him to write about fear so well
in his novels.
He suffered migraines, and then this pain in the ass OCD and
Panic Disorder, which up until this flight had been in remission. He had written
articles about emotional disorders, had researched them thoroughly, so he was
well aware of the physical effect anxiety could have upon a body and mind. Yet these symptoms
also mimicked congestive heart failure.
The tormenting tour of the cabin came to an abrupt halt and
the time had come. The first victim would be chosen. Two of the terrorists
selected a man in his late twenties, an apparent jock who may have symbolized
the perfect lifestyle that ticked the bastards off in the most agitating way.
His ivy league appearance boasted wealth as did his trim haircut,
suntan and manicured hands. He wore expensive gold jewelry that he was stripped
of, as they tore him roughly from his seat, pushing him to the center aisle. Once
more the cabin swarmed with gasps and pleas. A third terrorist stood close by, keeping
guard.
Victim number one cowered under their murderous stares and
putrid stench, easily yielding to the wrath of the two terrorists who tied his
hands behind his back, then blindfolded him and pushed him to his knees. It was
as if he was a rag doll that they had the pleasure of tossing about carelessly.
All the while the fourth terrorist, the youngest holding the
cell phone, was recording the violence and frightened reactions, a look of
pleasure and satisfaction upon his bearded face. Once or twice he swiped
scraggly, long hair from his eyes, to get a more accurate view and perfect
angles of the torture which was about to begin.
From Spy’s position, all he could see was the back of the
cameraman’s bushy hair, and the top of the victim’s head as they first circled
him, then very slowly began to surgically slice the skin of his face around his
hair line.
Holy
Christ! Spy was nauseated at the thought. Those bastards were about to scalp him! Or rip off his
face!!! As one steadied him, and one cut him, the third began to slice
the buttons off his pressed
white shirt, an instant giveaway that he would be skinned alive before a
petrified, terrorized audience beginning to lose their minds with fear — fear of
becoming the next victim.
Frozen in terror, women cried and husbands faced their worst
fears as they envisioned the fate of a female victim. Spy considered this also,
and knew if he was going to make a move it would have to be soon — before this
guy was murdered before his eyes. He could never live with himself if that happened.
If only he had sat nearer some of the other male passengers, he could have
gestured to them to begin a sneak attack and overcome these animals.
The victim began to scream in pain as blood trickled down
his face, mixing with sweat and tears. He shook convulsively as an unmistakable
splotch of urine began to darken the color of his fly, increase and spread on
the floor around his knees.
Spy recalled the hero in his last thriller, Jack Cody, all
around male slut/government agent/handsome superman/epic dude who always got
his man, always saved the broad, always came out on top. If only real life could be
written by a novelist's pen.
Spy was hit with another swift, severe crushing sensation to
his chest. It seemed to knock the wind from his lungs. Startled, he wondered
if he would be a hero at all. Was
this the onset of a heart attack?
He was in perfect health for Gods sake! Low cholesterol, good diet,
plenty of exercise and happiness — well a lot of past happiness and plenty of
wealth and fame. Christ –
he now realized — what a life he had. A life he would NOT want to lose. Not at any cost. Fear, he
decided, from overwhelming stress was the cause of the pounding eruption beneath the crushing sensation, pure deadly fear.
Even before their first victim met his demise, the menacing
bullies searched the aisles for a second victim. That was another strategy, to
prolong the agony of who would suffer next. The fear alone could kill you.
After this, these people would do anything those bastards
wanted them to do— they’d kiss their feet, probably even kill the guy sitting
next to them if ordered to; the guy they had been having friendly conversation
with upon takeoff, the one who might have a wife and kids waiting for him at
LAX.
As with everyone on board, the entire ordeal was getting to
Spy who began to experience blinding dizziness from hangover and lack of food,
he assured himself. He tried to think ahead, to plan, what could
he do? What could he do single-handedly to stop these maniacs?
