Flight 505

Shawn Everett stared at his boss in shock. "Fire me?"

"Yes, fired. Thornton needs a lawyer in San Francisco in two days, and he asked specifically for you. That means you'll need to fly down there. If you don't, I stand to lose at least $100,000, and I'll feel compelled to can you. Do you blame me," his boss asked.

"Well...no," Shawn said. "But surely you heard about my fear of flying."

His boss threw up his hands. "God, why did You give me an office of prima donnas?" Then he threw an envelope with two tickets in it at his reluctant employee. "There's two tickets for Braniffway. Either be on the plane, or start reading the classifieds. Comprende?" Shawn nodded. His palms were sweaty as he took the tickets.

Later, in the Everett kitchen, Beverly Everett tried to placate her husband, "Sean dear, the accident was fifteen years ago. You should stop worrying about it.

"But I was the only survivor. It was like there was a divine bookkeeping error, and if I ever rode on an airplane again, I wouldn't live to tell about it," Shawn replied.

Beverly said, "There you go, being pessimistic again." Then she softened her tone. "We've still got three payments to make on the Mercedes, and the bank still has a mortgage on the house in Cambridge-the house you insisted on buying to get us out of crime ridden Boston. Besides, if you win this case, you can write your own ticket. Take the train back; never take another airplane flight in your life if you don't want to. If you won't do it for the firm, do it for me."

Shawn held the tickets dramatically aloft. "All right, I'll do it. I'll win the case in San Francisco, and several others besides. I'll become famous, and earn piles of money. Then I'll retire, and take up my true calling, empire building! Just do me one favor."

Beverly asked, "What?"

"Talk me out of it."

Beverly laughed, and swatted him on the behind.

"You don't want to miss your flight, do you?"

Shawn said, "You seem awful sure of that." He tucked both tickets into the hatband of his fedora, picked up his overnight bag and walked out to the taxi.

Shawn was in far less good humor as he fought his way to the Pan Am terminal at Logan International Airport. He gave the woman at the gate his boarding ticket, and with great trepidation, he stepped aboard his plane-Braniffway flight 505. He was seated in 32E, a window seat.

A couple minutes later, his seatmate joined him. He was a study in contradictions. The man was beefy and dressed in a black leather jacket with a Harley-Davidson patch on the left breast. Underneath the jacket he sported a shirt with a yellow smiley face, and SMILE! JESUS LOVES YOU! written beneath it. The rest of his outfit consisted of denim jeans, and black engineer boots.

Except for a friendly potato nose, the man was handsome. His jet-black hair was combed back into a DA, and he wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. As a final, absurd touch, he had a bandana around his head. Shawn thought all he needed was a pencil through the middle of his nose, a calculator hanging from each ear as earrings, and a tattoo on his left arm saying, Add, subtract, and die! and he'd resemble a cross between a punk accountant and a missionary. Then he had to bite the insides of his cheeks to hold in a shrill giggle.

He looked at the man in the center row, and his laughter dried up like spilt gasoline in the hot sun. The man was wearing a lime green leisure suit, with oversized lapels, bellbottoms, and brown platform shoes. This ostentatious display of Seventies gaudiness contrasted sharply with Shawn's conservative gray Savile Row suit, and maroon tie.

Shawn soon fell into a troubled sleep, and had a strange dream. He dreamed of an angel writing in a set of books with a huge, fluffy quill pen. The angel looked like the kind he'd seen Sunday school pictures; long, flowing reddish-brown tresses, a gleaming white robe tied at the waist with a hank of white rope, and huge white wings. The angel was wearing a green visor, like those newspapermen and accountants wore in old movies. It seemed to be toting something up, and becoming more agitated every time it did it. Finally the angel said, "Shoot! These figures don't add up! Somebody's still alive that should be dead. That's the only way the figures add up."

Shawn was awakened by a poke in the ribs. In that bleary moment of semiconsiousness, he wondered if his dream was a warning, or just another stupid dream.

A voice, masculine, commanding, and yet gentle said, "Oh, your dream was plenty meaningful, Mr. Everett." Shawn opened his eyes, and realized his seatmate had spoken to him. But that was impossible. He would have had to read his mind to make a statement like that.

His seatmate laughed, and said, "Actually, mind reading is just a parlor trick. The reason I know about your dream was because I had it sent to you." Shawn became convinced his seatmate was looneytoons. His seatmate continued, "It was meant as a notice. You're going to die on this flight, and I'm to make sure you do."

Shawn stood up, and shouted in panic, "What? You're going to kill me?" The man held up a hand the size of a Daisy ham. Shawn sat down.

The man continued, "Not directly. Just hear me out. By the time I get done telling you this, you may decide to call me Old Scratch, or something similarly blasphemous, but what you can call me is The Collector. My job is death. Not to brag, but I was the one that killed all the firstborn in ancient Egypt, except those who had smeared lamb's blood on the door lintels. If you're interested, the story can be found in Exodus 12,29 and 30. However, if you're going to read it, I suggest you hurry, because we're getting near LAX, and we've got a disaster slated for Braniffway flight 505. One you don't survive. Or probably anyone else for that matter."

"Why," Shawn asked.

The Collector said, "Things built by humans weren't meant to take certain strains. Airplanes are like that. Bellyflopping onto the tarmac with partly full fuel tanks is one. Being struck by lightning is another."

Shawn exploded, "No, why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"

The Collector sighed, and said, "Look, by definition, all humans deserve to die. It goes back to The Fall. The reason you have been chosen for death goes back fifteen years, to August 23, 1978. You remember that day?"

