I've written this tonight out of boredom. It's my first LOST fic, but I'm a die-hard fan of the show. If you enjoy it then please review; I may continue if I get any decent feedback. Thanks y'all.
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April 16th, 1955
Over the north pacific...
Adam grunted loudly in the cavernous space of the cockpit, sweat running down his brow as he struggled in vain against the iron cast position of the flight yoke. His hands had become numbed from the constant vibration of the hot rubber of the joystick, jumping in his grip. His knuckles were white as he attempted to overcome the slip of his fingers on the film of sweat which had coated his palms. All around him the metallic cockpit of the DC-3 shuddered and rattled, the noise of the triple bladed engines mounted on both wings reverberated inside the hollow space.
With a rumble the aircraft was buffeted against a blast of turbulence. Adam was lifted out of his seat, causing the straps wrapped around his torso to strain against his body, tethering him to the chair. He tried to turn the yoke; first up, then down, and then from side to side. He then tried to turn it in a ful 360 degrees circle. Yet nothing happened; he couldn't move it at all. The wind outside was monstrous; the howling against the windshield in front of him was deafening, even more so than the whining engines, which were being put under immense pressure.
Outside, he could barely see anything through the dense clouds. Not the sky, not the horizon, or even the sea; just blurs of nothingness. With a glance at the altimeter, he saw that they were on course and level, but he had no visual confirmation. If it were not for the instruments he would have been at a loss.
The bright sunlight outside at thirty thousand feet was blinding; and the bright red warning lights inside the cockpit made it difficult to keep his eyes focused; everything around him was a blur. Again, a blast of turbulence hit them, lasting for several seconds. It was a struggle to hold onto the yoke, and he growled.
"James, where are we?" he shouted over the howl of the wind.
Next to him, the co-pilot was lost in a pile of maps and charts, which flew hither and dither as the aircraft was thrown from left to right. He was grappling with a small blue chart, casting aside the others, trying to unfold it as he was battered in his seat.
"I don't know; we're somewhere in here, but our airspeed is too erratic to be sure."
He was pointing to an area of the northern Pacific Ocean, which he had just circled in red with a marker. It encircled around a hundred square miles, and it contained nothing but blank, blue coloured canvas.
"What the hell am I looking at?" he said.
"Nothing, just Ocean. There's nothing out here. We're over the Bering Sea; nearest land is the Aleutian Islands, but they're over an hour from here. We wouldn't make it if we needed to land there. Best to keep on going and hope it clears."
"Get on the radio, send a distress, and see if anybody's listening!" he yelled.
James grabbed for the radio transmitter, and yelled into it.
"This is Helix Flight 432, mayday, mayday; we are losing engine power and have lost flight controls, please respond."
There was a hiss of static, but no response. James spoke again.
"Repeat, this is Helix Flight 432, heading 316 degrees, co-ordinates 58,50,19 North, 171,35,17 West , mayday, we have lost control!"
Adam shook his head. "Where is this coming from? I don't see any storm front. Looks like calm skies—"
The impact was stunning. The windshield cracked instantly into an intricate spider-web pattern as they were thrown backwards, the metal moorings of their seats groaning in protest. With a bang they were thrown forwards again; Adam saw a blur of colour, and the steering yoke, a split second before his head slammed into it. He felt a warm sensation explode into his mouth as blood seeped from his gums. He tried to release the flight stick with his left hand to cover his bleeding mouth, but he found that his hands were jammed in a claw-like death grip, and his fingers refused to release the rubber.
He shouted in pain through a closed mouth as he saw James fly into the roof, still in his chair, which had detached from the floor, and was now flying around loose in the cockpit. Through the cracked windshield, he could nothing of the sky outside; but a blinding white light which appeared to be emanating from the entire atmosphere.
He squinted, seeing his flesh turn pale below him, the droplets of blood on white shirt shockingly red against the monotonous light all around him.
Behind him, in the fuselage, he could hear the screams of the passengers as they were thrown around; he could hear crunches and crashes as bodies and baggage crashed around the hollow shell of the aircraft.
The engines were whining loudly, their pitch now much higher. With a glance, he looked outside at the left wing; even through the blinding light he could see that it was spewing copious volumes of black smoke.
