A break. Bob found a pallet with some food in the nose section. It was tossed around, torn to pieces, but it’s yielded enough for two meals. That’s brought morale up and quelled most of the complaints for now.
Sabrina has added a request for medications, especially antibiotics, to the luggage survey, but so far the poll hasn’t revealed much. There’ve been reports of fishing gear, and two passengers claimed snorkeling sets—but it’s all in checked baggage at the bottom of the lake, locked inside those steel crates. I’ve felt out a few of the guys who swam out to the rear section with me, and none of them are keen to go diving into the wreckage. I can’t say I blame them. Instead, I’ve sent them out with some of the other passengers who’re still in decent shape to scout the surrounding areas. They left a few hours ago in four teams of three, one for each cardinal direction. They’ll hike until they find something or someone, or until midday, whichever comes first, then head back, hopefully arriving before sunset. We’ll know a lot more then.
Harper’s sick. She awoke with a ragged cough, a headache, and a low-grade fever. She swears she’s okay, but Sabrina is concerned enough to move her, against her protests, to the nose section.
I’ve checked the trees supporting the back of this section. They still make me nervous, but I don’t see a better option at the moment.
We’ve hung blue blankets over the open end, but every few minutes an icy draft makes it past them. During the day, it’s colder than by the fire at the lake, but I figure it will be much better at night, especially after Sabrina packs it full of patients.
The mysterious Asian—Yul Tan—has come up with a better solution: build a wall. He and Sabrina have stacked the first- and business-class carry-on luggage from floor to ceiling, plugging any holes with deflated life vests. It looks kind of weird, but it works.
Harper takes her old seat in first class, 1D, and stretches out.
“I feel useless,” she says, and coughs.
“We all are, right now. Nothing to do but wait. We’ll be out of here soon.”
“You really believe that?”
“Sure,” I say automatically. It’s the only response I can make right now. I try my best to keep any doubt out of my voice.
A minute passes, both of us crammed in her pod, watching other passengers file by, coughing as they search for a place to bed down.
“So tell me, what does the mysterious, multitalented Nick Stone do for a living? When he’s not rescuing helpless passengers.”
“Me?” I hesitate for a moment, debating what to tell her. “Nothing . . . as interesting as rescuing airline passengers. How about you?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? Anything I might have read?”
She looks down and half laughs, half coughs. “Possibly. I’ve written six books, none of which had my name on them, none of which I’m legally permitted to discuss.”
I wonder what that means. It seems to be a sore spot. But before I can ask, out of the corner of my eye I see someone waving: Mike, standing at the bottom of the stairway. The other two guys who went east with him are at his side. They look tired. They’re panting, hunched over, their hands on their knees. Whatever happened to them out there sent them back in a hurry.
I’m up and out four seconds later. “You found something?”
“Yeah,” Mike swallows. He’s excited, but there’s something else: nervousness. “We found . . . something.”