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Paddling Upstream

By Strickland83

With school back in full swing, Lindsey reminded me of my promise to speak to her class. Once I was fully committed, she confessed that the "class" had grown to be the entire student body. I protested half-heartedly but she convinced me that having a professional writer speak to the students about writing was a rare opportunity and the school wanted to make the most of it. I had hoped to have more interaction with the students than something resembling a press conference would allow. She assured me that there would be opportunities to do workshops later, and she grinned at that. I realized that I had been roped into this. Had it been by anyone else, I would have backed out. I couldn�t refuse Lindsey anything, though. She held my heartstrings.

The day for my talk arrived and I went to the school. Nervously, I let myself be ushered to the stage in the cafeteria. It was a typical public elementary school. After lunch, the tables had been moved aside and the chairs rearranged into auditorium configuration. Lindsey introduced me, explaining that I was a famous author. I cringed at that. I still hadn�t told anyone else in town who I really was.

"Hi," I started. Realizing how lame that sounded, I tried again. "My name is Michael and I want to talk to you about writing. Does anyone like to write for fun?"

A few hands went up. The sea of faces was mostly indifferent.

"I like to write. When I was in school I liked to write for fun. Now it�s my job but it�s still just as much fun."

A hand went up�a question.

"Yes?"

"Do you really get paid for writing?" a shy girl asked.

"Yes, I do. That�s how I earn my living. When people buy my books in stores, I get a little bit of the money they pay."

"What kinds of books do you write?"

I drew in a deep breath.

"I write romance books�stories about people in love."

"Are you and Miss MacAllister really going to get married?" came another question.

"Yes, we are," I answered nervously. Somehow I didn�t feel as much in control as I expected I would be.

"Is she still going to be our teacher?"

Lindsey saved me by stepping to the microphone.

"Mr. Newcombe has taken time from his very busy schedule to be here today to talk about writing. Let�s let him stick to that topic, please."

She had used that teacher voice, the one that let you know you had better do what she said. I fought to keep a straight face. The next question was back on topic.

"Where do you get the ideas for your books?"

"That is a good question. I take inspiration from the things around me. Things I see, things I hear, people I meet," I said, giving Lindsey a quick glance.

"So I could go to the library and look you up?"

I felt nervous again.

"I don�t write my books under my real name. I use a pen name," I explained, feeling the tension rise.

"Why do you to that? Are you ashamed of what you write about?"

I was starting to sweat.

"No, not at all. Many writers do this."

The question I knew was coming was next. I had hoped to avoid it.

"What is your pen name, Mr. Newcombe?"

When the child asked that, I could sense the few adults in the audience leaning forward in their seats. Everybody was curious about who I was. I looked over to Lindsey but she just returned a neutral expression. Was it time to come out from hiding? I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I cleared my throat.

"I write under the name of Ken Stryker," I said.

Immediately, there were whispered comments throughout the room.

"Hey, my Mom reads him!"

"I read him," said one of the older girls.

"I can�t believe Ken Stryker came to our school."

"Who is Ken Stryker?"

That last comment was from one of the older boys.

There. I had done it. I had shed my last layer of protection. Lindsey looked shocked, but perhaps a little pleased. She knew I had just taken a big step.

After that, there were questions about my books and about what it was like to be a professional writer. I told them about how I write, what working with an editor is like, and what it feels like to go into a bookstore and see my books on the shelves. It was actually much easier to talk about writing after I had stepped out of the shadows. Before I knew it, my time was up. Lindsey stepped up and took the microphone from me to ask the students to thank me for visiting. When I could spare a glimpse at my watch, I saw that I had talked half an hour beyond my originally scheduled time.

The children were dismissed and herded back to their classrooms. Lindsey stayed behind to talk to me.

"I can�t believe you told them who you are. You do realize that news will be all over town in a few hours, right?"

"All over town?" I asked, surprised and now nervous again.

"Well, let�s see. School gets out at 2:30. By 3:00, the mothers will hear it from their children."

"It�s a small town," I chimed in, echoing what Maria always told me.

"Right. I suspect the last people in town will hear by, oh, dinnertime."

"What have I done?" I asked the air.

"What you should have done a long time ago. I�m so very proud of you, Michael. You took a big step today," Lindsey answered.

"I hope it was the right one," I said.

"It was," she reassured me.

She had to return to her classroom after that. The principal thanked me for coming, seeming a little more awed in my presence. That is not what I was hoping for. I didn�t want people to treat me differently now. I hoped Lindsey was right.

By 4:00, one of my neighbors rang my doorbell. She was holding one of my books and she asked me to autograph it. I laughed and did it, inviting her in while I found a pen. The doorbell rang six more times before Lindsey showed up.

"I�m not so sure this was a good idea," I told Lindsey.

