Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [45]
Brian and Nick stood at the head of the short line in the portside row of first class.
'There's something wrong with the air out there,' Nick said in a low voice.
'What do you mean?' Brian asked. He pitched his voice even lower.
'Poisoned?'
'No ... at least I don't think so. But it has no smell, no taste.'
'You're nuts,' Brian said uneasily.
'No I'm not,' Nick said. 'This is an airport, mate, not a bloody hayfield, but can you smell oil or gas? I can't.'
Brian sniffed. And there was nothing. If the air was poisoned - he didn't believe it was, but if - it was a slow-acting toxin. His lungs seemed to be processing it just fine. But Nick was right. There was no smell. And that other, more elusive, quality that the Brit had called taste ... that wasn't there, either. The air outside the open door tasted utterly neutral. It tasted canned.
'Is something wrong?' Bethany Simms asked anxiously. 'I mean, I'm not sure if I really want to know if there is, but -'
'There's nothing wrong,' Brian said. He counted heads, came up with ten, and turned to Nick again. 'That guy in the back is still asleep. Do you think we should wake him up?'
Nick thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'Let's not. Haven't we got enough problems for now without having to play nursemaid to a bloke with a hangover?'
Brian grinned. They were his thoughts exactly. 'Yes, I think we do. All right -you go down first, Nick. Hold the bottom of the slide. I'll help the rest off.'
'Maybe you'd better go first. In case my loudmouthed friend decides to cut up rough about the unscheduled stop again.' He pronounced unscheduled as un-shed-youled.
Brian glanced at the man in the crew-necked jersey. He was standing at the rear of the line, a slim monogrammed briefcase in one hand, staring blankly at the ceiling. His face had all the expression of a department-store dummy. 'I'm not going to have any trouble with him,' he said, 'because I don't give a crap what he does. He can go or stay, it's all the same to me.'
Nick grinned. 'Good enough for me, too. Let the grand exodus begin.'
'Shoes off ?'
Nick held up a pair of black kidskin loafers.
'Okay - away you go.' Brian turned to Bethany. 'Watch closely, miss you're next.'
'Oh God - I hate shit like this.'
Bethany nevertheless crowded up beside Brian and watched apprehensively as Nick Hopewell addressed the slide. He jumped, raising both legs at the same time so he looked like a man doing a seat-drop on a trampoline. He landed on his butt and slid to the bottom. It was neatly done; the foot of the slide barely moved. He hit the tarmac with his stockinged feet, stood up, twirled around, and made a mock bow with his arms held out behind him.
'Easy as pie!' he called up. 'Next customer!'
'That's you, miss,' Brian said. 'Is it Bethany?'
'Yes,' she said nervously. 'I don't think I can do this. I flunked gym all three semesters and they finally let me take home ec again instead.'
'You'll do fine,' Brian told her. He reflected that people used the slide with much less coaxing and a lot more enthusiasm when there was a threat they could see - a hole in the fuselage or a fire in one of the portside engines. 'Shoes off?'
Bethany's shoes - actually a pair of old pink sneakers - were off, but she tried to withdraw from the doorway and the bright-orange slide just the same. 'Maybe if I could just have a drink before -'
'Mr Hopewell's holding the slide and you'll be fine,' Brian coaxed, but he was beginning to be afraid he might have to push her. He didn't want to, but if she didn't jump soon, he would. You couldn't let them go to the end of the line until their courage returned; that was the big no-no when it came to the escape slide. If you did that, they all wanted to go to the end of the line.