10. Chapter 7 - Marley
Present day …
“Wake up, Marley.”
The soothing whispers of my sister’s voice tickled my earlobe, rousing me from the dark void.
The first thing I smelled was death.
Death smelled like burning plastic, electrified rubber, and copper dipped in gasoline, pungent and metallic. I tasted its bitterness on my tongue, and my stomach revolted before I could even attempt to stop it.
Hot bile ejected beneath my feet in heavy retches, and its stench faded into the toxic backdrop of acrid smoke.
My head pounded with the force of my belly’s exorcism and the pressure behind my eyes.
My eyes. I needed to open my eyes.
Fluttering my eyelids slowly, I gradually pushed against the grit coating my eyeballs and stared at the small patch of space in front of me: a gray wall scorched with marbled black veins, next to a gaping hole where a window should be, and a rocky riverbed encased in a thick tree line to my right.
The imagery felt like a mirage — a hazy vision of fresh water in a desert that couldn’t possibly be real.
“It’s real, Marl.” Charlie’s tone was mournful, hovering just above my head, but I still couldn’t see her. Her apparition only came to me in my greatest need — my sole companion when the darkness threatened to bury me alive.
I ignored her presence as I grappled with this version of reality.
Drawing a shallow breath, the poisonous flavor still heavy on my tongue, I shifted in my seat, every muscle protesting with a dull ache.
Startled, I looked down to see my torso strapped into seat 1A, the inscription engraved in calligraphy letters on the metal crest on the armrest.
Why the fuck was I in a passenger seat?
The drumbeats in my head wouldn’t subside, but I sifted through their revelry in a vain attempt to make sense of my situation. Jamie and I had been preparing for our flight, and then …
And then nothing. Nothing but the moment the scent of death drew me to life like bad-smelling salts.
Jamie. Panic swept through my tender spine in hot waves. Where was Jamie?
“You’ve got to get up, Marl.” Charlie floated in front of me now, a half-body vision made of smoke and synapses misfiring. “People are counting on you.”
A piercing wail broke through my disjointed thoughts, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Adrenaline, icy and invigorating, flooded through my veins, kicking my training into gear.
My memories didn’t matter. At the moment, I needed to help others. We were on a plane, a plane that had crashed. It was enough to know for now.
Wriggling my limbs, I was relieved to find all of them intact — no broken bones I could immediately feel, even though the surface of my skin felt like a meat mallet had pulverized it.
I quickly unfastened my seat belt and stood, only to sway sideways into the back of the seat with an abrupt wave of dizziness.
Okay, not infallible then. Nothing like a humbling reminder.
I forced myself upright, this time with caution, and scanned the sea of heads behind me. I was seated at the front, with only five rows of passengers behind me. Why was I flying the Cessna instead of the Dornier?
If it wasn’t for my uniform, I wouldn’t have known I’d been the one flying at all.
Sparks, erratic and infrequent, flew from compartments in the ceiling that had cracked open on impact, exposing several raw wires and pipes.
Gray smoke lingered through the cabin in a light blanket, but I was relieved to see much of it escaping into the open air from the gaping hole.
We weren’t on fire—yet. I wasn’t willing to stick around to see how long it would take.
The wailing woman was three rows back on the opposite end of the aisle, cradling the elderly woman beside her in her arms, rocking back and forth with wracking sobs. The slack jaw and ashen face of the older woman told me she was dead. Hopefully, on impact.
The anguish on the living woman’s face told me she wouldn't be escorted willingly. I’d leave her for last.
Two men at the rear of the plane lay equally listless in their seats, a single piece of metal pierced through their chests at a vicious angle.
Absentmindedly, I rubbed my sternum in gratitude it was still in one piece.
I couldn’t waste energy getting them off the plane now.
I’d have to wait until our rescue arrived.
The only way out was to focus on the living.
Another two young women in the row in front of them, early-twenties at most, blinked in numbed horror as they stared straight ahead at the carnage, shock stunning them into silence. They had few visible injuries and appeared physically fit. Maybe they could help me with the others?
A clatter to my right turned my attention to a young man with bleached blond hair and several earrings desperately trying to unbuckle his seat with bloodied fingers.