"You were famous before. Now you�re just not hiding it," she explained.

"I think I liked hiding it."

"It�s too late now to put the genie back in the bottle," she said.

After that, people in town did treat me differently. The newspaper wanted to interview me. People stopped me on the street to talk to me, or ask me to autograph a book, or ask me what my next book was going to be about. Even the radio station asked me to do an interview.

Within two days my agent, George, called.

"Michael, my friend, what have you done?" he asked.

"What do you mean, George?"

"My boy, I have been getting calls from the press, radio and television. They say you have been granting interviews and they all want to be next. What is going on down there?"

"Oh, that. Well, I kind of came out of hiding."

"You did? Good for you! That�s great!" Excited, George spoke rapidly. "Now we can use this to our advantage. I want to book you on some network shows. How soon can you get free? We can get the radio and television appearances done at the same time. The print work can be done down there if you prefer."

"Hold on. George. I only told a few people who I was. What�re you talking about?"

"I�m talking about you, Michael. Ken Stryker. He�s the hottest thing on the street today. We have to capitalize on this. I wish you had told me you were going to do this before I shopped publishers. I could have gotten a little more for your book."

"The rest of the country has heard about this?" I asked, astounded.

"Yes, we have. I have been telling you for years that your fans want to meet you. That little lady must�ve really done a number on you to get you to do it. Remind me to thank her when I meet her. Can she come with you?"

"Hold everything, George. All I did was tell some school kids who I was and word got around town. How can that be all over the country?"

"Simple, Michael. That local paper did a story on you and the story got picked up by the news wires, the big boys. When can I start booking you on talk shows?"

"George, I didn�t do this for publicity. I�m not ready to go public with�"

George chuckled.

"It�s a little late to put that genie back in the bottle," he told me.

"Yeah, that is exactly what Lindsey told me, too," I lamented.

"She must be some piece of work. Talk to her about coming with you."

"George, I�m not sure I�m going yet, and I won�t expose Lindsey to all that."

"Why not let her make that decision for herself?" He paused, then continued sounding more serious. "Michael, your job is to write books. Great books. My job is to sell those books, to sell you. Now is the time to get you out in front of your book-buying public. Exposure sells books."

He sighed heavily, and I could even hear his chair creak as he must have been leaning back.

"Don�t give me an answer right away. Think about it. Just don�t take too long. We have to take advantage of all the free publicity before it gets cold. I�ll call you tomorrow morning to talk about this again."

"Okay, George. I�ll think about it, but no guarantees."

"Thank you, Michael. Talk to Lindsey, too. I�m sure she�d want you to do this."

That idea scared me.

I was having dinner at Lindsey�s house that night. After we had eaten and were sitting on the sofa, I told her about the phone call from George.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked in a small voice, a sound that told me she wasn�t looking forward to me being away.

"I haven�t said I�d do it, yet," I told her.

I reached over and rubbed Brisco�s head.

"It�s a lot easier being a cat, Brisco. Don�t let anyone tell you anything different, okay, fella?"

Lindsey cuddled up against me, not saying anything. I reveled in the feeling of her soft body against me, the warmth, her scent, the brush of her hair.

"I don�t really want to do this. George tells me I need to do it to sell books."

Lindsey didn�t say anything. She was just letting me talk.

"Maybe I should retire."

She still didn�t say anything. I felt it against my side when she chuckled, but she remained silent.

"This is really scary," I said, looking down again at Brisco and envying him. All people expected from him was to eat, sleep and use the litter box. Oh, and a little love and affection from time to time.

At last Lindsey spoke.

"I think we both know you can�t just walk away. You love writing too much."

As she said that, she looked up into my eyes for confirmation. She smiled gently when she saw it.

"This isn�t really about selling books, either. You�re not in it for the money. I mean just for the money. You write because you love to write. You can�t help but write."

This woman had come to know me so well. I had an arm around her as we sat on the sofa and I squeezed her shoulder a little at those words. I heard her draw in a deep breath before she continued.

"Remember how you told me you go into libraries and bookstores just to see your books on the shelf? That�s what it�s all about. Telling stories and seeing that people enjoy reading them. That is the fulfillment you get out of this."

She paused to think for a moment. Brisco took the opportunity to rub his head against my hand, demanding a cheek scratch. I obliged him.

"The more you write, the more you have to write. Maslow was right, you know. You have attained success but you�re still climbing the pyramid. You won�t ever be satisfied with what you�ve accomplished. You�re still seeking self-actualization.

"Your fans are so interested in you because they want to know more about the man behind the books. You�ve been keeping that from them. They love the books and now they want the chance to love the man who wrote them. They want to know you. You have to give them that chance."

"I�m afraid. What if they don�t like the man behind the books?"

"You do not have to worry about that."

"You just say that because you love me," I said as I kissed the finger wearing the engagement ring.

