A/N: Another day, another Beatles story. Once again, it is 12am. Idk, I think I just get my bursts of creativity late at night. This came to me when I was reading a crime thriller and I think it's pretty original. Please review :D
P.S: There will most probably be a lot of George in this story, I don't really write about him and I feel like I need to. So, George lovers, rejoice!
"Alrighty fellas, how would you like to see a bit of what Mexico has to offer, huh?" asked Jack Stone. "We'll get ya strapped into the plane and take her right up to the rainforest, whaddaya say?"
The Beatles were on a holiday in Tres Hermanas in Mexico. It was great, because no one knew who they were. They were staying in a retired war flying ace's grand mansion because there wasn't really any nice hotels. It was just the four of them; even Brian agreed they didn't need to be chaperoned all the time.
"Sure," said Paul. "We'll just go get ready,"
The boys went upstairs in to their adjoining rooms and dressed quickly. They had learned that, although Mexico was a hot place, it had a tendency to rain heavily at times, so they wore baggy trousers and shirts and each had a raincoat, just in case. Stone was dressed in formal flying attire. John had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the man's flying cap and oversized goggles. They exited the mansion and went to the small airstrip behind it. Stone looked up at the sky and frowned.
"Hmm, could be a storm brewin'"
George secretly hoped there was. He detested flying.
"We'll take her up anyhow, and see how we go," Stone led the boys in to an old Ford plane with 6 seats. He handed them each a set of headphones and told them to belt up.
"Okay guys we're gonna take her up, nice and slow," came Stone's muffled voice through the earphones.
George gulped and gripped the handles of the seats so hard, his knuckles turned white.
Ringo looked over at the poor chap. He wished he had a travel pill for him but he had left them back at the house.
John rolled his eyes. As usual George was being a wimp about flying. Even though John himself was a little apprehensive at flying in a small, old plane, but he kept quiet.
Paul looked out the window at the dense jungle below. He hadn't stopped grumbling since they arrived at Mexico. He didn't particularly want to come and he didn't like Stone. They could have gone to Spain or France, but Mexico? His bandmates were clearly against him, so he had had to back down.
They flew steadily for about half an hour and they were getting rather bored. Stone evidently had not noticed this.
"So, fellas, is this the life or what?" came his voice through their headphones.
"Erm, yeah, it's great, thanks for this Jack," said Ringo, politely.
"Well, I'll take her round now, then we'll land, how's that sound?"
"Great," said Paul, with a hint of sarcasm.
Stone said nothing and continued to fly the plane.
George was concentrating on his feet, when he heard what sounded like tiny stones pattering the window beside him. It was hailstones. George looked out the window and saw lightning. They had flown in to the belly of a storm. Gulping, he resumed looking at his feet.
John had noticed that George seemed paler than usual and decided to find out why.
"Ey, Georgie what's wrong?" he asked.
The younger man said nothing, but grunted towards the window. John looked out and could see nothing but rain and they seemed to be getting lower.
"Erm, Mr Stone, it seems to be raining slightly," he said, slightly sarcastically in to his headphones.
"I've noticed," came a snappy reply. John was taken aback. This was the first time Stone had not been the perfect host.
He was struggling with the controls and the plane lurched sideways.
George closed his eyes and said a prayer to himself.
Paul looked up at Stone to see what the man was doing to stop this.
John stared out the window, and thought about his wife and son back home. He was scared.
Ringo simply glanced at his feet. What would happen, would happen.
The boys noticed that they were getting closer to the greenery below.
"We're goin' full nose down!" shouted Stone and the plane landed with a thud in the rainforest, slid along until finally grinding to a halt, some 50 feet from where it had first hit the ground.
*George POV*
Was I dead? It certainly felt like it. I was asleep and cosily dreaming. I was approaching a white light and I could see my grandad.
"Now, son, you've to go back, you can't come here," he said.
"But-" I began.
"No buts,"
I sighed. That was Grandpa John alright.
"Ey, Georgie, wake up son," came a Liverpudlian voice.
No John, let me sleep. Go away. Scram. Vamoose.
He persisted in shaking me until I opened my eyes and rolled over. I started coughing and I could taste dust in my mouth and I smelt smoke. I felt a great deal of pain in my ankle, so I looked down. I wish I didn't. There was skin flapping around and blood pouring from a wound. The bone was stuck out at a funny angle.
"Now I know why you hate flying," said Paul to my right. He was nursing a nasty gash in his arm and he shuddered when he looked at my ankle.
"What happened?" I mumbled.
"We went down, in the storm," said Ringo, who looked unharmed.
John was over in the fallen plane, rummaging around. He came back with bandages and started to bandage up Paul's arm and my ankle. Mimi had taught him something then.
I sat up quickly. "What happened to Stone?"
"He's dead," said John harshly, tying the bandage in to a tight knot.
My stomach flipped. Jack Stone was dead. Just a few minutes ago he'd been flying them around.
"Well, what do we do now?" said Ringo.
No one had an answer to that.
A few hours later, we had set up a camp of sorts. I was resting my head on a large palm leaf and my foot was elevated upon a log. John had got a fire going, Paul had found some fruit and Ringo had taken canteens from the plane and filled them in a nearby river. It didn't feel like we were Beatles anymore. It felt like we were savages, cavemen even, deserted from all civilization.
Eventually, we all drifted off to sleep, until I was awoken by the sounds of a truck. Were we saved?
Paul stood up and tried to flag it down. "Help us, please!"
The truck braked and 4 men and 2 women got out and surveyed us.
After a while, one of the women whispered something to one of the men, who grinned.
"Hey there boys," he said with an American accent. "You guys are quite famous, why are you stranded in the middle of nowhere, huh?"
"We, erm, were on a plane, it crashed," mumbled Ringo.
A woman with long red hair came over to me and took a look at my ankle.
"Jeez darlin', that looks nasty," she said in a Southern drawl. I kept quiet. She laughed. "This is a quiet one Jeeves," she said to the first man.
"Oh, he'll talk," said Jeeves, just loud enough for me to hear.
"Alright, well, hope on to the back of the truck fellas," said another man, who was short and stocky.
Ringo climbed on first, then, with John and Paul supporting me, I got on and we sat down. Suddenly we were ambushed by the other woman, who was small and tan, she looked Mexican. Nimbly, she tied us to a bench going around the back of the truck.
"Ey, what do you think you're doing?" shouted John.
The Southern woman laughed. "Alejandra is simply helping us, Mister Lennon. Now, keep quiet, you don't want to get on my bad side,"
I eyed the small woman with fear as she took Ringo's hand and sliced his little finger off with a small blade. He yelled out in pain.
"You've cut me finger off!"
"Insurance, seῆor" she said with a thick Mexican accent as she sat on top of a metal box, her eyes never leaving us.
A/N: Ohoho, I bet you didn't see that coming! I hope you enjoyed this, and I really would love if you reviewed, it takes 30 seconds and inspires me to write more!
Thanks guys!