Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) by Vincent Zandri Page B
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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our not-so-friendly,
bright-eyed flight attendant.
“Duck!”
The shot singes my hair as it blows
out the window next to Anjali’s seat. The abrupt change in air pressure sends
the pilotless plane into a nose dive. It also begins to pull us, along with the
pilot’s body, towards the gaping hole, as if an angry God himself has gripped
us in a pair of invisible hands.
“Hang on,” I shout while feeling
for Anjali’s seatbelt, buckling it around her waist, pulling the strap as tight
as it will go without cutting into her stomach.
She fires again, but she’s out of
balance and another hole appears above the busted out porthole. At first the
hole is small. About the size of my fist. But the force of the escaping air is
shredding the plastic and metal fuselage. That’s when the dead pilot’s body
lifts off the seat, his head and shoulder pressed into an ever-widening hole
that is joining with the shot-out window to form one big, man-sized opening.
For a brief second, I consider grabbing hold of his legs. But he’s already
dead. A second later, the pilot is sucked out of the hole and making his way
back down to Earth the hard way.
But now, it’s my turn to get sucked
out of the opening.
My legs lift up off the floor. I’m
being yanked out of the plane right behind the dead pilot. Not exactly the way
I pictured my inevitable demise, preferring instead to drift off to sleep in my
ripe old age and never wake up.
Beatrice fires again and another hole
appears beside the big one. I’m holding on to the metal frame beneath Anjali’s
seat, double-fisted. The plane screams as it speeds towards the earth like a
missile. Peering over my left shoulder, I see the flight attendant floating
towards the opening. She, too, is being sucked out. My pistol still gripped in
her hand, her face painted with panic, she tosses the automatic out the hole while
attempting to grab ahold of something. Anything.
…Christ, there goes my gun…
“Please…help…me!” she screams. But
her words are barely audible with air rushing in and the plane in rapid decent.
She begins to claw at the seats
while her entire body lifts up, the powerful vacuum-like suction pulling her
head-first out the opening. Glancing over my shoulder through the breach in the
fuselage, I watch her limbs waving and kicking spastically as she enters into a
three-mile drop without a chute.
…Don’t let the door slap you in
the ass on the way out…
Looking up, I see the look of
desperation on Anjali’s face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of
this.”
But unless she can read lips, she
has no clue what I’m saying.
Choices: I can either continue to
hold onto the seat and ride this bird to the ground in which case we’ll be
vaporized by the crash, or, I can make my way to the pilot’s cabin, hand-over-fist,
and attempt to level her out at an altitude and speed that will cut down on the
exterior air pressure.
Easy peasy, right?
Problem is, I’m not a pilot. But I
have to at least try.
Pulling myself into the aisle, I
grab onto my seat. That’s when something catches my eye. The rear lavatory
door. It’s blown open. Stuffed inside the cramped compartment, seated on the
toilet, are two people—both of them duct-taped together.
It’s the rightful pilot of this
aircraft and his flight attendant. Chase Baker the charmed.
10
A wave of warm optimism fills my veins. I can only hope the pilot
is still alive. And if he is alive, I hope he’s conscious enough to pull us out
of this dive. Quickly, I make my way the ten or so feet to the lavatory,
crawling on my stomach for the entire distance. For some reason, if I crawl,
the suction is not so bad. When I look up, I can see the pilot’s eyes are wide
open. So are the flight attendant’s. Also, their whites aren’t glowing or
burning red or turning anything other than their natural, God-given color. More
good news. Raising myself up, I pull the
bright-eyed flight attendant.
“Duck!”
The shot singes my hair as it blows
out the window next to Anjali’s seat. The abrupt change in air pressure sends
the pilotless plane into a nose dive. It also begins to pull us, along with the
pilot’s body, towards the gaping hole, as if an angry God himself has gripped
us in a pair of invisible hands.
“Hang on,” I shout while feeling
for Anjali’s seatbelt, buckling it around her waist, pulling the strap as tight
as it will go without cutting into her stomach.
She fires again, but she’s out of
balance and another hole appears above the busted out porthole. At first the
hole is small. About the size of my fist. But the force of the escaping air is
shredding the plastic and metal fuselage. That’s when the dead pilot’s body
lifts off the seat, his head and shoulder pressed into an ever-widening hole
that is joining with the shot-out window to form one big, man-sized opening.
For a brief second, I consider grabbing hold of his legs. But he’s already
dead. A second later, the pilot is sucked out of the hole and making his way
back down to Earth the hard way.
But now, it’s my turn to get sucked
out of the opening.
My legs lift up off the floor. I’m
being yanked out of the plane right behind the dead pilot. Not exactly the way
I pictured my inevitable demise, preferring instead to drift off to sleep in my
ripe old age and never wake up.
Beatrice fires again and another hole
appears beside the big one. I’m holding on to the metal frame beneath Anjali’s
seat, double-fisted. The plane screams as it speeds towards the earth like a
missile. Peering over my left shoulder, I see the flight attendant floating
towards the opening. She, too, is being sucked out. My pistol still gripped in
her hand, her face painted with panic, she tosses the automatic out the hole while
attempting to grab ahold of something. Anything.
…Christ, there goes my gun…
“Please…help…me!” she screams. But
her words are barely audible with air rushing in and the plane in rapid decent.
She begins to claw at the seats
while her entire body lifts up, the powerful vacuum-like suction pulling her
head-first out the opening. Glancing over my shoulder through the breach in the
fuselage, I watch her limbs waving and kicking spastically as she enters into a
three-mile drop without a chute.
…Don’t let the door slap you in
the ass on the way out…
Looking up, I see the look of
desperation on Anjali’s face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of
this.”
But unless she can read lips, she
has no clue what I’m saying.
Choices: I can either continue to
hold onto the seat and ride this bird to the ground in which case we’ll be
vaporized by the crash, or, I can make my way to the pilot’s cabin, hand-over-fist,
and attempt to level her out at an altitude and speed that will cut down on the
exterior air pressure.
Easy peasy, right?
Problem is, I’m not a pilot. But I
have to at least try.
Pulling myself into the aisle, I
grab onto my seat. That’s when something catches my eye. The rear lavatory
door. It’s blown open. Stuffed inside the cramped compartment, seated on the
toilet, are two people—both of them duct-taped together.
It’s the rightful pilot of this
aircraft and his flight attendant. Chase Baker the charmed.
10
A wave of warm optimism fills my veins. I can only hope the pilot
is still alive. And if he is alive, I hope he’s conscious enough to pull us out
of this dive. Quickly, I make my way the ten or so feet to the lavatory,
crawling on my stomach for the entire distance. For some reason, if I crawl,
the suction is not so bad. When I look up, I can see the pilot’s eyes are wide
open. So are the flight attendant’s. Also, their whites aren’t glowing or
burning red or turning anything other than their natural, God-given color. More
good news. Raising myself up, I pull the
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