"You have been anonymously famous for so long. Now you took a step out of the shadows. You can�t retreat. It is far too late for that."

"What if they want to know about my personal life?"

"Do you mean me? I don�t mind. Tell them about me if you want to. Or don�t. I have you. That�s what matters to me."

"What if they ask about Theresa?" I asked, feeling the fear and pain grip me.

"So tell them about Theresa. Tell them about the love you two shared. Nothing can change that. It�s a big part of your life. It is what shaped who you are. Don�t be ashamed of it. Tell them about her. Let her live in their minds, too."

"How did you get so damned smart?"

"Teachers have to study psychology, you know."

"I didn�t know that. It makes sense, though."

"So how long will you be gone?"

"I don�t know. I hadn�t told George I would do it. I guess I am. Now."

She just smiled.

"He asked if you would come with me."

"Michael, I�m a teacher. I can�t just take time off for a trip. Not during school."

"What about the holidays? You get Thanksgiving and Christmas off, right?"

"Yes?"

"There. How about a trip to New York for the holidays?"

"Are you serious?" Her change in tone betrayed her excitement at the prospect.

"Of course I am. We can go to New York for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. Or both."

"I don�t know�"

"Why not? You want me to do this. I want you at my side when I do it."

"It�s the first holiday without Grandpa."

"I know. It�ll be the first for me without Theresa. We can be there for each other."

"If I go�" she started to say but stopped when she saw my expression. "I am not saying that I will, but if, how much work will you have to do? Will we really have time to spend together?"

"Of course. We�ll have lots of time to be together. George talked about a few interviews and maybe a book signing. I�ve never done those before, but from what I hear we can do them together."

She was quiet for a few minutes.

"New York might be nice at Thanksgiving. I have all week off. And it would give me a chance to shop for your Christmas present."

"So you�ll do it?"

She leaned over my lap.

"What do you think, Brisco? Should I go to New York with him?"

"Say yes, Brisco," I prompted.

"He�s the one who told me I should take you back," she said as we both looked expectantly at him.

Brisco yawned. It was a big cat yawn that showed his teeth in detail, along with the ridges on the inside of his throat. When he finished, he crawled across both of our laps and lay down. Then he started to purr.

"I think he approves," Lindsey said.

"Good boy, Brisco," I told him, and gave him a scratch behind his ears.

George was delighted when I gave him the news the next day. When I told him Lindsey was going to come with me, he was even happier. He thought our love story would mesh perfectly with my coming out as a romance writer.

"What do we do now?" I asked him.

"Let me make a few calls. I think we can assume a few talk show appearances, probably radio and some book signings."

"We want some time to ourselves, too," I told him.

"You�ll have plenty of time for that. Maybe two or three days are all I need. You can fly up on Saturday morning and I can have you home by Wednesday night. Or you can stay and have Thanksgiving in the city."

"I can�t believe I am really doing this, George."

"You should have done it a long time ago."

"I know. I wish I could have given this to Theresa."

"You know she will be there, at your side." George paused. Then, in a weaker voice, "You know they might ask about her."

"I know. Lindsey and I talked about that. If it comes up, I�ll talk about her."

George cleared his throat before saying, "I�m proud of you, Michael. For a while there, I thought you�d never write again."

"It is time to move on," I told him.

Within days, George had me booked for a few television appearances, my first official book signings, and meetings with the publisher of my upcoming book. We planned to leave on the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving. Lindsey would be out of school for the entire week. The weeks leading up to the trip were happy times, full of anticipation over traveling together. I spent most of the time writing, wanting to get a lot more of the book out of the way before I left. Lindsey kept very busy dealing with school and getting ready for the trip. The right clothes were essential, she kept insisting, and she didn�t mean only her. She insisted that I get a few new suits for my public appearances. I let her take control and was led along as she outfitted me. I enjoyed watching how much she was enjoying herself doing this for me.

The Saturday finally arrived cool and clear. We left my house before sunrise because we had a long drive to the airport. Since Fournton was not near any major hubs, and because we were traveling over the Thanksgiving holiday, we couldn�t get a direct flight. In fact, the trip would involve three flights. The first was really a commuter hop to Dallas. George had us booked in first class, but that didn�t mean much on the small plane. We were in the front, but the seating wasn�t really better.

Lindsey was visibly excited. She had never been to New York. I arranged for us to stay at a low-key hotel I had used before, in case the publicity became an issue. I wanted to shield us from that, but I doubted it would be necessary.

The first flight was uneventful. While waiting for the next leg in Dallas, I noticed on the television that the weather in the northeast was getting worse. It looked like we would be having a bumpy flight. Sure enough, the flight to Atlanta was rough. Lindsey had flown before so she wasn�t nervous, but it was obvious she wasn�t comfortable.

