Hello all! I'm sorry - I have been out of the writing groove for a long time. Hence why this chapter is relatively short but hey, something is better than nothing, right? I hope to continue this story, though it is challenging, of course. And I hope you enjoy it, even though it will be emotional and difficult to read at times. I'm trying to remain mostly historically accurate but with some modifications. For example, the conversation Phoebe has with operations is almost exactly the conversation Betty Ong had on the actual day.
Please let me know what you think. Feedback is appreciated.
D/C: I don't own Hey Arnold]
Arnold
I'd just sat down at my desk when my supervisor, Ron, told me we were heading up to one of the conference rooms upstairs for a meeting. My computer had just finished booting up and I looked at the time. 8:12. I have about ten minutes before I should leave. I have to go up nineteen floors to the 106th so I'm definitely taking the elevator again. That should give me plenty of time to get to the conference before our 8:30 meeting.
There isn't much for me to do in ten minutes. I could dig into some spreadsheets I was working on yesterday but with only ten minutes to spare, I don't think it's worth it. I sigh and lean back in my office chair. It's relatively comfortable but makes an unsettling squeak when I go back past a certain point. The last thing I need is to fall out of the chair and onto the floor like an idiot - or worse, break the chair. I already feel out of place here. I'm friendly with everyone, of course, but I can't relate to any of them. I think a lot of my coworkers come from financially stable backgrounds - they've got their Master's degrees in things like Finance and Business, they live in the nice areas… Of course, I've had friends that were wealthier than I am. Rhonda Lloyd, for example. But there are two important things to consider there:
We grew up together, and
I wasn't the only kid in the neighborhood whose family didn't have a lot of money
Heck, even Helga's family was more financially comfortable than mine ever was, now that I think about it. Her dad was always going after the next scheme to make even more money or grow his business, but at the same time, they still weren't close to the Wellington-Lloyd level.
The point is, this doesn't feel right. This isn't who I want to be or what I want to do with my life but I'm doing it because I have to, for now. I'd love to do something that helps people - really helps them. I always think of my parents when I'm dreaming of the future and what would make them proud. Maybe studying other cultures and finding ways to help the native people in different countries. My mom knew medicine but I don't know if that's for me. I like talking to people and helping them with their problems. I've been doing that my whole life so most of my friends always tease me about becoming a counselor. Then there's art - I think it would be cool to be an architect. There are just so many ideas running through my head all the time but none of them involve balancing budgets and financial planning and the stock market. I try and think about how I would advise someone else in my position to just make the best of their current situation but that only makes me think about how I should be a psychologist or something so I'm back to square one.
Phoebe
It all happened so fast, I'm having difficulty believing this is real.
I'm not the only flight attendant on this plane. Karen, an experienced attendant, is tending to the business class as I go up and down the aisles of economy asking the passengers if they need anything. Brian and Amanda, the other attendants, are taking care of the passengers in first class, up front.
They were, at least.
I was pushing a beverage tray down the aisle and serving a cup of orange juice to a burly man with a pleasant smile when I heard the shouting from behind the curtain leading to business class. Karen immediately pops out from behind the curtain as a slew of passengers from the front run frantically into economy class.
For a moment, the air around me is thick with confusion and hysteria but when I see a splotch of blood on one of the passengers shirts, my heart immediately begins to race. Passengers are pushing past me as they try to get as far back as they can and I'm reminded of the blind panic of wild herds of animals who have been spooked. They don't know where they're going, only that they must get away from something. But what was going on?
I manage to reach Karen who is still next to the curtain, motioning for people to go back. Her chest is rising and falling in deep, fast breaths and her eyes are wide and wild.
"Karen, what's happening?"
Before she can answer, I notice my throat feels irritated and my eyes are watering. It is then that I notice some of the incoming passengers are coughing repeatedly, deeply.
"A few men up there," Karen says and I notice her voice sounds raw and scratchy. "They sprayed mace at everyone,"
"What?" I ask, dumbfounded, even as the fumes irritate my own airways. "How -"
"Get to the -" Karen coughs. "Get to the back, Phoebe,"
"We need to -"
"They stabbed them" Karen's voice is hoarse in my ear as she physically turns me around and pushes me down the aisle. "There's blood everywhere, they went to the front," Karen's harsh voice is beginning to break and her fear is palpable.
"Who?" I beg her to answer. My head is spinning with an influx of information that doesn't make sense. There are people struggling to hide behind rows of seats that are already full but Karen doesn't relent - she pushes me through and I stumble over the legs and feet of passengers who are still halfway in the aisle.
We get to the back and Karen pulls the curtain shut before grabbing one of the phones and forcefully dialing.
"Call someone!" She screams and I jump.
"What do I say?" I plead, my own confusion and panic rising. "What happened?"
"Passengers up front," Karen takes a breath to try and slow down but as she inhales, she coughs. I try to suppress my own urge to cough and tune out the sounds of passengers coughing, crying, and shouting. "They sprayed mace and someone slit this guy's throat. Brian and Amanda came back and they stabbed them," Karen said and I could hear her voice trembling even as her face hardened into determination. For a moment, she reminded me of Helga.
"I've gotta get up to them," Karen mumbled under her breath and darted out through the curtain and up the aisle toward business class. The plane jostled and I caught my balance against the wall. Karen had stumbled into one of the seats but was already on the move again. As she disappeared through the curtain, I had this overwhelming inclination to call Gerald. I grabbed the phone on the wall beside me and punched in his phone number. I wasn't sure what to say to him - I certainly didn't want him to worry. Unfortunately, he didn't answer and so I left a message, completing it just as I saw Karen burst through the curtain again with several other passengers and an unconscious child in her arms.
