Pelt

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Both propellers failed. Water splashed the windshield. Wind blew. It seemed almost artificial.

“We’ve got to use the parachutes,” Gallagher Bee, 42, said. He wiped his brow.

“There’s three of us and only two of those!” nineteen-year-old Nyla Reis blurted out with panic. She looked out the window.

“Don’t touch the door. Just remember your loved ones,” Gabor Campion announced. She was thirty-five-years-old. “Call them now!”

“We have to follow the protocol. No one touches the door or else the entire plane explodes.”

“How are we supposed to get out of here?” Gabor asked. Her voice sounded like she had been wounded.

“Can we open a window?” Nyla asked.

“And what? Squeeze adults through the opening with parachutes?”

“There’s only two.”

“That’s been established,” Gabor retorted.

“Now is no time for bickering ladies. We are losing pressure and falling faster by the minute.” Lightning flashed. Rain continued to pelt the plane.

“We’ve got to open the door. We’ve got to find a way to make a splashdown or something,” Gabor petitioned. It was like the air had grown thicker with every breath expressed.

“We can’t do a water landing. We’re over land now! You two ladies, you take the parachutes and do the impossible. Open. The. Door.”

“ Won’t it blow up?!”

“That’s the chance we have to take. If we don’t survive this free fall, it will mean that we’re going to have to try,” Bee said.

The two women looked at each other and shrugged. They donned the parachutes and opened the door. They saw gaffers, best boys, production assistants, the screenwriter, the director and a few extras around the craft services table.

“Cut!”

“How was that, Jim?” Gabor asked.

“One more take and we’re done for the day.”