5133 O.T. (Out of Time)
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Please turn off all electronic devices until we are safely parked at the gate. Thank you,” the Captain's voice echoed through the cabin.
Darien gripped the edge of his seat as the plane descended. It rocked, sending small tremors through his body. The passenger next to him scolded as his arm rest was hogged but Darien didn't care. All that mattered was that he landed safely at Trinity Airport, his neighbor be damned.
As they descended, he chanced a look out his window. The darkness they had traveled through was growing brighter, tendrils of color streaking pass. Points in history, splayed out like a giant movie screen for their enjoyment. He saw the fall of Troy, the rise of Adolf Hitler, the first commercialized space flight, the creation of Tachyon Industries. He was so captivated by these images that he almost didn't notice the inside of the cabin shaking. Almost.
The Captain's voice appeared on the intercom. "Please buckle your seats, ladies and gentlemen. We're experiencing slight disruption from tachyon particles."
The cabin broke out in whispers. Interference in the time vortex was a rarity and surely a cause for concern. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the noise around him. Almost there...
"Sir?" He opened his eyes to see a pretty blonde stewardess standing over him. "Please fasten your seat belt," she reminded him.
He looked at his lap to see that the buckle had come undone. He swallowed hard, "Right." He fastened it with a snap and gave her a watery smile.
She turned to leave, but paused to give him a brief look. "We'll land safely, sir. Captain Mathers never fails." Darien spared another smile at her retreating form. Was his anxiety that obvious? A quick look at his agitated neighbor told him yes.
Before he could relax into his seat a giant jolt rocked the plane, sending it into a nose dive. "Fuck!" he screamed. All of the passengers screamed with him. Even the flight attendant's faces were washed with fear. They scrambled to their seats, realizing the danger they were in.
"Please, remain calm. We're experiencing a slight disruption. There's nothing to worry-" A loud explosion from the back of the plane cut him off.
Passengers wept. There was a one in thirty trillion chance of a time travel voyage going wrong, and they were the lucky one. Lovers held each others hands, parents crooned to their crying children. Even the agitated passenger next to him, was comforted by an elderly man.
Darien sat alone. He had made the trip on his own, his Dad thinking it was a good idea for him to experience the time vortex at least once.
"It'll toughen you up, at least," his father had said, before slapping him on the back with a joking smile. Darien had toppled over from the hit, triggering another panic attack.
He thought of how his father would react when he heard the news that his neurotic son had died in the vortex. Knowing his dad, the man would most likely drown his sorrows in shots of whiskey from the twenty-first century.
Another explosion rocked the plane, and all he saw was white.
The first thing he tasted was delirium. It was salty and left him seeing an array of color, none too pleasant either. They faded, and his mind started functioning again. Blinking, he sat up, shaking his head. His eyes burned and he reached to rub them, only to realize that his hands were coated in a thick layer of sand. "Sand?" he thought.
He took a look at his surroundings. Instead of the familiar blue of the plane's cabin, he saw sand. It stretched for miles around him. Destroyed buildings that vaguely resembled ancient Egyptian structures he had studied in history. They loomed ominously in the distance.
"Where am I?" he asked aloud. A voice in the back of his head told him that was not the question he should be asking. "When are you?" it asked.
He felt lightheaded. The overbearing sun soaked his back and neck. He was sure that if he bothered to check, it would be bright red.
Pushing himself up, he began looking for any sign of the plane. It took him only a minute to spot the wreck in the distance. The beautiful 891 lay in a broken heap, parts strewn in every direction. A fire was burning somewhere because Darien saw smoke rising from it.
He rushed toward it. If he had survived, perhaps there were others. He could not be the only one. The thought of him on his own sent panic spiraling through his body. He picked up his pace and soon he was standing before the remnant of the crash.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Is anyone there?" his voice croaked from the dryness in his throat, and realized that if he didn't find water soon, he wouldn't have to worry about surviving on his own.
Something bright pink shined out the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he caught sight of a heel attached to a body. The body was covered by one of the emergency exits from the plane, which must have fallen off in the crash. He ran to it. "Hello? Are you okay?" He received no response. The person was either dead or unconscious. He prayed for the latter.
When he reached it he called again. "Hello?" this time more softly. Peering over the door, he looked down at the body of the flight attendant who had told him to buckle his seat belt. "Miss, are you alrig-" He stopped. Lying a foot away from her body was her head, still bleeding and frozen in permanent horror. Dead eyes faced him, as if asking, "Why?"
He stumbled back. His feet were ensnared by a cord and he fell. Groaning, he rolled over and retched. Tears and snot mixed in, but he made no attention. All that mattered was erasing the image that would be burned forever in his mind.
