Burning Airlines
by Don Bagley


Bill Peterson, a young man in slacks and a sports shirt with a tie, had selected an aisle seat onboard the Goering 747. After stowing his carry-on in the overhead storage, he began thumbing through a paperback volume of short stories in anticipation of the long flight. He was both startled and delighted when a young woman in black Capri pants and a white peasant blouse squeezed in past his knees to sit next to him. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had that easy going beauty that is typical of southern girls—she wore no makeup.

“Hi,” she said, settling into her narrow, blue cloth seat. “Sandra Dell.” She extended a delicate hand.

“Bill Peterson,” he said, taking her hand.

There was a dinging noise, and the no smoldering sign lit up.

“Can I have your attention please?” asked the Captain over the intercom. He had the voice of a silver-tongued devil with a trace of a British accent. “My name is Nigel, and I’ll be taking you to Lost Angeles today. As we leave Ted Kennedy airport, the weather is hot with a northwesterly breeze at 5 mph and a .00001% chance of precipitation. We should arrive at our destination by 1800 hours this evening. Enjoy your flight and remember, Burning Airlines gives you so much more.”

Bill and Sandra belted themselves in, and the plane began to roll forward. A she-demon steward indicated the location of the emergency exit doors and overhead oxygen masks, which seemed unnecessary to Bill, as he knew that the atmosphere of Hell extended all the way up to the bedrock that formed a high dome over it.

“Do you live in Madhattan?” Sandra asked as the 747 lifted up from the runway.

“Lower East Side,” said Bill. “But I just got a job offer in Lost Angeles that looks pretty promising.”

“I’m going to shoot some commercials in Hellywood,” said Sandra. “If they like me.”

“They will,” said Bill. “If you don’t mind my asking…”

“I know,” said Sandra. “Why am I here?” It was the question everyone was asking upon meeting someone new.

“Right,” said Bill. “I don’t mean to offend.”

“No, it’s all right,” she said. “Remember those comedies from the eighties—like Hookers from Venus and Sexteen 2000?”

Bill nodded.

“I played the ditzy blond girl.”

“Those were awful,” said Bill.

“That’s what God told me,” said Sandra. “How about you?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Bill. He appeared to be blushing, if that were possible in a place where everyone looked flushed from the heat.

“I promise I won’t hate you,” said Sandra, placing her hand on his knee.

“I, I sold stocks,” he stammered.

Sandra giggled. “That’s not so bad.”

“Enron stocks,” said Bill. “I sold them to retired people in Florida.

Sandra looked confused.

“When did you die?” asked Bill.

“1992,” she said. “Jealous lover.” She made a finger pistol with her hand and pointed it at her head. Her thumb hammered down, simulating the shot.

“Oh my God,” said Bill, loosening his tie.

“That’s a nice tie, Bill.”

“Calvin Klein,” said Bill. “We’re lucky to have him here with us.”

The she-demon steward approached, pushing a metal cart through the narrow aisle.

“Food,” said Sandra. “I’m starving.”

“Listen,” said Bill. “I’m going to be living in Lost Angeles if I take this job, and I’m pretty sure I will.”

“And I’ll be staying in Hellywood,” said Sandra.

“I was thinking maybe we could hook up…”

“Why not, Bill?”

Bill took out a business card and wrote his hotel address and room number on the back. “Call me?”

“I will,” said Sandra.

The steward leaned forward to hand Sandra and Bill two small packs of hot peanuts.

Sandra opened hers. “That’s it?” she said. “Six and a half nuts?”

Bill kicked Sandra’s ankle and made a shushing sound.

“You’re not satisfied?” asked the demon steward.

Sandra waived Bill off. “No,” she said. “I am not satisfied.”

Bill’s face went white as the she-demon reached past him and grabbed Sandra by the shoulders. “She didn’t mean it,” he said, but it was too late.

Sandra was wrenched from her seat, the safety belt tearing away as she cried out. Bill wondered how much that had hurt as he watched the steward drag Sandra down the aisle by her hair.

The she-demon pulled Sandra to an emergency exit, opened the door to a howling hot wind, and tossed the girl out into the jet wash.

Then the steward shut the door. “Are there any other complaints?” she asked. No one said a word.

Bill’s face filled the tiny window. They were flying over what would have been the Midwest on Earth. There was no equivalent for the place known as the Bible Belt in Hell. Here it was a vast wasteland of rock and brimstone. He imagined Sandra’s body turning over and over, perhaps in a frog-like position, until she slammed into the rocky surface below. She would die on impact, and then her body would reconstitute itself slowly and painfully. When healed, she would begin to wander, perhaps in the right direction, until she died again from thirst or exposure. Then she would heal and start over again. She might get to Lost Angeles in a few hundred years, who could say?

The airplane began bucking and heaving, and Bill’s four remaining peanuts flew out of his grasp and rolled away under the seat in front of him. The nose of the jet must be tilted down, he thought.

There was a burst of static on the intercom and then the Captain’s voice.

“—control of the engines,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to negotiate a crash landing.”

Bill had started to reach out for his lost peanuts, but he decided it wouldn’t make any difference now. Might as well sit back and wait for it.


- - -
Don Bagley is a north Californian writer, mostly of speculative fiction. His work has appeared in Anotherealm, Weirdyear, 10,000 Monkeys and Hackwriters U.K. He believes that burning airlines gives you so much more.