Not for me. I'm no quitter.
Wake up, I want to shout. We're going to die, you idiots.
The passengers are crazily quiet. They sit with these dull and peaceful looks on their stupid faces. They're sheep.
There's a sweet little girl who turns to look behind her, but everyone else is just looking ahead as if it's a movie.
I fumble to release the seat belt.
I can fix this. I'll think of something. I'm William Testle, damnit.
At nineteen, I broke USC's Wall of Doom defensive line and rumbled 44 yards for a touchdown.
At twenty-two, I beat off a mugger.
"Please, mister, I'm very sick," he'd whimpered just before I kicked him unconscious.
I'm William Testle. I'd been on Oprah at twenty-six. She'd gushed all over me just because I'd blown up my sister's jerk-ass boyfriend's yacht. And got acquitted.
I can fix this.
I move up the aisle to the cockpit door. Locked. They won't let me in, even though I'm almost bashing the door in.
There's a hostess in the front galley. She's crying.
" How many engines do we need to keep flying?" I ask her. She just shakes her head and doesn't answer.
Damnit Will, I think; do something. I look out the nearest window. The clouds are floating by as before. Maybe a bit faster. There is less mechanical noise, only the low murmur from the sheep.
"Is there another engine on board? Like a spare tire?" I yell at the silly hostess.
But she's on her knees now, bobbing head towards the fuselage.
I run down the aisle.
"Is there an airplane mechanic on board?" I yell.
Outside, the clouds seem to be zipping by now.
What the hell? I'm William Testle.
I can fix this.
Someone help me fix this.