It then occurred to him as he began to recall the contents
of his leather bag. Spray cans…deodorant, cologne, Lysol — one of his OCD quirks was to disinfect his
entire hotel suite upon arrival with Lysol. How trivial it all seemed to him
now — now that his life was in jeopardy — along with over two hundred other poor
souls. If…. No! Not IF— When
he got out of
this mess, his life would change.
He’d find a mate and settle down. He’d raise a family. He’d
get every last good thing out of this beautiful world and the life he had
built. He vowed to himself. And that is when they chose their next victim, the
woman.
Cruelly snatching a baby from a young mother’s arms, almost
in a football toss the infant was then ejected from their grip and flung onto
the lap of an old man. Grabbing the woman by her hair they dragged her, kicking
and screaming from her center aisle seat onto the floor next to the guy, who
they still had not completely scalped—or defaced—for they enjoyed the pleasure
of pain and torture and the free show that was being filmed for propaganda.
They laughed as the passengers cried, and reflected upon how very proud they would
be to hand over the videos to their leaders.
Videos which would be duplicated into many copies and sent
to every important leader around the world. To prove their strength, intent,
and their capability to strike at any time—any place—and at whomever they
wished, be it rich or poor, innocents could fall victim to this society of
tormentors whose plan included taking over the United States Government. No one
was safe.
Spy could no longer stand it. In one fast motion he dove for his partially unzipped bag on the floor at his feet, and his fingers wrapped
around the cold can of Lysol. Within seconds the leader launched himself in
Spy’s direction. Spy aimed the nozzle at the guy’s eyes and sprayed. It didn’t
stop the terrorist’s feet, but did throw him off course. Through sheer luck, the
other four were busy producing their sadistic film, unaware of the impending
confrontation between the leader and a courageous, clever passenger. Spy jumped
to his feet, his sneakers squeaking as he slid across the floor in a flying
tackle. Wrestling the hijacker to the ground, he slammed his head against a
metal seat post and the maniac crumpled on the floor. The fight had begun… With
no uncertainty there would be lives lost, but at least the majority of
passengers would survive.
All at once the torturers caught wind of the commotion.
Immediately dropping their victims, they raced to the rear of the plane. As the
cell phone fell from the fourth’s grasp a man in the center aisle caught it mid air
and began recording the wild scene that was unfolding before
him.
Perhaps he thought the video would bring wealth — maybe he
was wishing to record the death of these creeps—or the heroic efforts of the man
in the back of the plane; the man who was trying to end a war, by starting a
war….
Spy's head snapped up in time to catch the others running toward him. A knife flew
in his direction. Straight as a dart streaming through the air, it nicked his
arm. He felt no pain, but would not cry out anyway as he did not think he could
speak, for his throat felt as if it was closing and his lungs felt as though
they would collapse at any moment. Asphyxiation by fear.
Quickly, he dropped to the floor, prying a six-inch blade from
the tight grasp of the unconscious leader, whose blood flowed freely upon the
floor. He tossed the blade to another passenger, breathlessly instructing him
to free the attendants. With luck, they’d launch a full-fledged attack. One stewardess
was free. As she and the passenger worked feverishly to release the others, no
one noticed them, because the terrorists were all over Spy.
The can of Lysol had fallen and rolled into the middle of
the floor. The first terrorist reached out to grab Spy. Spy ducked. The
terrorist then did a full split as the heels of his boots slipped in the pooling
blood of his comrade. As he attempted to gain his balance, the freed flight
attendant lunged for the can of Lysol and quickly began spraying it in his
eyes, as she had watched Spy spray it into the eyes of the leader.
Spy was on the floor, beneath the three other men, fighting
to dodge the piercing blades of the knives that were coming at him from all
directions. At that point, some of the other passengers raced to Spy’s aid,
kicking and pulling the terrorists from Spy, who lay gasping upon the floor,
clutching his chest in pain. No one knew for sure whose blood covered them as
it splattered from the lashing knives.
