No one was more surprised than Alex when the domestic 737 in which he was traveling split apart at 32,000 feet. No one was less surprised either, if surprise can be measured by the super-caffienated jolt of adrenaline that shot through every body alive long enough to note it. Each person got what they could handle - a kind of height, age and weight appropriate dose of shock that carried a stoic and monochromatic notice to every soul that felt it. The message was simple: “I am going to die”.
About seventy-five percent of the passengers felt nothing at all. One minute they were exhibiting their humanity by laughing, smiling, chewing, snoring, walking quickly to the restroom, reading, daydreaming, watching movies, chatting, typing and, for Elwin McAllister, even trying to fart quite silently next to a mercifully sleeping aisle-mate. In the next blink of an eye and white light they left their disintegrated, disemboweled or disfigured humanity behind to continue towards another light.
The rest of the passengers, in various states of injury ranging from deafness to missing limbs and organs to fried skin to no injuries at all emptied into the sky as the jet slowly ripped in half and each piece of the fuselage began independently tumbling through the air. The passengers sprayed out like bugs being thrown from buckets.
Alex was one of a few people not seriously physically injured. As it happened, he had set towards the rear of the careening projectile and had been rifling through his carry-on bag when the explosion occurred. The utter shock of the blast made Alex’ body reflex in the form of vomit, which was now in his eyes as he fell. He instinctively wiped them. His skin felt unfathomably cold. He held his breath at first, pushing hard in his torso and making an involuntary “nnnn” sound as he tumbled through the air.
His former military training now began to kick in, so while the “nnnn” sound continued for a few more moments, he righted himself and ceased tumbling, spreading his arms wide as if he had a parachute on, as any self-respecting Ranger would.
The few screams Alex had heard faded quickly but he could still see his fellow passengers, most still attached to their seats, some trailing pink mist, others falling limply through the sky.
As dire as the situation was for Alex, his nervous system actually calmed; his thoughts were clear and his breathing approached a normal rate, a testament to the strength of his training and his talent as a former soldier.
“I’m going down,” Alex thought incredulously and with cool-headed sarcasm, “in a goddamned commercial jet. Oh, the irony.”
Suddenly, and with great surprise to him, each and every military mission in which he had ever been involved began to flash in front of his eyes in a kind of hyper-speed slow motion, showing the scenes in excruciating detail. He attempted to blink the visions away, but was unsuccessful. He saw them all, from boot camp to his final missions in Iraq and Pakistan just before he was honorably discharged.
This review and detail was more terrifying to Alex than his impending death, he having pushed such memories to the dark corners of his mind many years ago. The reason these visions were so terrifying to Alex was because, although he had been a tremendous father, community leader, husband and businessman, he had also once been a ruthless and vengeful soldier through parts of two Gulf Wars. At the time, his actions had been justified by his simplified, young military man’s world-view. The ends had once justified the means. These necessitated making the enemy suffer, whether that meant prolonging an agonizing death, deep humiliation, torture, or simple annihilation. He had experienced a change of heart towards the end of his career that had manifested itself in a type of mercy that was confusing to himself and to those in his command, but that he had enjoyed. The damage had been done, however, in many ways; because although in his mind his more recent life was an atonement of sorts for the kind of soldier he had been, years later when the memories arose in waking or in dreamtime his stomach still soured. Why these visions would parade in front of his eyes at this moment was a question that did not enter his consciousness as he now calmly fell, but it’s a good one for us to ask.
The Universe is neither cruel nor kind, but on occasion it tends to look more the latter. For although Alex was indeed a good man, he was also about to die and would have been justified in control-breathing his way to Mother Earth with no other thoughts than, “why me” or “oh, shit”. But since that was not the case, since the steaming vengeance of his former military life had shown itself, when he saw little Olivia he was more motivated than he might otherwise have been to move into action.
Olivia, only two-and-a-half years old, fell gracelessly through the air. To her physical credit, she no longer screamed in terror, but she had not passed out, either. Alex had no way of knowing this, but his intimate knowledge of the human body and the way a live one differs from one not so endowed told him that this small person was alive. She was not far away. He knew he could get to her within a few seconds.
At 15,000 feet Alex tucked his arms and closed his legs together to make a beeline towards a terrified Olivia.
He expertly slowed his approach to the terrified toddler and at 13,000 feet grabbed her clumsily, stopping her slow tumbling. His hunch had been correct; she was alive. However, he could see that she was unable to breathe because of the wind in her face. He turned his back to the approaching earth and held her against his chest so that her face was out of the wind, allowing her to breathe more freely. He looked down at her, his left arm holding her small body tight against his while his right hand gently cradled her head. She looked into his wondering face with wide eyes from beneath his strong arms.
So that is how it came to be that Alex was found on his back in a Midwestern farmer’s field, the body of a little girl not his own in his arms, a look of sublime peace on both their faces.
