Page 124 of Just Come Over
His hands on the seat, and Hugh’s big hands beside his, as scarred as his own. The hard jolt from underneath them, different from the wind gusts.
Impact.
The landing gear struck once on the left side, and the plane lifted up, wobbled, then came down hard again. The wing outside rose, then fell. Hugh’s forearm pressing into his, the left wheel hitting again and again, then holding.
Tilted to the left. The side where the landing gear was. Going too fast.
His body jerked backward as the pilot rammed on the brakes, and the plane swiveled around, skidded, and tilted some more, to the right this time. Tilted far. The wing tip, out his window, was striking sparks on the runway.
Too fast. Too fast.
They skidded off the runway to the right, tail first, like a carnival ride, the green that was grass, not tarmac, coming closer and closer, until they were bumping, because they’d gone off. Like it was happening in slow motion. A series of jolts, and people were screaming. They were still tipped too far, the plane resting on one wheel on the left side, its belly on the right, the wing digging in, ripping through the earth like butter, and then a hardcrunch.
They were canted so far over, Hugh was practically in his lap, but the plane was slowing. Stopping. Outside, a bloom of orange flame. Beyond it, nothing but gray.
Engine fire. And water. We’re in the Harbour.
Not even a split second, and the voice on the speaker.
“Evacuate evacuate evacuate.”
Ahead of him, and behind him, he was sure, the flight attendants were going to the door. Only on the left side, though, where the exit slides wouldn’t reach the ground. Which was why he’d put the forwards there, able to fall correctly, and then to catch the others.
Why was nobody going out the right side, though? He forced the logic. They couldn’t get the doors open on that side, maybe. There wouldn’t be room for them to swing up and out, not with the plane tipped almost on top of them.
And—wait. Maybe there was land on their left. They couldn’t be in the water. If they had been, people would’ve been putting on life vests. They were just close.
He told Hugh, “Everybody goes out the left exits,” and Hugh nodded.
More chanting.
“Unfasten seatbelts, come this way. Unfasten seatbelts, come this way. Unfasten seatbelts, come this way.”And passengers standing, hanging onto seat backs.
The man in the seat ahead of Rhys, his dark hair rumpled, turned around, shouting into his face. “Open the exit! Open the window! We need to get out!”
“Go forward,” Rhys bellowed back. “Go forward. Go forward.”
Hugh was turned around, shouting, “Go back. Go back. Go back,” to the rows behind them. He was waving an arm, too.Good idea,Rhys thought, and added the arm motion.
He could see, in the aisles, the taller frames that were his players. Koti James with a toddler in his arms, heading steadily forward ahead of a mum with a baby so tiny, how was she going to get down the slide safely with it? Matt Grainger, the right winger, behind her, though. He’d be holding her and the baby on the way down. Kevin McNicholl, six or seven seats ahead, lifting a frail lady who looked ninety into his arms, saying something to her, smiling, carrying her out.
Outside his window, the fire was raging. Inside the fuselage, he smelled smoke. And still the rows emptied. So slowly. Too slowly. He told Hugh, “I’ll go forward. You go back,” and saw Finn and Nico splitting off in the same way opposite him. Waiting to make sure everybody was out. Waiting until the end. The smoke was thicker, a choking blanket of gray, and he was finally moving forward, touching seatbacks, counting his way to the exit, row by row.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Emergency lighting, two ribbons of white, showing him the way. Nico pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, and Rhys thought,Oh,and did the same thing.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Nico ahead of him, moving steadily onward. Rhys didn’t look behind him. He couldn’t have seen through the smoke anyway, and he didn’t need to, because his players would have done their jobs. He knew it as surely as he knew they’d be running at their mate’s shoulder when the pass came. Doing their part, and trusting their mate to do his. Playing what was in front of them. Keeping their heads.
Coughing, now, in the smoke, which smelled evil, like burning metal. The flight attendants at the exit, the last ones left, the only ones looking backward. Nico’s head disappearing as he jumped onto the slide, and then Rhys was jumping after him, landing on the soft surface and feeling the rain begin to pelt him, like a ride at a water park. He slid down fast and was caught in midair by arms he couldn’t see, then moved off to the side, because there’d be two more after him. The last two. The flight attendants. Everybody on the ground.
He pivoted so he was beside the men at the left-hand side of the slide. Marko Sendoa, and Kors beside him. They caught a flight attendant between them, and Rhys shouted, “That’s it! Go go go!” Marko pointed to the left and they headed off. Alongside the plane, staying clear of the wings, around the tail, and to the left, toward the runway, because on the other side, meters away, was the water.
Shouts ahead of them. Will Tawera, yelling the way you had to in order to be heard above eighty thousand screaming fans, directing his squad.“Toward me! Toward me! Keep moving! Toward me!”
Rhys could feel the heat of the fire on his back, but he didn’t look. He followed Marko and Kors and headed toward that voice as the rain plastered his hair to his head and beat down on his body.