There was a strange, twinkling sound building from nothingness, all around him. It wasn't coming from outside, or inside; it was merely emanating from the ether. He looked around warily, his senses overwhelmed by the blinding light and howl of the dying engines.
"Jesus Christ!" James shouted as he unbuckled himself from his seat, which had come to rest, leaning against the instrumentation panel on their right, his forehead bleeding from a seven inch gash running from his left temple down to his right eye.
Adam looked over his shoulder as he wrenched the yoke sideways, achieving no more than making the aircraft tilt by a few degrees.
"Get back there; tell everybody to get ready. We might be jumping!" he yelled.
With a crash the cockpit door banged open, clanging against the outer wall as James dashed through the doorway, crouched low as he disappeared into the fuselage, shielding his head from falling debris.
The sound around him was building steadily; it was now louder than the wind outside. It sounded to him like a thousand distant, twinkling bells, distinctly out of place in the devastating environment.
He slammed the yoke from side to side, trying to get some control back of his aircraft. He felt his heart pounding against the inside of his chest as he sat alone in the cockpit, the broken windshield groaning against the strain of keeping back the air outside. He could feel tiny breezes seeping through the cracks onto his face; it wouldn't hold for much longer.
The yoke rattled violently in his hands, and suddenly, with a muffled explosion, the left engine spluttered. He leaned over, and swore to himself as he saw the triple bladed propeller decrease from a circular blur to an intermittent flicker. He caught glimpses of the blades themselves, a sign that the propeller was slowing, and that the engine had shut down.
A loud alarm sounded inside the cockpit, drowned out by the cacophony of other sounds. He leaned over again, just in time to see two of the blades on the engine tear off with a metallic groan, zipping back behind the aircraft in a flash, twirling down towards the ground and out of sight in the bright white light. The remaining engine didn't look good; the blades were beginning to bend; the halo effect created by the rapid spinning of the blades shrinking as the metal bent over backwards. The horrible sound of wrenching metal was barely audible over the twinkling, which was now louder than anything else.
With only one engine, he felt the aircraft begin to spin out of control; even blinded by the white light around him, he could sense the gravitational change around him; his hair falling sideways from his head as the entire plane rolled, wing over wing.
He tried desperately to counteract the roll, moving the yoke right; but to little effect.
And then, with an immense boom, the light around him pulsed to obscene brightness, forcing him to close his eyes tightly.
It was silent. The twinkling was gone. The howl of the turbulence was gone. Even the sound of the remaining engine seemed dampened. The sudden silence was deafening, ringing in his ears. As the spots of colour exploding before his eyes lessened, he chanced a peek of the air around him.
He sat up straight as he saw a bright blue sky, completely cloudless. Yet the sun was lower, and the light more orange. It was just after sunrise, and the horizon bore signs of fading pink. In the back of his mind he struggled with this information; it was the middle of the day.
They remained sideways, and were by now rolling onto the aircraft's back. His restraints tugged at his shoulders, trying to tear him down to the roof of the plane, which was now the floor. Through the broken windshield, he could see land.
There was an island below them.
Then there was a chance, he thought. There was no opportunity to land now; they'd have to ditch. The plane was now on its right side; he flexed his fingers furiously, getting ready to open the buckle of his restraints. He would have to time it correctly, and make sure that he got out into the fuselage before the aircraft rolled again. He didn't bother holding onto the stick, as the aircraft was now completely out of his control. There was no point trying to counteract it, all they had to do was get out while they could.
The glass of the windshield cracked violently, a single large shard of glass flying out and slicing at his cheek as it soared towards the back of the cockpit. The windshield groaned loudly; it would break very soon. Through the glass he could see the speed at which they were falling through the air; they were no more than ten thousand feet in the air, and only little over half of their current height was a large mountain top. If they continued on their current course they'd pass by its left ridge.
With a grunt, he unbuckled his seatbelt, feeling the aircraft level out. The metal surfaces were a blur; the alarms and red lights flashed all around him, previously unnoticed in the face of the outside terrors. He flew through the open door into the fuselage, falling out of control into the main body of the plane. He flew past an array of hissing piping, banging his shoulder against it with a crunch.
He felt a searing pain, and his arm went numb, lifeless.