He heard footsteps approaching. "Hey, kid you alright?" Wiping is mouth he looked up to see a man in his late thirties looking down at him, worry in his eyes. He was wearing a tattered pilot's uniform decorated with many medals from past accomplishments. The Captain.
The man looked beyond him, to the body and it's head resting just behind the door. He walked toward it. "What did you se- Oh Jesus!" Captain Mathers jumped back as he laid eyes on the head and body. "J-Jaime?" He asked, knowing no response would ever come.
He swiveled back to Darien, who had managed to empty the contents of his stomach onto the sandy ground. "What did you do?" the Captain asked. His hand reached into his pocket, presumably to grab a small weapon.
Darien raised his hands. "I found her like that! She must have died in the crash." Mathers paced around him like detective cornering his latest catch.
"The teeth marks on her didn't come from a crash," he withdrew a small hand gun, something Darien had seen in his history books. He aimed at Darien, face blank and hand ready to pull the trigger.
Darien shook his head in denial. The knuckles of his hands were white, and blood dripped from them as he dug his finger nails into his skin. The gun stayed trained on him, though.
"You one of them cannibals in the news?" the Captain asked.
The boy shook his head. His words came out in a rush, forced and mispronounced. "N-no!" He fell to his knees, his air supply cutting short as a panic attack took over. He clutched his chest and tried to calm down. A difficult feat when one had a grief-stricken man with a gun in front of him.
Closing his eyes, he sucked in a mouthful of air to slow down his heart rate. The sound of footfalls approaching increased the symptoms.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Mathers nudged his panic-ridden form.
Darien touched his clogged throat. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak, but when no sound came, his arms flopped uselessly to his sides. What did the Captain care anyway? He was probably relishing at the state of Jaime's suspected murderer.
His vision blurred, a blackout approaching. As he flopped to the ground, he thought, At least I will be unconscious when he kills me.
When Darien came to, the distinct odor of burning meat drowned out his other senses. He shakily sat up, surveying his surroundings. Was he in hell? He imagined the bullet of the Captain's gun piercing his body, and an involuntary shudder coursed through his body. At least it had been quick. And by the looks of his body, little blood, too.
A jaunty tune interrupted his thoughts. Straining his ears, he tried to find the source of the whistling. Who else was here in this hell with him? A quick scan of the area revealed the familiar sight of the Captain's tattered uniform. He sat a few feet away, a wary and worn look in his eyes. The song he had been whistling stopped, and he settled for observing the boy.
Darien frowned. If the Captain was here, he was still alive. Either that or the Captain had committed suicide, an option that didn't seem likely. They sat in silence, the crackling of the firewood filling the air.
Darien twitched, his feet itching to run. The man had pointed a gun at his head, easily read to pull the trigger. He had no idea how far the Captain would go for something.
Despite the fire, a chill racked his body. The temperature had dropped to below freezing in the desert, with the moon hanging proudly above, like a grinning trickster.
"Are you alright?" Mathers asked.
Darien cleared throat. "Y-yeah. I guess," he mumbled. As alright as I can be stranded in a desert of an unknown time period with a man who tried to kill me.
Mathers nodded his head. "Good. You had some sort of freak out earlier."
"Oh," Darien said, embarrassed. "That happens when I...get nervous." His anxiety attacks had been a source of embarrassment for as long as he could remember. Once people knew, they could no longer treat him normally. Instead, they acted as if he was a porcelain doll, ready to break at any moment.
"Well, I wasn't exactly making you feel at home." Mathers almost looked apologetic.
Darien didn't respond. The conversation was awkward as it was, and he was sure nothing he said would break that. Still..."I'm sorry," he said, "about your friend." His voice sounded sincere, and Mathers teared his eyes from Darien's earnest face.
He coughed into his hand. "Right...sorry for thinking you..." Killed her. The unspoken words hung between them.
Though his emotions were in check, Darien could tell the Captain was being honest. He tried to lighten the mood. "So," he paused, trying to figure out his next question. One obvious question filtted through his mind. "Where are we?"
Mathers glanced at him. Turning his head, he looked at something in the distance. Darien followed his gaze.
High above them, the moon rested quietly, but, for the first time, Darien noticed something off. Instead of the grayish color it normally wore, it was drenched a pale, sickly orange. It looked ghoulish, like a grinning Jack o'lantern. Darien was disturbed by its appearance. It wasn't right, but he didn't know what could cause such a monstrosity.
Mathers returned his attention to the boy. "I think the question we should be asking ourselves is, when are we?"