Our takeoff from Atlanta was delayed due to the weather. Again we were stuck on a tiny plane. This time it was a tiny commuter jet, so small that there was only one flight attendant and no first class. We sat on the crowded plane for an hour before we took off, after a three hour layover. Once in the air, the pilot announced that he was going to leave the seatbelt sign on because we were expecting "bumpy air." We tried to settle in for what promised to be an uncomfortable two hour flight.

Less than an hour into the flight, there was a rapid series of bangs and the plane suddenly yawed hard one way, then the other. A scream erupted from behind us. I looked down the aisle but couldn�t see anything. People were screaming, panicking. There was another bang and I felt a painful pressure in my eardrums as they blocked. Equally as sudden, a mist formed throughout the cabin and flowed toward the back of the plane. The oxygen masks fell down from the ceiling, like oranges suddenly sprouting on a tree. Screams and flying paper filled the air as the cabin got really cold. I knew something was very wrong but I wasn�t sure what. The nose dropped rapidly�we were going down. The plane began to shudder. I could hear the engine on the left side screaming now, like we were taking off.

Lindsey was in the window seat and when the plane had yawed we were both thrown against the window, with her head caught between mine and the window.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?" I yelled at her over the noise and chaos, with fear tingeing my words.

I checked her for bleeding. She was okay but she would have a nasty bruise. I looked up to get the attendant�s attention for some ice.

Wearing one of the yellow oxygen masks, the flight attendant picked up a microphone and told us how to put on our masks, repeating the safety briefing I had long ago learned to ignore. The flight attendant got up from her seat, carrying an oxygen bottle. Supporting herself on the seat backs against the steep forward angle of the plane, she had just started down the aisle to check on us when, behind her, the telephone dinged rapidly several times. The ring was distant, quieter than it should be. She turned around at the sound and returned to the front, picking up the phone. As she turned back towards us, her eyes grew wide. She nodded a few times, and then hung up the phone.

I heard the pilot�s voice on the cabin speakers. He sounded strangely calm, like he was imitating Jimmy Stewart, as he explained that we had an engine failure and that he was going to put the plane down. I only hoped we were near an airport.

That is when things really changed. The sole attendant�s tone was now businesslike, not friendly like I was used to hearing. The news she gave us was positively terrifying. She told us the plane was going to make an emergency landing in the mountains below us. I could hear people crying all around, and I felt Lindsey stiffen. I knew our chances of survival were not good at that point.

We were told how to lean forward and brace ourselves with the padding of pillows or blankets in our laps when we landed. It was very apparent this "landing" was not going to be at any airport.

It was like preparing for a landing, though, putting up tray tables and raising seatbacks. What was different was being told how to brace for crash. That was a new one for me. Lindsey was in shock, moving slowly.

"Lindsey, listen to me. Don�t panic. This plane is going down. We need to prepare."

Around the yellow oxygen mask, her face showed fear but she was fighting to contain it.

"Michael�"

I tried to speak softly, just loud enough to be heard over the confusion.

"Shh. We may not have a lot of time. When the plane lands, we need to get out as soon as it stops moving. If I�m hurt, you need to leave me and get out. Will you promise me that?"

"No! I won�t leave you. What are you talking about?"

"I�m talking about saving your life. I want to know you will be safe."

The flight attendant was speaking quickly yet deliberately, saying something about removing neckties, and still trying to still sound calm as our doom beckoned from below. It was as if she felt she didn�t have enough time to complete everything.

"Would you leave me if I was the one hurt?" she asked.

I couldn�t lie to her. I wanted to, but I couldn�t lie.

"No."

"Then we do this together. Whatever happens, it happens to both of us," she said as tears streamed down her face.

I felt the plane making several turns, yet descending all the time. The turns felt a lot gentler than I would have expected. Minutes felt like hours. Or maybe they were seconds that seemed like minutes. They might be the last moments of my life. I regretted taking Lindsey along on this trip.

Another voice, a woman who was probably the copilot, broke through the confusion in the cabin. "Flight attendant, take your seat." She sounded gruff and I knew this was it. The attendant finally strapped herself in, facing us, and waiting for the end.

We were told to assume the brace position. Lindsey and I shared one quick glance before we put our heads down. I looked at my shoes and at hers next to mine. The exit lights on the floor caught my eye when they came on. This was one place I did not want to be. I thought about the time I had spent with Lindsey. I was glad for the time with her, but I wished for a moment that I had not fallen in love with her. She should have been safe back in Fournton grading test papers, instead of next to me on this damn plane that was going down.

Then, I heard the sound of someone praying. All other talking stopped and people listened. One by one, people joined in. The Our Father and the Hail Mary were repeated. Maybe it was someone saying the rosary. People whimpered whenever the line "at the hour of our death" was recited. I held on to Lindsey�s hand. I raised the armrest between our seats and put one arm around her.