With a crash he was sent careening into a row of empty passenger seats, groaning. For a moment he laid still, his temple almost comfortable angled on the armrests. He had the sudden urge to do nothing but sleep; the world around him seemed to fade away. Time had slowed for his weary mind, and through glazed, half open eyes he watched the world spin and die around him. He had time to see a female body roll past him, and impact a circular window on the opposite side of the fuselage. He had time to look at his shoulder, twitching and painful at his side. And slowly, his mind began to think again, and he realized that they were crashing.
With a surge, he felt himself being lifted into the air, and he saw James' face, his mouth shouting muffled words into his non-compliant face. He nodded numbly, struggling to stand on his feet as he was guided towards the back of the plane. The plane was already beginning to spin onto its side again, and they had to hold onto the brackets and seats to stop them being flattened against the side of the hull.
His head cleared slightly, and he saw faces turning and shouting all around him. Females and males. Two younger faces appeared momentarily before they were torn out of focus; he guessed an age of twenty or less. Older faces, of varying expressions, ethnicities and ages span, shouted and cried all around him as he struggled to make sense of the situation. There were sixteen passenger aboard, but a quick headcount told him that only eleven people surrounded him, crowding towards the rear exits, excluding himself and James.
That meant that five were missing. He turned quickly, looking for them urgently as a burly, black haired man twisted the back door open, which tore from its hinges, and disappeared into the sky. There was a sudden rush of air which tore its way into the aircraft, trying to suck them outside. Everybody dived for an anchor, Adam himself seizing the armrest of the nearest chair as he looked around desperately.
The aircraft was now on its side, and was leaning towards toppling over onto its roof again. He felt a wave of nausea as he looked around the upside down fuselage, trying to find the rest of the passengers. His body hung from the armrest in mid air, towards the roof of the aircraft. His muscles ached against the strain of holding himself up one handed, but his other arm remained stiff, and numb. The interior of the aircraft was a myriad of papers, rubbish, and empty food wrappers. Clothing twirled around in a cyclone pattern, socks and shirts flattened against the interior of the hull.
"Adam! Don't bother, they're gone!" James shouted from the open door, his voice drowned by the howl of the wind.
No, Adam thought. They were just hurt, or unconscious. But as he looked about, he saw a single arc of blood, spread vertically up the left side of the walls. A piece of the propeller from the engine had sliced through the hull; he could barely make out the remains of the seats which had been there beforehand. A vertical pizza slice of the plane was missing, only two inches wide, insulation flapping around in the harsh wind. The propeller had lodged itself into where the second row of seats had been on the right side, but they were unrecognisable. There was no sign of the other passengers. He turned away at the sight of a small lock of hair, draped over the back of one of the tattered chairs.
He turned back to group of people, flying around precariously in the confined space. The aircraft was now on its side again, and they were able to walk on the walls. James was handing out bright orange packages. Adam waited until everybody around him had one before he took his own parachute, and called for everybody to copy him as he fastened it around his waist, under his groin, and over his shoulders. He found it especially difficult with his injured arm, but sheer determination ensured that he got it on in record time.
"Okay, everybody," he shouted, "One at a time, do exactly as Mister Hadlow! Once you're out, spread your arms and legs wide, keep yourself level until you're of equal height of the mountains. Then pull the string cord right here, and its release your chute. It'll guide you down." He gestured to James, who nodded. With a sweeping look to everybody, and a comforting nod, he released his grip from the side bracket on the wall, formed himself into a ball, and leaned forwards, tumbling through the open door.
Adam lunged towards the door, and gripped the side panel, gesturing the burly man forwards. The man bore an expression of determination, his eyes set. Adam nodded to him; the man nodded back, and within a second he was gone, spreading his arms wide as he disappeared into the sky.
The plane was now level, but was beginning to spin faster; it would be rolling onto its side again in the next thirty seconds. He motioned a thirty year old, red headed woman forwards next, who bore unmistakable terror in her features.
He gripped her shoulder, and smiled to her. She didn't respond, but simply stared outside, wide-eyed. But there was no time for hesitance. Feeling an awful feeling in his gut, and a pang of guilt, he pushed her out of the door, hearing her scream briefly before she disappeared.
He looked about, and saw the rest of the people look at him fearfully, but more determined. An older man, in his fifties stepped forwards confidently, his blue eyes twinkling, his steel gray crop of hair shining in the light. Without any interaction with Adam, he curled into a ball, and leaped outside. He was slightly surprised, but encouraged by the man's readiness.
