Cost of Life (27 page)

The police capped the welcoming party to one thousand and, once that maximum had been reached, led them out from Terminal E to a cordoned-off square on Runway 10-28. The walk was not a far one, and the air had cooled considerably since the sun had dropped to sleep. The thousand men, women, and children looked to the sky. The ambient light of the city hid all but the brightest stars, and the moon was nowhere to be found. It was nearly 9
P.M.
Pegasus Flight 816 was coming home.

Sutton Buttle Jr. was not among the lucky thousand. He could have been. After his appearance at the press conference and subsequent glad-handing on the floor of Philips Arena, everyone closely involved with Flight 816—other than those already aboard the airplane—considered him a supporter. Oh, but if they only knew how much money he had given to support their cause…

And he so wanted to tell them! He hadn't given millions to fund that excursion in Chechnya and then given millions again to buy back allegiance in Cuba just for the tax write-off. It had been his instinct to set up a podium on Runway 10-28 and hold a second press conference right after the passengers departed Flight 816, while the media masses were still in attendance, where with the eyes of the cameras upon him, he would reveal—with a careful, aw-shucks humility—who the true savior of these passengers was.

Yet here he stood, inside the terminal with the other ordinaries, so distant from the microphones and adulation that he might as well have been in his master bathroom, maybe sitting on the toilet. That woman from Bellum Vellum had cautioned him against it.

“Trust me,” she had said, “if you feed it to them, they'll eat it, but that'll be the end of it, and there's the risk you'll look like you did it for the self-aggrandizement. That risk goes away if you let them discover the truth themselves.”

“And how will they do that if no one will let them know? The press can't tell the difference between shit and a truffle.”

“Then maybe someone in my organization will have to accidentally leak certain information.”

“When?”

“Soon. Not tonight. Not even this week. But in the near future. You already did the hard part. The rest is just waiting.”

So Sutton waited here in the lobby, here with the plebs. He made idle chitchat. He missed his wife. She had gone home. All the excitement of the day had given her a migraine.

“They're landing!” someone yelled and nearly the entire population inside the lobby of Terminal E rushed to the ubiquitous TVs to observe an airplane land on a runway several hundred yards away.

Xana Marx, never much of a joiner, remained on the bench by the newspaper dispenser. The dispenser was empty. All the dispensers in the airport were empty. Trapping thousands of people had that effect on a place. By the time martial law had been lifted, the atrium in the main terminal looked as if every trash bin had exploded its contents all over the floor, and while a very long line of impatient travelers formed at the security gate, Xana walked the other way, walked outside past the departing National Guardsmen in their departing Humvees to Terminal E, where all international flights departed and arrived. She sat on the bench and thought about, well, everything.

Then, as the throngs swarmed the hanging televisions, someone sat down beside her.

“Funny meeting you here,” Hayley said.

Xana smiled. “Isn't it past your bedtime?”

The teenager smiled back, although the pallor in her cheeks and the fogginess in her eyes indicated that, yes, it was well past her bedtime. The impact of a stressful day like this on a ravaged body like hers could not be understated.

“Why aren't you out on the runway?” Hayley asked. “You've earned the right to be there as much as anyone.”

“So have you.”

Hayley shrugged. “I just did my job.”

“Me too.” And then Xana chuckled. “And yet neither of us got paid.”

“It's not all about money. Take the people on the plane, for example. They'll never know how much money people spent to keep them alive. Nobody will ever know. And maybe it's better that way. Ignorance is bliss.”

Xana shook her head. “This is going to gnaw at some of them. They'll spend the rest of their lives wondering if maybe they were in the bottom five, if maybe only a handful of people thought they were worth saving.”

“Or maybe this will make them appreciate each day even more.”

“Yeah, that doesn't happen. I mean, after a brush with death, we
say
that we won't take life for granted anymore, but pretty soon we fall back into our old ways. We like what we're familiar with, even if what we're familiar with is bad for us.”

“Except you didn't take a drink today.”

“Doesn't mean I won't take a drink tomorrow,” replied Xana.

“Oh God, does that mean I should be expecting late-night calls begging me to talk you off the ledge? I wouldn't really be a good sponsor. For one thing, I've never had a drink.”

“Never?”

“I'm not yet twenty-one.”

“And there's no guarantee you'll make it to twenty-one, so bottoms up!”

“I am so not going to be your proxy drunk.”

“You are the opposite of fun,” Xana said. “So is this why you're here? To check my blood alcohol content?”