The front of the plane changed its relentless descent, now suddenly going up. An instant later, I was jolted from my thoughts as the plane bounced really hard. I heard metal groan, felt bumps and bangs. The little jet actually bounced a few more times like it was trying to save itself by returning to the air where it belonged. The whole time this was going on, I could hear the strong voice of the flight attendant, loud but controlled as she repeatedly ordered, "Heads down! Stay down!" A tremendous force pulled me away from Lindsey as the plane turned sideways. We were skidding to the left. An abrupt bump announced by a bang changed that as we were slammed into our seatbelts. A gust of cold greeted me and I looked up to see a hole in the side of the plane across the aisle from us. I shuddered as I realized people had been sitting there a moment before.

Theresa, pray for us, I thought. If I have to die here, don�t take Lindsey. Let her live. Don�t let my decision to take her with me be what kills her.

Loud sounds of tearing metal assaulted my ears, then a tug as I felt pulled forward, the seatbelt cutting into my stomach. The plane had stopped. Dead silence.

Well, silence compared to what we had just been through. As my ears cleared, I heard wind from outside. It howled down the aisle somehow. People whimpered, wounded or scared or both. There was no sound of the engine, no more bangs or bumps. Just the wind and the sobs.

I was dizzy and sore. My head ached. I took a quick inventory to check if I hurt anywhere else. I had feeling in my hands and feet, and everything seemed to move.

The flight attendant sprang into action, as if she had been trained for this. She probably had, as part of some ghoulish safety training. Something that was never supposed to be needed.

"Unfasten seat belts and come this way," she called in a loud, clear and authoritative voice as she stood at the front of the cabin. Behind her, the cockpit door opened with a creak and a groan. Two figures emerged, a man and a woman in uniform. I am sure if I could have seen their faces in the dim light, they would have looked haggard. I heard metal scraping, groaning, and then more wind noise as the door opened.

Guilty that I hadn�t done it sooner, I said softly, "Lindsey?" Then louder "Lindsey?"

"Ow."

My heart leapt. I would know that ow anywhere.

"Lindsey!"

"I�m okay� I think. I ache." Her voice was tiny, terrified.

Then she cried hard for about half a minute before getting enough control to speak.

"I�m just scared. Are we okay now?"

"Yeah, I think so. Let�s get out of here. There might be a fire."

I became aware of other sounds around us. People starting to move, to moan.

"Oh, God, I�m hurt!" � "I can�t move. I�m trapped. Help me!" � "Are we on the ground?"

There was also the sound of wind. I sat up with difficulty, sore from the bumps and the cold. I managed to stand and looked back, seeing a dim light where there shouldn�t be one. The tail section was still there but apparently not fully attached anymore.

Flashlights pierced the darkness, and chemical light sticks made eerie green smudges in the dark interior.

"Bring the blankets," I told Lindsey. "It will be cold out there."

It was already cold inside. The wind I had felt was blowing in from the hole in the side and out the back of what was left of the plane. The air smelled strongly of kerosene.

The flight attendant repeated her command. As the first passengers reached her, she raised her hand like a policeman signaling stop. She directed people out the door. The man in uniform, probably the pilot, brushed past us down the aisle as he checked that people were getting up from their seats. When he reached the hole across from us, I noticed him stop and shake his head.

From outside, I could hear a woman�s voice calling through a megaphone. I guessed it was the copilot. We shuffled forward, towards the flight attendant and the door.

We were both wearing light jackets, but not really equipped for spending a few hours in a snowstorm in the mountains. As we worked our way forward, I noticed that some of the people were injured and having a hard time moving. I let Lindsey slip ahead so I could hang back and help out. She didn�t realize at first that I was not right behind her. When she did, she turned back around and peered through the dimness.

"Michael? What are you doing?"

She hadn�t said that. She screamed it.

"Go on. I am going to help these other people get out."

"No. Not without you!"

"Go!" I called, but it was useless. She was already stepping aside into the seats.

"Whatever happens, it happens to both of us," she told me.

I wanted to argue, but I knew time was a precious commodity. We had to get out. I wanted to help the injured people around me get out of the plane. It looked like bruises and maybe one broken bone. Though I regretted it, I made my decision and got back in line. When I reached her, she stepped into the aisle.

It was cold when we got to the door. I felt the flight attendant�s hand on my back as we got to the door. She was making sure we kept moving. At the door sill, there was no escape slide�the plane was too small. We had to sit on the sill and jump. Luckily, it wasn�t very far to the ground.

It was windy and dark outside, with heavy fog. We were probably inside the cloud cover. Snow was blowing in the wind. I knew we needed shelter, but not inside a plane that still held a lot of jet fuel. Out here, the smell of fuel was even heavier. We had to get away.

