The plane was slicing through the air, on its side. Whistling as it plunged, faster and faster. Shaking—the makeup of the plane, the fiberglass, plastics, metals and bolts were vibrating, buckling as if the plane were about to be torn in two.
Flashes of lightning! The slapping of hundreds of thousands of beads of rain, made worse by the fact that the plane was slapping back, like two closed fists slamming together mid-punch. Thunder roaring all around.
Virginia needed to get Chad out of the pilot's seat before the plane was torn apart by their trajectory.
She yanked on his seatbelt, trying to get it undone. Finally she took the knife from her hair and cut the seatbelt away. Since they were listed on their side, she would have to pull him up and out of the seat. She yelled as she pulled and lifted the heavy man an inch at a time out of the seat, out of her way.
Then she climbed over his slumped body, into the seat.
"Brandon!" she yelled as she assumed the controls.
She needed him to be prepared to take over.
Jake had left the cockpit, was apparently dealing with the passengers. She heard gunshots being fired from back in the plane.
"Brandon!"
It was no use. It was so loud here that the gunshots that were only twenty feet away sounded like a muted bass drum. Kick, kick. Or maybe even a Tap, tap, like the sound of a loose snare. Whether or not Jake was a prodigy with his gun and was handling the situation in the fuselage, Virginia needed to prove her prodigious nature with the rescue of this plane.
She turned the yoke as hard as she could and held it steady as the plane, whistling through the air, began to level. The instrument panel was full of red lights, warning signals, needles past maximum lines. Looking out the windshield was no use. All she could see was water beating against it—a constant stream of thick water.
Darkness beyond.