Departure

Bob Ward. Annoying? Yes. Helpful? Also yes.

The doctor is queued up next, that “Something is seriously wrong, Mr. Stone” look on her face. Then again, Sabrina has had that look on her face since we met, so maybe that’s just how she always looks.

“Hi, Sabrina,” I say, bracing myself.

“We need to build a shelter.”

At least somebody around here gets right to it.

“Why?”

“Most of the passengers suffered mild hypothermia on the first night. Some, such as yourself and Ms. Lane, moderate cases. This morning, I’ve observed a trend: about half the passengers have a cold. If they remain out in the elements, that could progress. If it rains, they’ll fare even worse. We could have cases of bacterial infection or pneumonia soon. At a minimum, I would like to move anyone with a compromised immune system, older passengers, and anyone on an immunosuppressant therapy—which are common for autoimmune diseases—to the nose section and enclose it.”

“Okay. Let me have someone check the trees supporting it. It moved some last night. If it collapses under the added weight, we’ll be worse off. I’ll be back this evening, and we’ll reassess then.”

“Where are you going?”

“Someone has to scout the area around us, look for food, maybe even help—or a better shelter.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Fine. Anyone but you.”

“What?”

“You can’t leave.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be chaos here without you.”

I just stare at her, unsure what to say. She’s probably right. That worries me, but it also brings a sense of something I haven’t felt in a long time: fulfillment. Right now I feel like I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing, that I’m making a difference in people’s lives. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.

A BREAK. BOB FOUND A pallet with some food in the nose section. It was tossed around, torn to pieces, but it’s yielded enough for two meals. That’s brought morale up and quelled most of the complaints for now.

Sabrina has added a request for medications, especially antibiotics, to the luggage survey, but so far the poll hasn’t revealed much. There’ve been reports of fishing gear, and two passengers claimed snorkeling sets—but it’s all in checked baggage at the bottom of the lake, locked inside those steel crates. I’ve felt out a few of the guys who swam out to the rear section with me, and none of them are keen to go diving into the wreckage. I can’t say I blame them. Instead, I’ve sent them out with some of the other passengers who’re still in decent shape to scout the surrounding areas. They left a few hours ago in four teams of three, one for each cardinal direction. They’ll hike until they find something or someone, or until midday, whichever comes first, then head back, hopefully arriving before sunset. We’ll know a lot more then.

I hope.

HARPER’S SICK.

She awoke with a ragged cough, a headache, and a low-grade fever. She swears she’s okay, but Sabrina is concerned enough to move her, against her protests, to the nose section.

I’ve checked the trees supporting the back of this section. They still make me nervous, but I don’t see a better option at the moment.

We’ve hung blue blankets over the open end, but every few minutes an icy draft makes it past them. During the day, it’s colder than by the fire at the lake, but I figure it will be much better at night, especially after Sabrina packs it full of patients.

The mysterious Asian, Yul Tan, has come up with a better solution: build a wall. He and Sabrina have stacked the first- and business-class carry-on luggage from floor to ceiling, plugging any holes with deflated life vests. It looks kind of weird, but it works.

Harper takes her old seat in first class, 1D, and stretches out.

“I feel useless,” she says, and coughs.

“We all are, right now. Nothing to do but wait. We’ll be out of here soon.”

“You really believe that?”

“Sure,” I say automatically. It’s the only response I can make right now. I try my best to keep any doubt out of my voice.

A minute passes, both of us crammed in her pod, watching other passengers file by, coughing as they search for a place to bed down.

“So tell me, what does the mysterious, multitalented Nick Stone do for a living? When he’s not rescuing helpless passengers.”

“Me?” I hesitate for a moment, debating what to tell her. “Nothing … as interesting as rescuing airline passengers. How about you?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really? Anything I might have read?”

She looks down and half laughs, half coughs. “Possibly. I’ve written six books. None of which had my name on them, though, and none of which I’m legally permitted to discuss.”

I wonder what that means. It seems to be a sore spot. But before I can ask, out of the corner of my eye I see someone waving: Mike, standing at the bottom of the stairway. The other two guys who went east with him are at his side. They look tired. They’re panting, hunched over, their hands on their knees. Whatever happened to them out there sent them back in a hurry.

I’m up and out four seconds later. “You found something?”

“Yeah,” Mike swallows. He’s excited, but there’s something else: nervousness. “We found … something.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_8c20984b-d210-5554-8598-25aabd56aced)

Nick (#ulink_8c20984b-d210-5554-8598-25aabd56aced)

I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. I COULDN’T GET the picture Mike took out of my mind: an octagonal structure, all glass and shining metal, glistening in the middle of a field. There’s no road or path leading to it, no vehicles, no indication of what could be inside. It’s a mystery, a mirage rising out of an expanse of tall green grass.

Mike snapped the picture from a ridge miles away, and then he and his team rushed back as quickly as they could. We don’t have any other clues about what might be inside. For the sake of the freezing, starving survivors of Flight 305, I hope the glass structure’s filled with food. A satellite phone to get us out of this fix would also be nice. Things are getting desperate.

We’ll serve the last of the food this morning, and we have no viable way to get more, at least not enough to feed 104 mouths. I’ve asked Jillian to organize nut-and-berry-gathering expeditions today, and to assign groups to tend the fire, but that’s mostly to keep folks busy and away from each other’s throats—to be honest, there’s really no one here who knows enough about plants to confirm if anything we find is edible, and Sabrina has warned me that we could be adding to our problems by experimenting.

Again, though: it’s something for them to do. I don’t remember where I heard it, but lack of purpose often kills more people in situations like this than lack of food.

We have plenty of water thanks to the lake, but that’s the extent of the good news. We can last a few days without food, a little longer with some consequences, but this place will start to get ugly after that.

At sunrise the four scouting teams will take the final scraps of food, enough to hike for two days and camp for a night if we need to. That will double our range.

Mike was smart, taking his phone. Today, I’ll make sure each team member carries two cell phones—their own, provided it still has battery life, plus another from the other passengers. With four teams of three, that’s twenty-four phones total. Phones from a diverse group of manufacturers and on different networks will maximize possible reception. Every hour they’ll stop, turn the phones on, and check for a signal. They’ll also be taking pictures of anything noteworthy, any potential landmark. The landscape the teams described yesterday—rolling, forested hills and a few meadows—could have been anywhere in Northern Europe, Scandinavia, or the British Isles. But maybe something in a photo will ring a bell with one of the passengers. That might give us an idea of which way to go, or how far we are from help.

Across the lake, the first rays of sunlight break over the tree line. I sit for a moment, watching my breath turn white in the crisp morning air, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire to my right. Finally, I climb to my feet and head back into the forest.

Bob Ward is waiting for me at the makeshift staircase that leads to the nose section. “I’m going with you,” he announces.

“You’re not, Bob.” I pick up my pace, try to step past him, but he shuffles over, blocking my way.