The older woman beside him stared listlessly toward the sky, her soul no longer in her body, the blooming crimson stain across her belly the source of her end.
The two seats immediately opposite mine held two men, both unconscious with their heads bowed, but I could see the soft swells of chests expanding.
The man seated next to the window was cuffed to the chair, and my muddled memories swirled as to why.
Something about a deportation came to mind, which was supported by the lean man dressed in an official — albeit torn — suit right next to him.
Fuck — why couldn’t I remember?
A heavy groan came from behind the men, the perfect melody to accompany the horror.
My gaze latched onto the pair of haunted hazelnut eyes of a handsome man with thick black hair and a chiseled face covered in soot.
He wore an expensive polo shirt and sat in the second row opposite mine.
He was conscious, alert and, as far as I could tell, not bleeding out like half of the plane’s passengers.
I’d start with him. I needed more able bodies to help me get the rest.
Taking a moment, I felt the plane under my two feet rocking my body side to side. We appeared stable, at the very least. Not dangling on a cliff edge or skewed sideways, as far as my center of gravity could discern. Small miracles.
Pushing off the seat, I stood upright again, much slower this time, and shuffled toward the man eyeing me with a confusing mix of hope and suspicion, the two emotions warring on his pretty features as I drew closer.
“Hi,” I said softly when I reached his row. I winced and bent down to do a visual check of his injuries. Fresh bruises marred the soft skin of his toned arms, but no bent limbs at awkward angles, or blood stains. “I’m Marley. Can you tell me your name?”
I needed to be sure he was coherent — at least thinking clearly. His brain and body had to be intact to help save the other passengers.
His perfectly manicured brows arched into incredulity. “I know who you are, Captain.” His voice was raspy but melodic – American, with a West Coast accent.
He shook his head as if clearing it, then swiftly unbuckled his lap belt, batting my hand away when I held it out for him to grasp.
He shifted into the seat beside his — where had that passenger gone?
— and shot me another suspicious look when I shifted back into the aisle to get out of his bubble.
The faintest whiff of amber and jasmine wafted through the tainted scents all around us, bringing me the slightest sense of comfort of a world that existed outside of this terrible moment.
“I’m Ambrose,” he said finally.
His chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath, then wracked with coughing spasms from the inhaled toxins all around us.
He leaned away from me and covered his mouth with his hand to capture the light spatter of blood-stained mucous.
He stiffened at the residue, and his full lips tilted into a sneer of disgust instead of fear.
An odd reaction to what could be a chest injury.
He hastily scrubbed his hand into his khaki-colored dress pants, smearing streaks of red into the expensive fabric.
Was that blood from the cough or a cut on his hands? I’d check him out more fully when we got out of this metal trap.
Pasting what I hoped was a kind and not manic smile on my face, I resumed my mission—getting these passengers out alive.
“Hi, Ambrose. I’m going to need your help to get people out of here, okay? Do you have any first-aid training?”
The warm amber of his eyes darkened, his frown so fierce it was as if the admission were a personal failure. “Not enough to be useful.” He cast a glare at his now-dirty hand and shoved it into his pocket. “But tell me what I can do.”
I scanned the plane again from my new vantage point.
How would we get out? There was a gaping hole in the fuselage toward the front—the same hole I’d glimpsed the outside world through when I came to.
I couldn’t see how far off the ground we were, but it didn’t look too high to jump from, if I had the right people assisting on the ground.
The body in front of us, a dark-skinned man in a now-torn suit, sputtered to life, his head snapping upward with a violent whip.
“Help him,” I directed, moving out of Ambrose’s way so he could slide past me. “See if you can get everyone down to the ground from that opening. I need to see who else is alive.”
My fuzzy memories had swirled on the image of Nikki—his warm smile and dancing eyes that always contained laughter. Somehow, I knew he was on this flight. I needed to find him.
The blond man got free of his seat belt, his face an unsettling shade of green when he pushed himself upright. Blood covered his T-shirt, but it didn’t appear to be coming from his own wound.
“Hi,” I murmured softly in Portuguese when I got to his seat. “I’m Marley. Can you tell me your name?”
He stared at me blankly, from shock or incomprehension, I wasn’t sure. I tried again, this time in Spanish.
“Danny,” he mumbled, his voice disappearing into a flood of tears.