Flight To Nowhere

Flight from runway 21 takes the passengers on a flight they never planned for

Words 1258

The pilot stood beside the small plane as a frigid wind whipped across the runway, making him shiver. He wished he’d worn his jacket, the white cotton shirt with the winged epaulettes offered little warmth against the frost.

The aircraft sat fueled, ready to go, his checklist completed in his own writing, although he had no memory of filling it out. In fact, he realised, he didn’t even know what he was doing there. Ice crystals coated the plane’s fuselage and as the sun rose, they shimmered like scattered diamonds. Fine vapours curled from the tarmac and in the complete silence the young pilot felt suddenly and terribly alone, as though the rest of the world had simply vanished.

He checked the passenger manifest once more. There were six names listed, no time of departure or destination, but the number of the runway—21—was painted in large, white numbers.
Feeling more disoriented and confused, the pilot peered through the mist for something he recognised, or someone—anyone. In the thickening fog nothing was visible but at last he heard hurrying footsteps. Out of the haze a figure materialised. It was a man. He had the appearance of someone who had dressed hurriedly, his shirt only half-tucked into his trousers.

‘Is this it?’ he said, breathlessly. ‘Is this the one?’

The pilot automatically checked the passenger list. ‘Name?’

‘Norman. But am I in the right place?’ he insisted.

‘Mr Norman Ballentine?’ The man nodded, relief flooding his face.

‘Luggage?’

Norman stared. He seemed confused and shook his head as if he didn’t understand the question.

Opening the rear door and lowering the steps, the pilot gestured to the man to get in the plane.

Returning to his place outside the plane the pilot waited. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, the fog thicker now and he seriously doubted permission would be given for take off. He turned, trying to get a glimpse of the tower when he felt a hand on his shoulder. There had been no sound of anyone approaching. He gasped and spun around.

A frail old woman suddenly appeared. Breathless, she stared into his eyes. ‘Thank God! I’m not too late, am I?’ she gasped.

‘How did you get here?’ the pilot asked. ‘Are there any others in the terminal?’

She seemed not to hear him. ‘This is runway 21?’

He nodded, not knowing what to say. He was still holding the passenger list. The old woman tapped it sharply. ‘Mrs Sheila Castle. There.’ Her finger pointed to her name.

Assisting her up the few steps into the plane and stowing her walking frame he watched her gratefully sit down next to Norman and yet make no sign of acknowledgement anyone else was there.

Soon more passengers arrived, each one emerging from the fog silently with no warning. One, a woman in her thirties, seemed agitated. ‘Is my daughter here?’ she asked the pilot, who, after getting her name, told her according to the manifest she was travelling alone.

None so far were carrying luggage or asked anything about the destination.

A young man, around the same age as the pilot, was the last to arrive. As he drifted ethereally out of the mist, he seemed confused, searching the pockets of his motorcycle leather jacket.
‘Boarding pass, boarding pass,’ he repeated.

‘Name.’

‘Simon.’

‘You’re hurt.’ The pilot saw blood seeping from the bandage.

Irritably, the motorbike rider swiped at the blood on his face with his hand. ‘Well, can I board or not?’

The pilot nodded. After checking there were no more passengers to come and even though he had no destination in mind, he climbed into the cockpit. Muscle memory took over as he began pre-flight checks. His hands moved from switch to switch automatically, guided by training rather than thought.

Flight controls. Trim. Fuel mixture. Flaps.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seatbelts always fastened. There are two exits forward and aft in case of emergency.’ We are just awaiting clearance for take-off. Enjoy your flight.’

He checked the manifest one more time. Six passengers' names previously but now there was a seventh, his own, James O’Donnell. He frowned and wondered how his name had come to be on the passenger list. He shrugged and decided it must be a clerical error and chose to ignore it.

He called the tower. ‘CVH-Tango-Foxtrot-Whiskey ready for departure. Requesting clearance for take-off.’ There was no answer. After looking through the windscreen into complete whiteness, he shrugged and started the engine. Despite the fact there were no runway lights, no other aircraft and no radio response, aircraft CVH-TFW took off.

The six passengers remained silent as the plane gained altitude. Through the windows there was nothing to see except white cloud. Suddenly the young woman spoke. ‘I only took my eyes off the road for a few seconds,’ she said, in little more than a whisper. ‘My daughter, she had dropped her teddy. I was just…’ her voice petered out. No one asked her for any further explanation or acknowledged she’d even spoken.

‘Ah, yes, I remember now. I was running late.’ Norman spoke quietly to himself as if it was all starting to make sense.

‘I’m going home,’ the elderly lady, Sheila Castle, spoke the words under her breath. Her previously lined face and furrowed brow were smoother, more relaxed. Closing her eyes, she whispered the word ‘home,’ and smiled.

In the cockpit, pilot James O’Donnell, continued to fly the plane despite having no radio contact. The needle on the compass simply spun around. There was no horizon, no ground, only dense, white fog, and no sound.

‘I remember the headlights and the screech of brakes. I was on my way to the airport.’ The motorcyclist stopped speaking and touched the bandage. ‘But now I’m dead,’ he said the words in a matter-of-fact kind of way, but there was no one left to hear as all the seats were now empty.

A sudden burst of turbulence caused the little plane to rock; the passenger manifest fell on to the floor of the cockpit. After he had grappled with the controls to steady the plane, James reached down to collect the list. He noticed now there were fewer names than there had been. Turning around to check on his passengers he saw they were no longer there. Norman, the young mother, the old lady, all of them. Vanished.

James began to descend through the whiteness. There was no wind buffeting the little Cessna, no engine roar, just complete silence. The aircraft’s height was impossible to judge yet the altimeter continued to drop gradually. There was still no ground visible.
A shape suddenly appeared before him—runway lights. The runway seemed to stretch on endlessly, the center line glowing in the darkness. He could see no terminal, no tower, and no markings except for the number 21. It was as if the runway was floating in the whiteness.

‘You’re cleared to land.’ Through his headphones, James heard a calm but distorted voice. There was no call sign or controller identity. The aircraft descended smoothly, the wheels touched with no bump, no screech of tyres.

James O’Donnell sat for a few minutes in the empty aircraft, before climbing out of the cockpit. He stood next to the Cessna and shivered. He wished he’d worn his jacket; the white cotton shirt with the winged-epaulettes offered little warmth against the frost. He was beginning to wonder what he was even doing there, when out of the mist a figure suddenly materialised.