Departure Read Online Free

Nick pauses, lets his words sink in. “Bill, is there anybody else conscious in there?”
    â€œI think so . . . yeah.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œI don’t know. Five. Ten. I don’t know. It’s dark.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Go and talk to them now. Tell them to help you get everybody to the opening and wait. Everybody to the opening and wait.”
    Bill turns and vanishes into the darkness of the cabin. I move to Nick’s side. “What’s the plan?”
    â€œStill working on it,” he says under his breath, glancing over at the crowd. There are about thirty people on the shore by now, bloodied people from the front of the plane and the shivering, wet survivors who’ve made the swim. He turns toward them, raising his voice. “Do any of you know CPR?”
    Two hands go up, one reluctantly.
    â€œGood. I want you to stand over here. Some of the people coming out may not be breathing. You’re going to do the best you can with them. If they don’t respond after the first attempt, move to the next person.” He looks back at the group. “Now, if any of you cannot swim, step over here.”
    Another smart move. He’s making volunteering the default—if you want out, you have to step out. Six people shuffle over. I wonder how many of them really can’t swim.
    A woman shivering on the bank speaks with equal parts fear and force. “I can’t go back into that water. I’ll die.”
    â€œMe neither,” says a redheaded man beside her.
    â€œYou have to—please, my husband’s still on there,” an older woman wearing a yellow sweater pleads, her voice cracking.
    â€œThis is suicide,” says a long-haired teen wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt.
    Nick steps between the group from the front of the plane and the wet survivors, separating them. “You all don’t have to go back in the water,” he says to the swimmers. “You’ll work with the folks thatcan’t swim, drying people on the bank.” He goes on quickly, cutting a few protests off. “But first, right now, you need to run back to the front section of the plane and gather all the blankets and the life vests. We need them both to save the people coming out.”
    It’s a good idea. The blanket-to-person ratio in first and business class was unbelievable. There’ll be plenty. But I still don’t understand what his plan is.
    â€œBesides, the exercise will warm you up and keep your blood pumping.” Nick claps his hands. “Let’s go. Right now. And bring back a dark-haired woman named Sabrina and the flight attendant, Jillian. Find Sabrina and Jillian, and tell them to bring the first-aid kit. Remember, blankets and life vests—all of them.”
    Reluctantly the nonswimmers lead the soggy survivors into the woods. The rest of us—twenty-three souls, counting Nick and me—stand and watch them go. To our right, I can hear banging in the plane. Its bottom edge is now only ten feet above the water. I swear it’s sinking faster.
    On the bank, an overweight man with a nasty gash down his face says, “We’ll never make it there and back, dragging someone else. It’s too cold. They barely made it across one way, alone.”
    â€œThat’s true,” Nick says. “But we’re not going to be in the water that long. And none of you are swimming to the plane and back.”
    A chorus of muttered protests builds, gaining strength by the second as voices join in.
    We’ll drown . . .
    Wait for professionals . . .
    I didn’t sign up for this . . .
    â€œYou have to!” Nick shouts, silencing the crowd. “You have to, okay? We all have to. We don’t have a choice. Listen to me. Somebody loves each and every person on that plane. They’re somebody’s son. Someone’s daughter. They’re mothers and fathers, just like some of you. That could be your son or