Departure by A. G. Riddle Page A

but they seem to have aged decades in a single day. Their faces are wrinkled and hollow, but it’s more than that. These people are really old, all over, not just starved and exhausted.
    I’m not the only one unnerved by this. Sabrina’s losing control. Her eyes are wild, her motions quick and sloppy. Something very, very strange is happening here. Does she know what it is? Or is she finally losing it? Either way, it’s not good news for any of us.
    Pushing away from the wall, I step forward into the first-class galley, ready to lunge into my seat in the first row. There’s a brief flash in my peripheral vision to the right—a man running through the door, carrying a woman. They collide with me before I can turn, the woman landing on my right leg.
    AWARENESS. PAIN. I’M IN MY seat again, my legs outstretched. It’s pitch-black outside now, night for sure. Still raining.
    A woman I don’t know sits on the floor in front of me, her back flat against the wall. She rises and holds out her open hand, on which rests a large white pill. “Sabrina said to take this.”
    I take the pill and toss it back. My throat’s so dry it takes half a bottle of water to get it down.
    I let my drenched head fall back to the headrest and watch as passengers drag three limp bodies past me toward the exit. All dead.
    I focus on the faces. Nate isn’t among them. Neither is the Indian girl in the Disney World shirt. It’s the new arrivals, the people that just came in from the lake. Two more go by. How many have died? Another body passes. The faces are even older than when they arrived. What’s happening here?
    Behind me I hear Sabrina’s voice. Her droning monotone hasturned to a sharp bark, harsh and urgent. She’s interrogating passengers, barely waiting for their responses: “Where do you reside? Have you visited any of these clinics: King Street Medical in New York City, Bayside Primary Care in San Francisco, or Victoria Station Clinic in London? Did you get a flu shot at any of these locations? Do you take a multivitamin? What brand? Do you use an air freshener at home? Do you have any chronic medical conditions?”
    Then she’s at my side, no preamble, hammering me with the same list of questions, barely waiting for answers. The only doctor I’ve seen in years is my gynecologist, I tell her. I didn’t get a flu shot this year, and I take a women’s multivitamin. When I fumble for the brand name, she leans in and grills me like a murder suspect at Scotland Yard. I finally come up with the brand, and she scribbles it down, nodding, like it’s the clue that will nab Jack the Ripper. Then she’s gone.
    I sit up, glance out of the pod. They’re hauling two more people out.
    The pain moves down a notch, mellows. I know this feeling, know what she gave me: a pain pill.
    Sleep comes in seconds.
    I AWAKE TO DARKNESS AND silence. The pain is back. I turn, looking back down the aisle, but I can’t make anything out. There’s almost no moonlight filtering through the small windows. It’s still raining, but not as hard, just a steady pitter-patter now.
    I lie there, letting my eyes adjust.
    On my right, a slim figure slips by. Yul.
    Faint footsteps behind me. A woman, black hair, about my height. Mechanical walk. Sabrina.
    Three seconds later I hear the click of a thick metal door closing.
    I stretch my good leg out into the aisle, test the other. Not good. I limp, hop, and drag myself through the galley, keeping as quiet as I can.
    They’re being more careful this time, and I have to stand close to the door to hear anything.
    â€œWe did this,” Sabrina insists.
    â€œYou don’t know that.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œCorrelation is not causation, Sabrina. You ask every passenger the right questions, and eventually you’ll discover that they all know somebody who knows Kevin Bacon.”
    â€œWho’s Kevin Bacon?”