A Rush of Blood to the Head

Undermining

After getting the go-ahead from Kerry, Doug and Mark piled into a cab and rushed off to the airport.

As Mark closed the car's door and situated himself, he asked, "If he's still there, what are we going to say?"

"Get your ass back here, you crazy son of a bitch?" Doug ventured a guess.

There was a part of him that knew he was joking, but he couldn't exactly bring himself to disagree with him either. The whole thing felt a little unreal. He knew John could be stubborn, but this was ridiculous.

Without a word to Doug, he nodded to the cab driver and said, "Midway International, please."

"What if he's at O'Hare?"

"Kerry has it covered," Mark flatly responded, studying the list of flights.

Doug shifted to face Mark, eyeing him intently. "How could he do something like this?"

"He's scared."

"He's sick, Mark. We'll be lucky if he's still alive when we find him."

Mark finally met his gaze. "You think I messed up?"

"No, I think you did the right thing."

"I mean giving him..." He glanced up to see if the cab driver was listening in. Even if he wasn't, Mark didn't want to say something he shouldn't have. "We'll talk about this later."

"Okay. So, what do we do if he's not there?" Doug asked.

He dodged the question and fixated on his shuffling feet. "Maybe we should call his family."

"Mark?"

Once more, he stared him in the eyes. "I don't know. Drag him back here kicking and screaming, if we have to."

*******************

On the plane, still on the tarmac, John zoned out, watching as workers loaded up cargo on another aircraft, while others directed more that were coming in. It was almost hypnotising. Or perhaps it was his adrenaline high, dying down. He barely acknowledged the other passengers until the plane moved.

That was always daunting to John; that and landing. He never slept on planes either. Something told him that if he did, it would crash. Stupid? Yes, definitely to some. Not to him. No matter how many times, no matter how many ways he looked at it, he just didn't buy into the myth that flying wasn't scary. Just big metal death traps.

Instinct told him to scrunch his eyes shut, gripped on to the armrests and prayed to whatever gods or goddesses he believed in that he'd actually be okay, and reminded himself what he was doing this for.

John started humming to himself; a defence mechanism. It wasn't any song, just a random tune. John didn't care that he was getting looks from others. All he cared about was getting through this, one step at a time.

About a minute later, he started to calm down. He listened to the surrounding chatter, the whines and curses and complaints. Not unlike the ER, to be frank. It felt comfortable to him at this point. Familiar.

He checked his watch. "One hour and forty-six minutes to go," John mumbled to himself, then leaned back further into his seat.

*******************

Mark bolted for the airport entrance, leaving Doug to pay for the cab fare. He ignored the indignant comment he shouted at him and made a mad dash to the front desk.

Out of breath, he managed to ask, "Did... flight two-one-six leave yet?"

The woman at the desk was the same one John dealt with moments earlier. She didn't bother to verbally respond. However, she pointed to a large, hanging monitor in the middle of the room, a few feet down.