I fell into in a pile of snow and immediately felt Lindsey�s hand reaching for mine. We were out of the plane and on the ground. That part was easy. Now, where were we? I wondered.

It wasn�t dark like at night, more grayish. The fog was thick. We had some sunlight but couldn�t see more than a few dozen feet. One thing was immediately apparent�it was damn cold.

We had the blankets and our jackets, and soon came upon one of the flight crew.

"Names and seat numbers, please," she said. It was the flight attendant, now outside and all business again. Whoever had trained her for this deserved a medal.

There was time for politeness back when we were in the air. This was not that time. She was holding a computer printout, probably the passenger manifest. I gave her our names and seats, seeing her make a check next to each of our names. A check for each of us�survivors.

"What about the people still inside the plane?" Lindsey asked.

"The first officer is organizing things out here. The pilot is still inside the plane making sure everyone gets out. We will let you know when we need your help. Stay close. Don�t wander off and get lost."

I nodded and guided Lindsey to a group of other survivors. We were all huddled among some shrubs in the snow. People were sharing blankets and jackets, trying to stay warm.

"We need to start a fire," a man said. "Who has matches or a lighter?"

"With all these security restrictions? Are you kidding?" someone answered.

"There has to be a way. What about rubbing two sticks together?"

"That will take hours, and the wood is too damp," I said. "If we had sun, we could use eyeglasses, but�"

"What are you? Military?"

"No, he�s a writer," Lindsey answered.

"Great. Have any books with you to burn?" the first man asked, half facetiously.

I shook my head.

"My cell phone doesn�t work," one of the women said resignedly. "It can�t get a signal."

A few other people tried theirs with the same results. Wherever we were, it was really remote.

The pilot showed up carrying a plastic case. He carefully opened it and rummaged through the contents. It was a first aid kit from the plane.

There was nothing that could be used to start a fire. The copilot who had the megaphone brought over the crash ax.

"Well, we can cut wood. We just can�t burn it," I said with frustration. "Isn�t there some kind of survival kit on the plane?"

The pilot shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "This is it. Oh, and a bullhorn. We aren�t supposed to crash away from an airport."

"What about this?" someone said, holding out a silver lighter.

"How did you bring that?" I asked, not fully believing what I was seeing.

"These are allowed," he said with a shrug. "Zippo to the rescue."

The captain took command, ordering some people to find burnable wood. There were lots of splinters from where the plane came down, but it was mostly green wood. In time, we had a small pile of reasonably dry wood. Shredding some newspapers from the cabin, we built a small pile.

"It�s not too windy, so this might work," the man with the lighter said. He bent over and lit the paper. It caught fire slowly, but then went out.

"Get some more paper!" he shouted.

We built a bigger pile, and added some cotton from the first aid kit. This time, the tiny flame survived. Carefully, we added small pieces of wood until a real fire was going. It was small, but sustained itself. Gradually, it was built into a real fire. We, the survivors, huddled around the fire, warming ourselves.

The copilot was sent back to the wreckage with a few passengers to get the cargo hold open and go through the luggage. Out of fifty-three passengers and crew, fifty had survived. The people sitting across from us, where the hole had opened in the side, were not around the fire. They were still in their twisted seats, inside. They wouldn�t be going home.

When the copilot and the men helping her came back, carrying things they had salvaged from the luggage, I heard her talking to the pilot.

"No wonder we couldn�t keep it in the air. The reverse clam shell door was stuck open on the bad engine. It was like dragging a damned barn door on that side."

"That must be all the drag we were feeling on that side all the way down," the pilot said sadly. "We never had a chance of keeping it in the air."

While we were huddling around the fledgling fire, someone turned to the two people in uniform.

"I want to thank you for saving my life. That was one hell of a landing."

The pilot looked dazed, but shook the offered hand.

"What�s your name?" he was asked.

"Cal Riada," the pilot answered.

"Thank you, Captain Riada," he was told, and he managed a weak smile.

"Thank you, each of you," the man said. He held his hand out to our female copilot.

"Ginger," she offered.

"Thanks, Ginger. The three of you saved all our lives."

Even the flight attendant, who we learned was named Kate, was thanked.

Those three people had made the difference between life and death for us. Most of us.

As the afternoon wore on, an occasional break in the clouds gave us a brief glimpse of sun, but not for long. It was gloomy, damp and cold. Some more of those thin airline blankets had been liberated from the plane, and a group led by the copilot had found coats among the luggage so we were able to at least dress more appropriately for the weather.

"What are our chances for rescue?" someone asked.

"Yeah, where the hell are we?"

Our attention turned to the flight crew. Captain Riada looked thoughtful for a moment.

"We went down about an hour out of Atlanta, in the Carolinas. North Carolina, near the Tennessee border."

