Dateline

New Year's Eve, 1645 local / T plus 10 hours, 45 minutes

LaGuardia Airport, New York

Watching the End unfold was an eerie, but strangely satisfying, freeing experience.

Aaron had spent the first hour or two after shift start working like nothing was out of the ordinary, and for the most part, life had carried on without much sign that anything was wrong. People arrived at the airport to depart on planes that took them wherever they wished to go, and yet more people arrived in other planes, then left the airport in taxi's and busses for destinations across New York state.

Working the stands, Aaron had pushed aircraft out from their allotted parking and watched them start up, taxi away and power off into the sky. Others he directed to a stop to disembark passengers and refuel, ready for the next rotation.

When it all started to go wrong, he couldn't recall exactly. Things must have been happening almost from the time of the first news broadcasts; little disruptions to the normal routine. The outbound planes he was handling began to have more people boarding them than would normally be the case, even taking into account it was New Year's Eve.

By midday, some flights were obviously full to capacity, and maybe more. It wasn't hard to work out that the most busy airlines were those scheduled to head west. It made sense, he supposed. Try to outrun it; extend the time one had before time itself ran out.

He was waiting to push back an American Airlines flight to Vancouver when the chaos made itself known. The rush to board was noticeably more intense than any other flight. The busses from the terminal were packed with people, many with hand luggage, but also many without. They rushed up the steps and into the plane, the usual delay at the doors causing the queue to extend down the steps and out onto the apron.

The co-pilot was carrying out the pre-flight inspection and passed Aaron as he was connecting the tow-bar to the nose-wheel, ready to push back. On the side away from where the passengers were boarding, the refuelling truck was just finishing, closing up the tank access ports and stowing the hose. The co-pilot's eyes were wide and the man was sweating, despite the cold. He looked at Aaron as he passed, paused as if to say something, but then seemed unable to find the words. Eventually he just nodded and carried on.

Another bus pulled up. It was driven fast and erratically, and stopped too close to the steps than was allowed. It was so full, people were hanging out the doors. Even before it came to a halt people were tumbling out, some falling to the floor in their haste, others being knocked down and trampled by those behind them. A scuffle immediately began at the steps as those that had just arrived tried to push past. Shouting began.

From his place under the nose of the 757, Aaron watched in detached wonder; the human drama before him a fascinating source of amazement. It didn't mean anything to him. He'd watched his sister die. Seen the news. Even shared his knowledge with the rest of the world, but it didn't move him. Not any more. He knew now exactly when his time would be up on this world, and had already accepted it. He knew it would be quick; painless. So why panic? What was the point of making it worse for yourself?

The co-pilot ran across to the steps and began to reason with the newcomers. With his ear-defenders on and with the roar of the APU, Aaron couldn't hear what was being said, but he could tell that angry words were being exchanged. Fingers were being pointed. Arms waved. Shoving began. A flight attendant made her way down the steps with difficulty and joined the co-pilot. A second later, she was shoved hard to the ground.

Aaron made as if to move to help, but stopped. What would his getting involved mean in the grand scale of things? If these people really wanted to get on, nothing would stop them. They didn't look ready to listen to reason.

Another person pushed past the people on the steps; a woman wearing a white shirt and epaulettes of a captain. Slim, red haired, willowy but moving like a prize fighter. Aaron had met this pilot a few times before and knew her to be a fiery individual. He guessed she must have come from the military before joining American. Like many pilots, a forces background was common.

The argument became more intense. Suddenly, a man wearing a silver jacket pushed through the crowd and struck the pilot hard. She fell, unconscious on the concrete. The co-pilot pushed back. The man shot him. Aaron couldn't hear the gun, but saw the red blossoming of blood on the co-pilots chest, and the panic of everyone around him. People were running; for the busses, for the terminal, away from the gunman. Those on the steps tried to go up and some down, all pushing and shoving. The gunman made his way onto the plane.

Aaron looked at the pilot, who moved an arm weakly, her red hair bright against the dark concrete. People were pouring off the plane in panic. Aaron walked over to the pilot. Catrina. Her name was Catrina, with a C. But she liked to be called Cat, he remembered. Carefully, he picked her up, and with one arm draped over his shoulder and his arm supporting her round her waist, he walked under the plane, away from the panicked people and the madness.

Then the ground shook, and the sky lit up.