“I'm here because of Flight Eight Sixteen. Contrary to popular belief, not everything is about you. Although, after they land, if you want to accompany me to the hospital to check in on Yuri…”

To which Xana replied:

“Maybe.”

And then added:

“Although between you and me, his name's not really Yuri.”

Down the way, the crowd applauded. Applause resounded all over the media-watching world. In high definition, the wheels of an Airbus had kissed the tarmac of a runway in the southeastern United States.

On board the Airbus, the captain took to the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know this isn't Cozumel, but it'll have to do. On behalf of myself and the flight crew, I would like to welcome you to Atlanta, where the current time is 9:03
P.M.
”

On the other side of the cockpit door, cheers and whoops and hallelujahs rebounded off curved metal and plastic walls. Kenneth and Kip Wood piled on their older brother, Davey. Anson and Oletta Harmon locked lips in a long, honeymoon kiss. Drake Coxcomb, stern ex-cop that he was, quickly wiped at his wet eyes. He was thinking about the two Australians who had died, Archie and Mickey Llewelyn. He was going to get in touch with their families. He hoped the media had done their part in honoring Archie and Mickey and everyone else who had died today. Everybody on the plane at least would never forget their names.

Reese Rankin, the copilot.

Trevor Quick, husband and father.

Lucy Snow, the brave flight attendant.

Back up front, Larry Walder clicked off the intercom. The military had wanted their own men to fly the plane back to Atlanta, especially since they had been the ones to patch up that faulty starboard engine, but once aboard, Larry had pleaded with Technical Sergeant Hector Ruiz and Staff Sergeant Nora Downey that he be allowed to finish out his responsibility to these passengers and this crew.

As for the responsibility he had to those left behind, and the part he had played in their deaths, this was a burden he knew he would carry until his own death, and perhaps even beyond.

Reese Rankin.

The Llewellyns, father and son.

Trevor Quick.

Lucy Snow.

And Wynonna Price. That was the traffic cop whom the oversized thug had shot this morning on I-75. He'd found out her name from the soldiers. He'd also learned about the four people murdered at the airport.

Were their deaths on him too?

Up ahead, the ground crew were waving their glow sticks and Larry obediently followed their directionals, but seriously, what were a few glow sticks when gargantuan spotlights had been erected around the perimeter of the cordoned crowd? By the time Larry braked about fifty yards away from them, a set of mobile stairs was already on its way across the tarmac to meet the main door of the plane.

Deja and Maryann took their positions by the small galley up front to bid each passenger good-bye. First out the door was Erskine Faulks, Seat 11C. The octogenarian had managed to unbuckle his seat belt and scurry up the aisle faster than everybody else.

Soon to follow were the Spelman College coeds. Here came Marco and Maria Ortiz, eager to reconnect with their daughter Conchita and ease her worries. Horatio Wygant stepped through the door with palpable eagerness, excited to begin enjoying the fruits of fame his uploaded videos surely had guaranteed him.

Frank Brown stepped through the door with less eagerness. Was he glad to be alive? Of course. But he had come so close to rendezvousing with Catalina-Luisa Hierra Perez, the love of his life, so close…

What he didn't know was that she was in fact waiting for him in the crowd, jumping up and down as he descended the steps toward the runway. Upon learning of their story, Telemundo had flown her up—in exchange for an exclusive interview.

Among the last to leave were the American soldiers who had met up with them in Cuba, followed by Francisco and Addison. It was their job to check to see if anyone had left any baggage behind. The irony was not lost on any of them.

Quietly, somberly, the four flight attendants deplaned.

Then, finally, finally, came Marie and Sean, whom Larry met in the aisle. He and Marie exchanged a tender kiss. Sean tugged on their hands. Yes, it was time to go.

As they stepped out into the night air, they heard a series of popping sounds from off to the north. Galaxies of color lit up the sky over midtown Atlanta, starbursts and spirals of red, white, and blue.

Larry leaned toward his wife and whispered through a warm smile, “See? I told you I'd be home in time for the fireworks.”

To my niece Natalie

(for when she is older)

Want to make a novel? Surround yourself with exceptional people. Here are some of mine:

That's all it takes. Surround yourself with exceptional people.

Just not these people, please.

I already called dibs.

PHOTO: HOLLY J. SCHUMACHER

J
OSHUA
C
ORIN
is the author of
Nuclear Winter Wonderland, While Galileo Preys,
and
Before Cain Strikes.
He holds an M.A. in English and an M.A. in theater from Binghamton University, and currently teaches at Georgia Perimeter College in Atlanta, Georgia.

joshuacorin.com

@joshuacorin

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