"North Carolina�" a man said, "We�re in mountains. That much is obvious. Did anyone remember seeing any towns before we went down?"

Heads shook all around. There hadn�t been much to see through the clouds.

"Don�t worry," the pilot assured us. "Air Traffic Control knows exactly where we are. We�re in the middle of a big national park so there aren�t many roads, and this weather will keep helicopters on the ground. That�s also why the cell phones aren�t working�no cell towers in the park. We�ll be here until the weather clears, but we will be rescued as soon as they can get out here."

He was doing his best to reassure us, but after his assessment of our status, we were quiet for a long time. The situation wasn�t all that desperate, but we were going to be there for maybe a day or more. I felt Lindsey shudder against me. When I looked at her, I knew she wasn�t shivering. She was crying.

"It�ll be okay," I whispered to her. "We survived the crash. We�re going to make it."

"Michael, no one knows where we are. We could freeze to death out here."

I realized there was some truth to her statement but I couldn�t tell her that. I had to reassure her.

"Honey, we�re going to be found soon. What a story this will make."

The woman sitting next to Lindsey overheard that. Remembering Lindsey�s earlier statement that I was a writer, she said with disgust, "Yeah, a story. So was Alive."

"Our situation is not that desperate," I offered. Then, her comment made me realize something. "What food was on the plane?"

"Are you kidding? This is a commuter flight. They don�t serve meals."

I turned to the flight attendant. "Anything? Nuts? Crackers? Any kind of food?"

"No," she said. "This is a small plane. No real food on board."

One guy suddenly brightened up. "I was going camping. If I can find my bags, I have a few MREs in there."

"Food!" someone else exclaimed. Then, walking over to the man, "I�m Jim. I�ll help you look."

The pilot spoke up. "Do you think you can find your bags?" he asked the first man.

"I think so. My name is Tom."

"Okay, Tom. Ginger and the others hauled all the bags out of the fuselage. Why don�t you and Jim go see if you can find your supplies."

As they started to walk off, Cal called out, "Tom, take the ax," and held it out.

They could be heard working near the fuselage as a few of us tried to build the fire up a little larger.

"Now that it�s burning so well, maybe that green wood will burn," one of the women suggested.

We tried that. Though the fire smoked more, the wet wood did burn. The dark smoke might also stand out in the clouds and attract attention.

Tom and Jim returned with a few brown plastic bundles. We warmed a few and opened them up, sharing what little food we had. It was hard to decide how much to ration since we didn�t know how long it would take for us to be rescued.

The cloud cover lightened a little as sunset approached. It was apparent we would have to spend the night on the mountain. We worked together to gather as much wood as we could so we could keep the fire going all night without having to look for wood in complete darkness.

A section of fuselage that had broken off was dragged over so we could get off the cold ground. We huddled near the fire, wrapped in blankets and jackets to ward off the cold. It was going to be a long night.

Darkness came quickly because of the mountains and the cloud cover. The leaping flames cast eerie shadows on the wreckage of the plane. People were sobbing or talking quietly. Morale was low. It would get lower if anyone else died during the night.

I held Lindsey to me to try to keep her warmer, and thought about where we should have been by that time. We were supposed to be eating dinner at the hotel, overlooking Times Square. We were supposed to be going to bed in New York City, in a nice warm bed. Instead, we were sitting around a fire on the top of a mountain God knows where.

Small sounds drew me out of my morose thoughts. I looked up and noticed a few others also looking in the direction of the sounds. They were coming from the wreckage.

"Animals," Tom said, sounded disgusted.

"Are they attracted by the smell of the food?" the flight attendant asked.

"No," he said. Then he paused. We were all waiting for his answer. I saw him swallow in the flickering light. "The bodies."

His answer chilled me. I felt Lindsey shiver.

"We have to keep the fire going to keep the animals away," Tom went on. "They won�t approach the fire."

The men got up and added wood to build up the fire. It might mean we would have to look for more wood in the dark, but it also meant we were warmer.

Everyone settled down again, but no one was able to doze off. It wasn�t just because of the cold. It was the thought of whatever was making those sounds was doing to the bodies in the plane.

Morning came as the last of the wood was burning down. A pink sky told that the clouds had cleared. That was a good sign�we could be spotted from the air. People stirred slowly. No one was anxious to move from where it was warm.

"We need more wood," I said as I shifted from Lindsey�s side.

"Can�t it wait?" she asked me.

"No, we need to have a signal fire. They are going to be searching for us now that the storm has cleared.

That got everybody who wasn�t injured moving. The pilot also organized a group to take tree branches and spell out an SOS in the snow. Lindsey and I were dragging part of a tree back to the fire when we heard the sound of an airplane approaching. It was a small plane but it spotted us and began circling. Everyone shouted and waved.

