Read Online Flight #116 Is Down by Caroline B. Cooney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
Ads: Link
resting on him. In that case, rescue workers would lift them off and Daniel would hop up and away.
On the other hand, he could not move his toes or his fingers. He might have a snapped spine. In which case he was paralyzed; he was going to be one of those people you saw on TV talk shows who had conquered their paralysis and played volleyball from their wheelchairs. He would never date, he would never sleep with a girl, he would never play baseball or sail a boat or even run in the door.
Tuck, he thought. Where’s Tuck?
Saturday: 5:45 P.M.
Carly was still in the plane, still in her seat. Her seat had moved, however, as if it had never been bolted down. She was crushed between two large pieces of carpet; carpet lined with steel from the way it felt: horrible curling knife edges of metal had burst into her right arm. She could not bend her head enough to look down at her gut, but she could see that blood was slowly covering her knees. She could hear the rain, a civilized patter of normalcy, and if she raised her eyebrows really high she could catch a glimpse of the rain a few feet ahead of her.
I didn’t die! thought Carly. Oh, wow. The plane crashed and I didn’t even die. She wanted to tell the flight attendant. Guess what, Betsey! I did what you said and I made it!
Something soft lay in her arms. It took quite a while to figure out that it was Shirl’s sweater. She hugged the sweater, pretending it was her sister. She held little conversations with the sweater, saying everything will be all right now.
The wind changed direction a little later and hurled some of the rain at Carly. She was terribly thirsty after all those peanut snacks and tried to tilt her face enough to drink the rain, but though it caught in her hair and diluted the blood on her knees, she could get none in her mouth.
No pain, but a lot of blood.
I’m in shock, thought Carly. I’ll feel the pain later. I don’t mind feeling pain later. I can hear people moving and working. We aren’t all dead. Wherever we landed, help is coming.
She even smiled. It was still a good day. She was still going home. It was just going to take longer.
Carly hoisted her eyebrows and tilted her neck as much as possible. She regretted it. What she could see into was dripping.
Dripping water?
Or fuel?
As soon as the thought entered her mind, along with the thought came the smell. Fire. Somewhere there was a fire. Was it getting closer? Was that water in front of her? Or was it jet fuel, waiting for a spark?
Carly closed her eyes.
Just let it be quick, God, she said to Him. Just when it goes, make it go fast. Don’t let me feel it. Please.
Saturday: 5:46 P.M.
There was a man at the top of the hill, standing with his legs spread and his hands on his hips. He had an official air of one surveying the scene. Mrs. Camp had come out and was standing next to him, plucking on his coat. Heidi ran up, thinking, He’ll know what to do next.
But I know him, she thought. What’s he doing here? He’s in my study hall.
Her mind gave way, overloaded, and she skipped thinking about how somebody in her study hall was also an official on her hillside. “Heidi,” she said to him.
He nodded. “Patrick.”
It was weird, but his nod cleared her head.
Until the nod she had hardly been able to remember the location of her own house, but now her thoughts raced in logical rows: she was a computer. “I’ll get us flashlights,” she said, running to the back porch. The house was equipped with what her father called Invader Lights: spotlights in the gardens, in case they heard prowlers and wanted to expose them. Heidi flung the switches.
The rear hill lit up like a stadium.
The dogs were barking insanely. Winnie and Clemmie were like microphones with squeals. Fang was hurling himself against the door, trying to get out. She managed to keep all three dogs in while letting herself out, a triumph that occurred only a few times a year. Where’s Tally-Ho? she thought, running
On the other hand, he could not move his toes or his fingers. He might have a snapped spine. In which case he was paralyzed; he was going to be one of those people you saw on TV talk shows who had conquered their paralysis and played volleyball from their wheelchairs. He would never date, he would never sleep with a girl, he would never play baseball or sail a boat or even run in the door.
Tuck, he thought. Where’s Tuck?
Saturday: 5:45 P.M.
Carly was still in the plane, still in her seat. Her seat had moved, however, as if it had never been bolted down. She was crushed between two large pieces of carpet; carpet lined with steel from the way it felt: horrible curling knife edges of metal had burst into her right arm. She could not bend her head enough to look down at her gut, but she could see that blood was slowly covering her knees. She could hear the rain, a civilized patter of normalcy, and if she raised her eyebrows really high she could catch a glimpse of the rain a few feet ahead of her.
I didn’t die! thought Carly. Oh, wow. The plane crashed and I didn’t even die. She wanted to tell the flight attendant. Guess what, Betsey! I did what you said and I made it!
Something soft lay in her arms. It took quite a while to figure out that it was Shirl’s sweater. She hugged the sweater, pretending it was her sister. She held little conversations with the sweater, saying everything will be all right now.
The wind changed direction a little later and hurled some of the rain at Carly. She was terribly thirsty after all those peanut snacks and tried to tilt her face enough to drink the rain, but though it caught in her hair and diluted the blood on her knees, she could get none in her mouth.
No pain, but a lot of blood.
I’m in shock, thought Carly. I’ll feel the pain later. I don’t mind feeling pain later. I can hear people moving and working. We aren’t all dead. Wherever we landed, help is coming.
She even smiled. It was still a good day. She was still going home. It was just going to take longer.
Carly hoisted her eyebrows and tilted her neck as much as possible. She regretted it. What she could see into was dripping.
Dripping water?
Or fuel?
As soon as the thought entered her mind, along with the thought came the smell. Fire. Somewhere there was a fire. Was it getting closer? Was that water in front of her? Or was it jet fuel, waiting for a spark?
Carly closed her eyes.
Just let it be quick, God, she said to Him. Just when it goes, make it go fast. Don’t let me feel it. Please.
Saturday: 5:46 P.M.
There was a man at the top of the hill, standing with his legs spread and his hands on his hips. He had an official air of one surveying the scene. Mrs. Camp had come out and was standing next to him, plucking on his coat. Heidi ran up, thinking, He’ll know what to do next.
But I know him, she thought. What’s he doing here? He’s in my study hall.
Her mind gave way, overloaded, and she skipped thinking about how somebody in her study hall was also an official on her hillside. “Heidi,” she said to him.
He nodded. “Patrick.”
It was weird, but his nod cleared her head.
Until the nod she had hardly been able to remember the location of her own house, but now her thoughts raced in logical rows: she was a computer. “I’ll get us flashlights,” she said, running to the back porch. The house was equipped with what her father called Invader Lights: spotlights in the gardens, in case they heard prowlers and wanted to expose them. Heidi flung the switches.
The rear hill lit up like a stadium.
The dogs were barking insanely. Winnie and Clemmie were like microphones with squeals. Fang was hurling himself against the door, trying to get out. She managed to keep all three dogs in while letting herself out, a triumph that occurred only a few times a year. Where’s Tally-Ho? she thought, running
Similar Books