That day was imprinted on his memory with styluses of fire. Pilgrimway Air services, a regional carrier from Boston, flight 237 from Logan to LaGuardia. The plane cartwheeled on the runway at LaGuardia, disintegrated, and exploded. Shawn was found on the tarmac, battered, bruised, but alive. A young lawyer out of law school, he sued Pilgrimway, and won a $6 million judgment. Pilgrimway folded soon after.

The Collector continued, "Nobody knows why you survived. Or almost nobody. God chose to save your life at the last moment, and he isn't real talkative about why. Or, at least not to me he isn't. Right after you won your lawsuit, He told me you were to die. And, well...it was finally arranged for you to take your final flight. Go ahead look around you. Tell me what you see."

Shawn stood up and looked around the cabin. He stared for three minutes. He ended up sitting when the plane hit an air pocket, and dropped 200 feet. But in those three minutes, Shawn saw more than he wanted to see. He saw three women wearing black turtlenecks and black pants, two men wearing lime green leisure suits with oversized lapels and bellbottoms. Two men wore white disco suits with rhinestones, oversized lapels and bellbottoms. A woman was wearing an Indian vest; granny glasses, sandals and bellbottoms, and another man wore a tie-dyed shirt bellbottoms and sandals. The man and woman who looked like throwbacks from the Sixties were wearing peace medallions. The others wore ankhs or crosses.

The Collector asked, "Do you recognize them Mr. Everett?"

Shawn shook his head numbly. The Collector said, "I really shouldn't be surprised..."

The stewardess interrupted, "We're going to be having some turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts"

The FASTEN SEATBELTS light came on.

The Collector continued, "As I was saying, I shouldn't be surprised by the capacity of you humans to be willfully ignorant. The other people around you are, or were, your fellow passengers on Pilgrimway flight 237." Then he fastened his seatbelt.

Shawn, who hadn't fastened his seatbelt, asked, "Why did you do that? It isn't as if it would make any difference, would it?"

The Collector shrugged, and said, "What can it hurt? Besides, the stewardess asked me to put it on. Why make a fuss about it?"

Shawn stood up, and said, "You are stark, raving mad!" A stewardess bustled over to see what the problem was.

She asked, "Excuse me, sir. The pilot has turned on the seatbelt light. Would you please sit down?"

The Collector said, "You heard the nice lady, Mr. Everett. Please sit down."

Shawn said, "Excuse me, but I'm sitting next to a lunatic, and he is upsetting me quite badly. Could you be so kind as to move me to a new seat?"

The stewardess tapped her fingernails nervously on the arm of the chair, and said, "I really don't know, sir. It isn't our policy."

Shawn pleaded, "Please? You really don't know how much this means to me."

The stewardess didn't say anything for a minute. She was just about to give in to him. Then an older stewardess showed up to see what was causing the problem. There was a short discussion. The older stewardess said, "I'm sorry sir. Our policy is not to allow seat switching on a whim."

Shawn exploded, "This man is out of his tree!"

The older stewardess said, "I'm sorry sir. You'll need a better reason than that. Also, please be quiet."

Shawn said even louder, "This maniac has been telling me through the whole flight that the plane is going to crash." Shawn glared at The Collector. The Collector stared at Shawn with a placid look.

Shawn's declaration had the desired effect. A buzzing went through the passenger compartment. The stewardesses looked at each other with horror. The Collector's hand suddenly shot out, and grabbed the sleeve of Shawn's sport coat. He whispered quietly so only Shawn could hear, "Stop acting like a fool. A seat change won't prevent your death. Your number is up. Any minute now, the engine in the tail will explode. Of course, a DC-10 can fly with two engines..."

Without warning, the compressor backvented, causing the engine to explode, and shattering the fan blade assembly, miraculously avoiding puncturing the pressurized passenger compartment. Hydraulic fluid poured over the torn tail assembly like black airplane blood. The wind ripped apart what was left of the tail assembly. The plane began shaking as if it was going into convulsions.

The Collector continued, "Of course, if we lost another engine..." He was interrupted by the shriek of metal ripping, as the engine on the left side ripped off. The Collector continued again, "Well, we're in the soup now."

Shawn pulled away. There was a purring as the fabric tore. Shawn punched The Collector in the mouth. The plane leaned to the right, and began shaking, as if gripped with a violent ague. The lights went out. Metal began groaning, then shrieking as it reached the fatigue point.

Shawn was thrown into his seat. Then he forced himself up, holding the back of 31E. He shouted, "I demand a new seat, or I'll sue this airline for all it's worth!"

The younger stewardess said, "Sir, please sit down and buckle up! It looks like we're in for a rough landing!"

"Yes, Mr. Everett. You're making a scene," The Collector said.

Shawn repeated, "I said-" Just then, lightning struck the airplane, and there was a loud sucking sound.

The young reporter looked nervously at the unblinking eye of the CNN camera. She patted her hair, and readjusted her skirt. If she did this right, she could practically write her own ticket. The cameraman held up his fingers to show how many seconds were left before they began broadcasting.

3,2,1.

Taking in a deep breath, she began, "Yesterday evening, Braniffway flight 505 was struck by lightning, blowing out a window by 32E, sucking out one man, tentatively identified as Shawn Everett. Lawrence Sanders, an engineer at McDonnell-Douglas, said it was a miracle. The plane had lost two engines, the tail section, and the body was almost ready to collapse from structural fatigue. Since the hydraulic fluid had leaked out, the plane was forced to make a bellyflop landing at LAX..."