We stood huddled there, looking up at our salvation. It seemed so close, yet so far away. What sustained us was the knowledge that we had been found. We hoped that meant help would arrive soon.

Arrive it did. It took almost an hour, but the beat of a helicopter was heard. It approached and landed in the snow. As soon as it touched down, men scrambled out and ran to us. The pilot was the first one to reach the rescuers and he gestured as he talked.

Another helicopter hovered nearby. The men evaluated us for injuries and the hurt were helped aboard. It felt lonely there, seeing that helicopter leave, but the other one landed as soon as that first one was away. Lindsey and I were put onboard the second one and we took off. It was loud, the sound and vibration penetrating our bodies, though I could feel Lindsey plastered to my side. We had survived. I looked out the window at the wreckage as we flew away. From the air, the damage was more apparent. Our plane had lost a wing and the tail was hanging on at a crazy angle. The failed engine had torn a hole in the fuselage. That must have been the bang, and the reason for the pressure loss. The back of the damaged engine had what looked like a door hanging off the back, probably that reverser thing the pilots had been talking about. The crash must have been caused by an engine failure. I felt lucky we had survived. I also felt a lot more respect for Cal Riada and his crew. They really had saved our lives.

Before long, we landed at an airport near a city but I still didn�t know where we were. Our rescuers helped us out of the big grey bird that had borne us to safety. We were guided towards a building. Before we got to the door, though, there were the news crews. Our adventure had apparently made the news.

"There he is!" a woman shouted. "Over there, at him, at him!"

She was pointed to me, gesturing for a cameraman.

"That�s him!" a man in a suit, and with perfect hair, added.

Lights came on, directed at us. Well, at Lindsey and me. Not at the others.

"Mr. Stryker! Mr. Stryker, a few questions, please," a reporter pleaded. All of them jockeyed for position, pushing microphones at me as lights obscured my vision. I looked out into a sea of lenses.

I couldn�t imagine how they could have picked us out, and I was embarrassed that they were paying attention to only me. We had all survived the crash.

"Our viewers want to know if you are alright. Will this change your plans to do appearances in New York?"

I was dazed by all the attention.

"Honestly, I hadn�t thought about that. We�ve just been through a very difficult time, all of us. Please�" and I tried to clear a path for Lindsey.

My actions were thwarted by another reporter.

"Was anyone killed in the crash?"

"I think that is a question for the airline," I said, an angry edge to my voice.

I started to turn away, but then stopped. I had one more thing to say.

"I would like to publicly thank the flight crew. Captain Cal Riada and his crew saved us. They managed to land the plane when our situation looked hopeless. They saved our lives."

I turned and pushed through the crowd, ignoring the other questions. Behind me, I heard them wrapping up the interview. We caught up with the rest of the others, entering the warmth of the terminal. Inside, I picked out one voice right away.

"Michael!"

It was George. How he got here, I don�t know, but here he was. He was pushing his way towards us, his arms out as he reached us. He hugged me, and then turned to Lindsey.

"And this is Lindsey? My dear, I see how you could�ve captured Michael�s heart." Then, turning to me and speaking just over a whisper so Lindsey could still hear, "Damn, she�s lovely, my good friend. You chose well."

In spite of all we had been through, Lindsey chuckled and blushed. Seeing her do that, do something so normal, made me realize we were really safe. We had survived.

There is a medical center near that airport and medical staff had been quickly assembled to assess us upon our rescue. The injured passengers were transferred to the medical center but the rest of us were released. We were fed and offered hotel rooms to clean up. Unfortunately, our baggage was still at the crash site. The NTSB wanted to examine the entire wreckage to determine the cause so our bags would not be released for some time, perhaps days or even weeks. We were given debit cards to buy replacement clothes and suitcases in the interim.

George, meanwhile, was already lining up a flight for us.

"If we get to New York tonight, you can still do Letterman tomorrow. His people have been calling me to see when you would be available. You are hot property now, Michael. Everybody wants to talk to you and they keep reminding me that they had booked you first."

"George, after what just happened to us, I�"

"After what just happened to you, this is the best time to strike. We can manage this into even more publicity. Think what it will mean in book sales."

I knew where George was coming from, but I had more than just me to think about. Perhaps Lindsey would want to just go home and call the trip off. I looked to her.

She shrugged and said, "What time is the flight, George?"

He and I looked at each other. He nodded and smiled.

"You have quite a woman there, Michael."

"I know," I answered with a smile.

"Then let�s get going. Our plane leaves in an hour." He pulled three tickets out of his suit jacket pocket. "I took the liberty of booking the flight."

I shook my head.

"What? Do you know how much money you will make me after those appearances?"

Lindsey surprised us both when she spoke up. "You make it sound like Michael belongs to you, George." Then before he could answer, "He�s all mine," she continued, holding tightly onto my arm as we walked towards security.

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