Other passengers seized the opportunity to rush the First
Class compartment in a surprise attack upon one remaining terrorist holding a
small number of passengers captive.
Within moments, all terrorists were subdued, beaten into
unconsciousness and tied to seats in the rear cabin.
Cheers erupted as Spy was pulled to his feet. During all of
the commotion, the man with the cell phone continued to record the entire
confrontation, battle and rescue. They
had almost won the
war.
“Stop!” Spy cautioned “Be quiet! These can’t be the only ones….” He
motioned toward the First Class cabin.
One man whispered, as if the world’s best kept secret was
about to be disclosed, “Oh dear God…there
are more. In the
cockpit, with the pilots!”
“Yes,” whispered an attendant who had shared the cockpit
during the takeover and had been dragged out by the hair and tied to her seat.
“There are two more in there,” her blue eyes were huge and dark circles of
stress stained her pale skin. “Two,” she directed her statement to Spy. “And they have guns.”
Spy’s mind raced. His
Lysol was no match for a bullet. Neither were these knives they had recovered
from the terrorists. And forget the grenades. Everyone knew, even the
terrorists, who would never have used them. They had no intention of blowing up
the entire plane; just mutilating and killing most of its passengers with the
sharpest knives Spy had ever felt. He happened to look down to see the slice
marks in his shirt. He saw blood, but there was no pain. Only that intensifying
crushing sensation that was making it more and more difficult to breath. Don’t give out on me now; he prayed to
his heart, for he was certain he was in the midst of a major coronary. Just a little while longer…
please, let us land. Get me to a hospital.
Spy checked his watch. It was broken, no doubt while
brawling with the terrorists. One of the passengers checked the time. One hour
remained. One short hour to come up with a plan to break into the cabin,
overtake two terrorists with guns and hope the pilots had enough life left in
them to land the jet at LAX.
“Listen,” Spy spoke calmly to the group gathered in the rear
cabin. “We have to figure a way to get their attention. Get them out of the
cockpit. We can take em…”
“I can try to mimic one of them,” a dark skinned passenger
spoke English with an accent. “I’ll ask how much longer, or whatever you think I
should say.”
“Sounds like as good a plan as we’re gonna have.” Spy
grinned anxiously. “Tell them you want to know how many of the passengers to
leave alive. That ought to get their attention.” Spy replied.
Spy and six of the strongest men on the flight stood beside
the cockpit, as the mock terrorist tapped at the door, “Let me in, we have a
problem out here.”
That was all that was necessary for the door to cautiously
crack open. Before the two on the other side could pull a trigger, Spy stuck in
a hand, wrenched the door open, and he and the other men crashed into the cockpit to subdue them.
The entire raid took no more than five minutes. Everything
in the cockpit seemed in order. The relieved pilots immediately radioed LAX, informing
them of what had occurred and to counter the terrorists awaiting to flood the airport.
Spy was a hero. Shying away from the group of passengers huddling around him, patting his arms and shoulders, he staggered back to his seat. The pressure in his chest, and the fight in the cockpit, had stolen the balance of air from his straining lungs. Leaning back, he rested his head against the seat, waiting for the plane to land, or to die, whichever came first.
Spy was a hero. Shying away from the group of passengers huddling around him, patting his arms and shoulders, he staggered back to his seat. The pressure in his chest, and the fight in the cockpit, had stolen the balance of air from his straining lungs. Leaning back, he rested his head against the seat, waiting for the plane to land, or to die, whichever came first.
By the time the aircraft prepared for its final descent, Spy
was choking to death. His lungs were full, he could feel his throat clogging
with fluid; his own blood? He knew he had been sliced and stabbed, but other
than the dried stains of blood that had spurted from all of the victims during
the massacre, he skin was pale and bloodless.