For a moment, I felt stunned. No one ever anticipates this kind of situation happening to them, despite how many emergency training meetings you attend. Like a jolt, I snapped out of my trance and picked up the phone again, dialing operations for assistance.
Gerald
Relaxing wasn't an option, apparently, since Frankie decided he needed to go out. He'd come over to the side of my bed and wouldn't stop whining until I got up.
"Alright, alright," I told him as he started to jump up at me. He was a mutt mixed with Great Dane so on his hind legs he was almost as tall as me. "Come on," I grumbled as I trudged out into the living room in sweatpants and an undershirt. We walked around the block for about fifteen minutes before I took him back inside and decided to jump in the shower.
That initial splash of water both woke me up and relaxed me at the same time. I breathed deeply and the steam filled my nose, sending a surge of warmth into my chest before I exhaled.
I shouldn't be worried or nervous. I know how Phoebe feels about me and she's probably just been wondering what's taken me so long to propose. I soothe my mind with these thoughts as I finish my shower and towel off. I use the side of my fist to wipe away from of the steam from the mirror and debate whether or not I should shave.
Phoebe
"I'm number 3, in the back," I immediately say to the man who answers at operations. Karen is just outside the curtain feeding me information. "The cockpit's not answering and somebody's been stabbed in business class -"
"3 people," Karen barks.
"3 people have been stabbed," I correct myself. "I think there's mace, we can't breathe. I think we're being hijacked," Even as I say the words, it feels as though I am the unfortunate supporting actress in an action movie.
"Which flight are you on?" the man on the phone asks.
"Flight 11," I say as the plane jostles again and I lose my footing, hitting my forehead against the wall.
"What seat are you in?" He asks but my head is swimming for a second and I realize there's now a crack in one of the lenses of my glasses. "Ma'am, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here," I shake myself out of it and respond.
Outside of the curtain, the child that Karen carried back has woken up and is crying in his mother's lap. "What seat are you in?"
"We're -," I start to say, forgetting his question as I answer. "We just left Boston, we're up in the air,"
"Yes, but what seat are you in?" A female's voice asks me and I wonder what happened to the man on the phone.
"We're supposed to go to L.A.," Karen's hoarse voice is like a whisper even though she's standing only a couple feet away. "The cockpit's not answering their phone,"
"We're supposed to go to L.A. and the cockpit isn't answering their phone," I repeat to the woman on the phone.
"Okay, but what seat are you in?" The woman repeats herself and I wonder if she's getting irritated. "What is the number?"
"I'm in my jump seat," I say to her and look for the number. "3R,"
"Okay," She says. "You're the flight attendant?" She says something after that that I can't quite understand as the flight becomes garbled.
"Hello?" I say, praying that I haven't lost them.
"Yes, hello," She says and I sigh in relief.
The man from before comes back on the line and asks me my name.
"My name is Phoebe Heyerdahl," I tell him. "I'm number 3 on flight 11,"
"Okay," He says.
"The cockpit's not answering and someone's been stabbed in business class," I repeat what I told them before. "And there's - we can't breathe in business class. I think someone sprayed mace or something,"
"Can you describe the person that you said -" The man asks. "Someone is what in business class?"
I'm starting to feel impatient going through the questions and my mind is rapidly firing in incoherent ways. It feels like we're wasting time but I know they need this information. I don't know what else I can do.
"No one knows who stabbed who," I tell them, forcing myself to take a deep breath and slow down but the action irritates my lungs and I heave a painful cough.
"We can't get into the cockpit, the door won't open, and Amanda's bleeding pretty bad," Karen pops through the curtain again and just as quickly, darts back out into the cabin.
"We don't - we can't get into the cockpit, the door isn't opening open," I repeat as I scramble around the back looking for first aid kits. There are two in the back with me and one up in first class.
The man starts asking me a question as I dig through the contents of one of the first aid kits, the whole time feeling nauseated from the consistently erratic motions of the plane.
"Okay," I say, trying to force my thoughts to organize. "We can't get into the cockpit, our gallery flight attendant has been stabbed and our purser," There's a quiet pause on the other end of the line. "Hello?"
"Yes," the man says. "I'm taking this all down, and recording, of course. At this point, -"
I gather all of the gauze I can find in the two kits, which isn't much, and shout out to Karen who comes to collect it.
"We can't get in," Karen says and her eyes are bloodshot and watery as she coughs. "I don't know what's happening,"
I nod as the man on the phone is asking me if I'm still on the line. "Yes, yes - we still can't get into the cockpit, we don't know who's in there,"
I continue to answer his questions until I hear a surge of screaming coming from the already chaotic cabin. I look out from behind the curtain and the burly man I served orange juice to earlier is looking out the window and shouting, "We're going down!"
I drop the phone and hurry into the cabin to see for myself what is going on. Outside, I see we're flying dangerously low to the ground and before I'm able to act, there's a loud rumbling noise, screeching and gnawing sounds, a sudden burst of heat, and then everything is dark.
Gerald
As I walk out of the bathroom, I can immediately hear my pager going off like crazy.
Frankie is following me across the apartment, practically tripping me up as I head into my bedroom and pick up the pager. It says '911' and it's from the fire department, telling me I need to come into work today after all.