Velocity To Never Exceed

Chapter 9

My dizziness is growing, and I'm having trouble thinking straight. I scan the rows around me as I collapse in the seat beside Evelyn. Why isn't anyone else freaking out?

I glance past Margaret, out the window. The view in this row is comprised entirely of the wing of the plane but I can see the distant sky growing darker. The pinks have dulled into dark purples, the yellows faded into blues. The light is disappearing, slipping away. Soon I won't be able to see the clouds anymore.

I re-focus on Evelyn, but her eyes skittishly jump to the red bag lying by my feet. It's her backpack. I remember her carrying it at the airport.

I wave, catching her attention. "Hello? Are you going to answer me?"

She holds a finger up, as if motioning for me to wait a moment, and then reaches under the seat I'm sitting in. "Move your legs," she commands. I do, and then Evelyn's arms are under my seat. She grabs something, and swings her hand over the seat. The woman in the row behind us exhales a relieved, "Thank you."

Evelyn gives a half grin. "I just saved your eardrums from the worst sound on the planet. That high-pitched baby shriek would have literally split your eardrums in half." She waits a second and then adds, "You're welcome."

"Is this funny?" I snap. "Some sort of game to you?"

Her mouth grows long and she takes a deep breath. "No, definitely not." There's a heaviness in her voice. A somber tone that makes me nervous. "There's absolutely nothing funny about it," she then adds. "I guess I've just developed offbeat coping strategies."

Right then the blonde flight attendant is beside me, handing out snacks. She gives one to Evelyn and then winks, slipping her another. As she reaches over, I eye her nametag that's pinned to her blouse, flanked with plastic airplane wings. Heather. Just like Evelyn said it was.

"So?" I mutter, rapidly losing patience. "What is it? Spill it."

Evelyn shifts, avoiding my gaze. "You must have figured it out by now, haven't you? But I get it. It's easier if someone else says it, right? It's too weird to actually say the words yourself."

I deadeye her. I'm about to lose it.

"Fine, here we go..." Evelyn uses her index fingers and beats out a drumroll on the armrest separating us. "Welcome to the loop." Then, as if that's all there is to say, she reaches into the airline-branded snack bag, and pulls out a pretzel.

"The loop?" I ask, like I heard her wrong. "Loop?" I repeat, like a parakeet, just mimicking sounds void of any meaning.

She nods as she chews. "A time loop."

I exhale a strangled sound. "A time loop?" I stare at her, my mind reeling. "You're telling me that time is repeating itself? Over and over?"

Evelyn crunches on another pretzel. "Yup, every twenty-eight minutes."

All my thoughts stumble over one another, like a massive car pileup on the freeway. "No, that's not possible. It's just. Not. Possible."

She watches me with an expression resembling sympathy. She tilts her head, her large eyes locking their gaze on me. "What else would you call what's happening? Oh, and get ready for the shaking."

Within a second the plane starts bouncing in quick little shakes like a jeep traveling on an unpaved road. I gawk at Evelyn, as if she singlehandedly caused it to happen.

"I know, it's messed up." She gives a beleaguered sigh. "I'm not sure what exactly to tell you. I don't know what it is, or why it is, or why you're now in it, too. But in each loop, no matter what I do, exactly four notable things happen." She holds up her index finger. "Number one, the pilot's announcement about the internet and turbulence." A second finger joins the first one. "Number two, there's five and a half minutes of turbulence during which Diana Ramos in 12E clutches her rosary beads, Henry Li in 2A white knuckles his armrests, and Sibyl Erly in row 23 spills her drink all over her blouse. Then the overhead compartment three rows behind us pops open from the shaking."

I recall the woman I heard shriek after her drink splashed all over her shirt, and my stomach free-falls.

"Number 3," Evelyn illustrates again with a third finger. "The woman in the very last row, Janelle Fiori, will stand up, take a couple of steps in the direction of the bathroom and collapse. I still have no clue why. And Number 4," this time her hand is in her lap and she's wringing her fingers, "well, number four is the nosedive, of course."

I blink. Of course?

"And those four things happen over and over again," Evelyn says, dully. "Wash. Rinse. Repeat."