Spy had researched enough medical journals to know the signs
of congestive heart failure, as your lungs filled with fluid, not blood… and
you choked to death, then your heart stopped beating. Perhaps the
blood was from a punctured lung, from all of the stab wounds he had endured.
Spy’s next thoughts were not of the book signing, his
wealth, the party awaiting him, or Maureen’s flexible legs. He merely wanted to get
out of this alive and go home. He checked his watch. It had stopped hours ago.
In fact, it had stopped before
the brawl. Hours earlier?
As 287 touched down on the runway, the craft erupted in
cheers of joy and relief. Spy could not cheer. Weakness was overtaking him
swifter than the plane could land and bounce to a screeching halt. His heart
was giving out, he was certain. He had no idea how he had pulled off defeat,
but he did it. Even with the feeling of fluid gurgling in his throat, and the
crushing sensation in his chest unbearable. My own blood, he thought, salty, gushing blood.
Passengers hugged and cried in each other’s arms. Some just
sat, exhausted in their seats or in various stages of shock. The plane was
stormed with law enforcement. First Aid was given to the two victims, so
the only death was that of the leader, who would never recover from his skull
fracture. All terrorists were cuffed. The passengers were told to
remain seated while the prisoners were removed from the plane. The lead terrorist was now merely a bulge upon a stretcher, covered by a brown blanket as
he was wheeled from the plane.
The passengers would be taken to a special triage center at
the rear of the airport. The fellow who had recorded the entire event, pressed the cell phone protectively to his chest as he fell in with the line
of passengers, eager to put the ordeal behind them. He knew that video would be worth
a fortune.
Press cameras flashed harshly as reporters fought for
details.
“What went down?” they cried out, closely following the
departing passengers.
“Who are the heroes?” they demanded. “Who brought down the terrorists—we
want photos. Anyone have cell phones? People want to know who their heroes are.”
“It’s all on here…” the cameraman held up the phone.
“It’s all on a video. The torture, the man in the back of the plane who
started the entire attack against them─”
His words were cut short as the authorities relieved him of
the phone and hustled him along.
“Where is he?” a reporter yelled after him. “Where’s that hero?”
The cameraman of 287 disappeared through the glass doors
along with the rest of the passengers.
Once inside, airline officials began interviews, comparing the
names on their log to the passengers who lay upon beds in the large sterile
room, or those milling around in a fog. Doctors and nurses rushed about.
The terrorists were in the custody of the US government. No
contact had been made to their comrades waiting in vans several miles from LAX.
They would retreat, and in time, possibly regroup.
All passengers were accounted for and considering the
circumstances, appeared safe. All but one Spy Weaver ─ mystery/thriller writer, en-route from New
York to LA, leader of the revolution against terrorism upon Flight 287 ─ was
missing.
“Where is he?” Passengers began asking, for they owed their lives to Spy and wanted to thank him, make certain he had survived.
“I don’t know,” replied the attendant who had been the last
person to see Spy slumped in his seat as the plane had begun its descent.
And in the confusion of the aftermath, no one noticed the
hero had disappeared.
“Camera shy,” concluded a smug reporter. “Snuck off I suppose — yet you’d think a famous author would want the publicity?”
“Maybe it was privacy,” another responded.
“Maybe the guy just wanted to get away from the madness, get
home.”
The hijacking was big news, so Spy’s friends were waiting
for him at the airport. They watched as one by one, the passengers were
released from custody. Spy was nowhere to be found. They made a sweep of the
airport, thinking he might be in the lounge, recovering from the ordeal. Return
flights to New York were checked by the authorities to see if he had secretly taken a
flight out. Spy Weaver’s name did not appear on any lists.
Spy’s friends wondered if he was hiding out, and were
certain he would contact them shortly, for they had big plans. Spy was reliable.
And of course there was his book signing. Spy never missed an audience of fans,
or hot-blooded redheads.