The aircraft was now completely level, and was beginning to roll over onto its right side. He could feel his feet slipping on the ground, and he groaned as he motioned a young couple forwards. They were both blonde, thin, and short; and also bore identical looks of fright.
The boy smiled to his partner, and held her at his side. She crouched down slowly, tears running freely down her cheeks. The boy abruptly grabbed her face in his hands, and kissed her on the lips, saying comforting words, drowned out by the wind.
With a flailing scream, the girl toppled from the plane, followed by the boy, who dived out gallantly, without a moment's hesitation—
Boom!
A muffled explosion emanated from the cockpit, and he realized, too late, that the windshield had shattered. Instantly, there was a rush of air dragged through the aircraft, running from the cockpit window, out of the open door in the fuselage. The wind was incredible; he felt the flesh of his face being mashed against his skull as people launched towards safety, away from the door.
But Adam was not so lucky.
His position next to the door meant that he bore the brunt of the colossal tornado. With a metallic squeak, his body was slammed against the inside of the hull, feeling his bones crunch against the bolts attached to the shining sheets that held the body of the plane together.
He yelled frantically as he gripped a bracket on the wall with his only working hand. His hold was poor, and he could see his white knuckled shaking. His hand slipped quickly, his knuckles sliding back over the bracket, his strength no match for the pull of the wind.
Detritus, baggage and even pieces of the aircraft were being torn out through the door from all around them, zipping outside like a midair, horrendous river. The air tore at his clothes, his shirt flapping against the wind. Slowly, his feet were dragged through the threshold of the door, and then his shins. His fingers continued to withdraw back over the bracket, and he looked over at the other passengers in horror.
And then his fingers slipped free, and in a flash he had been sucked from the plane.
His stomach rose in his torso sickeningly, and he resisted the urge to flail his limbs as he plummeted towards the ground. The shadow of the plane rocketed overhead, towards the mountain ride. He could feel himself continuing on a forwards course, accompanied by a steady downwards acceleration.
Below him he could see nothing but jungle; in the distance he could see a large field at the base of one of the mountains. He was now level with the peak of the nearest mountain, and he grabbed his cord, and pulled sharply. With a rush of fabric, a bright orange parachute exploded from his pack overhead, rushing upwards. He felt his shoulder ache sharply as he was slowed rapidly.
He gripped the chords which hung at his sides, managing to grap only one due to his injured arm, and steered himself quickly around in a circle, getting a full look around himself. Below him he could see a string of other parachutes, heading towards the large field at the base of the mountain. But off to the side, in the distance, he could see a tiny orange dot touch down at the coast of the island, several miles away, atop a lava field which ran from a distant mountain crater.
With a whoosh, he received a blast of air, and his parachute crumpled. He distantly heard an explosion, and immediately felt a surge of panic; there were still people in the plane. He'd been sucked out before he could get them out of the door. He felt a sudden rush of air on his face, and fell quickly, feeling intense dread as the parachute above him ruffled. He fell ten feet, plummeting downwards before the parachute re-inflated. He looked upwards, and saw the second engine of the plane fall down into the jungle far below, towards a small river which snaked its way across the terrain. The plane itself, now a lifeless tube, soared towards the mountain ridge, trailing open flames and smoke.
And then, to his horror, he saw a bunch of black dots fly from where the open door would be, soaring out into the air in a dense bundle. At such a distance, it was difficult to see any detail, but he was sure that the dots represented the remaining passengers, accompanied by a stream of luggage and detritus, spattered over the flight path.
To his horror, he saw one of the dots spin out of control, and slam against the tail of the aircraft. He cursed as the dot tumbled lifelessly towards the ground, through the mesh of newly opened parachutes, representing the rest of the survivors.
He took a deep breath as he looked towards the ground, and moved off towards the field, the individual trees of the jungle now clearly visible at his height of five hundred feet. Even with the parachute, he fell quickly; two of the parachutes below him had already landed on the ground, lower down the slope. But he was heading further up, near the base of the mountain. As he descended below the canopy of line of the forest, into the field, he could see that it was full of tall grass, adorned by dense groves of brightly coloured flowers.
He passed over a waving figure on the ground, jumping up and down at him. He waved back as he steered himself towards the ground. He growled to himself as he raised his legs, readying himself for impact at the base of the mountain.