Without any warning, passengers mysteriously disappear from their seats. Terror and chaos slowly spread not only through the plane but also worldwide as unusual events continue to unfold. For those who have been left behind, the apocalypse has just begun
ONE
Rayford Steele's mind was on a woman he had never touched. With
his fully loaded 747 on autopilot above the Atlantic en route to a 6
A.M. landing at Heathrow, Rayford had pushed from his mind thoughts of
his family.
Over spring break he would spend time with his wife and twelve-year-old
son. Their daughter would be home from college, too. But for now, with
his first officer dozing, Rayford imagined Hattie Durham's smile and
looked forward to their next meeting.
Hattie was Rayford's senior flight attendant. He hadn't seen her in more
than an hour.
Rayford used to look forward to getting home to his wife. Irene was
attractive and vivacious enough, even at forty. But lately he had found
himself repelled by her obsession with religion. It was all she could
talk about.
God was OK with Rayford Steele. Rayford even enjoyed church
occasionally. But since Irene had hooked up with a smaller congregation
and was into weekly Bible studies and church every Sunday, Rayford had
become uncomfortable. Hers was not a church where people gave you the
benefit of the doubt, assumed the best about you, and let you be. People
there had actually asked him, to his face, what God was doing in his
life.
"Blessing my socks off" had become the smiling response that seemed to
satisfy them, but he found more and more excuses to be busy on Sundays.
Rayford tried to tell himself it was his wife's devotion to a divine
suitor that caused his mind to wander. But he knew the real reason was
his own libido.
Besides, Hattie Durham was drop-dead gorgeous. No one could argue that.
What he enjoyed most was that she was a toucher. Nothing inappropriate,
nothing showy. She simply touched his arm as she brushed past or rested
her hand gently on his shoulder when she stood behind his seat in the
cockpit.
It wasn't her touch alone that made Rayford enjoy her company. He could
tell from her expressions, her demeanor, her eye contact that she at
least admired and respected him. Whether she was interested in anything
more, he could only guess. And so he did.
They had spent time together, chatting for hours over drinks or dinner,
sometimes with coworkers, sometimes not. He had not returned so much as
one brush of a finger, but his eyes had held her gaze, and he could only
assume his smile had made its point.
Maybe today. Maybe this morning, if her coded tap on the door didn't
rouse his first officer, he would reach and cover the hand on his
shoulder-- in a friendly way he hoped she would recognize as a step, a
first from his side, toward a relationship.
And a first it would be. He was no prude, but Rayford had never been
unfaithful to Irene. He'd had plenty of opportunities. He had long felt
guilty about a private necking session he enjoyed at a company Christmas
party more than twelve years before. Irene had stayed home,
uncomfortably past her ninth month carrying their surprise tagalong son,
Ray Jr.
Though under the influence, Rayford had known enough to leave the party
early. It was clear Irene noticed he was slightly drunk, but she
couldn't have suspected anything else, not from her straight-arrow
captain. He was the pilot who had once consumed two martinis during a
snowy shutdown at O'Hare and then voluntarily grounded himself when the
weather cleared. He offered to pay for bringing in a relief pilot, but
Pan-Continental was so impressed that instead they made an example of
his self-discipline and wisdom.