Within the next few days, a search that had begun in LA was
ending in New York. Early Wednesday morning, the day of Spy’s book signing, State Police paid a visit to Spy’s ranch.
“This place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox,” a Trooper
commented. After forced entry, they searched his home but found no trace of
him. Along with growing concern, everyone was puzzled.
Spy’s friends had flown to New York in hopes of finding
he had returned home. The press anxiously awaited their big story. The
State Police had a job to do.
“Let’s start from square one,” the captain instructed his officers. “Retrace his steps. We know
when he left from, and where he was headed. We know he was on that plane because
we have a video of him
fighting with the terrorists,” the captain could not help but shake his head
gravely in confusion.
“We need to find the doorway between here and there ─ then
and now— because that guy didn’t just disappear into thin air. The last person
to see him was that flight attendant. He was in his seat, gasping, but
alive."
No
one noticed Spy let his head fall back against the seat where it slowly slid to the
side. Fluid rose in his throat, he coughed, choked, there were gurgling sounds,
for a moment his hands flailed into empty air as if in an attempt to fend off
an invisible enemy. When a final breath of air burst from his lips, the muscles
in his face and body relaxed and Spy felt nothing further. From his parted
lips, water bubbled and flowed from the slack of his jaw, forming a steady
stream down his chin. Within seconds, all that remained was an empty airplane
seat, soaked with river water.
After leaving Spy’s house, on their way back down the
mountain the Troopers saw it… the floods from the storm several days earlier
had dried in the bright sunshine and heat, yet the soil before the small stone
bridge displayed signs of a mudslide. Deep ruts from the road to the riverbed
below had been dug by… a car? They recalled the turbulent weather—and now
finding these tire marks made it all too obvious. They immediately dragged the
river. At the bottom of the murky base of the Hudson they found it — the green
Jeep Cherokee, crushed and flooded, its driver still strapped into his
seat.
Spy
could free himself, he was certain, if he could only get the damn seat belt
off!! His mind raced as his hands fumbled beneath swirling water, fingers
slipping over the metal belt release. Christ!!! This was worse than the fate some
of his characters met in his mystery/thriller novels… his mind raced.
Spy
began spitting out the river that was now bubbling around his ears. He strained
his neck in an effort to lift his mouth above the water level so he could
breathe!!! But the last bit of air inside the Jeep was forced from his lips,
replaced by the greedy Hudson much faster than Spy could react or even think.
Eyes
bulging with shock, he held his breath for as long as he could, then with a
final burst of his lungs, the air blew forth and with mouth agape, Spy Weaver exhaled
his final breath and died — with no final coherent thoughts. A soggy thick lock
of black hair swept back and forth across his temples, keeping pace with the current
inside the Jeep before the river claimed all. Then nothing moved.
Spy’s stunned friends arranged for his funeral. The State
Police had wrapped up their mystery case, and the press had its story:
**Obituary**
“Jim Fagan aka Spy Weaver, famed action/fiction writer died
when he lost control of the vehicle he was driving and plunged over the
embankment of a desolate stretch of the Hudson River. His body was recovered
three days after the unfortunate accident, still strapped securely into the
seat of his Jeep. Mysteriously, from witness accounts, Spy was reported to have
single handedly thwarted the hijacking attempt of NY / LA Flight 287, saving
the lives of 226 passengers and 8 crew members, hours after his death.”
Author’s note:
Occurrences of sudden, tragic death can result in the confusion of a soul that
may be caught between the world of the living and the dead. For nine tormenting
hours, Spy Weaver was one of those souls, which was fortunate for the
passengers and crew of Flight 287.
This story first appeared in At the Stroke of Midnight 24 tales of terror, a book I shared with bestselling author Steven Manchester in 2001!!
Please join and share my stories and my blog. Thank you!
This story first appeared in At the Stroke of Midnight 24 tales of terror, a book I shared with bestselling author Steven Manchester in 2001!!
Please join and share my stories and my blog. Thank you!