I threw my shoulder against the lower half of the cockpit door just as another massive weight slammed into the outside of it.

The impact sent a shockwave straight through my collarbone, knocking the breath from my lungs.

Through the three-inch gap at the top, I saw Gerald’s face.

His expensive silk tie was shredded, hanging around his neck like a noose.

His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated so much that the blue of his irises was almost completely gone.

Behind him, the forward galley was a disaster of overturned beverage carts and scattered plastic cups.

A thin, white vapor was curling down from the ceiling vents, clinging to the carpet like dry ice.

“Get back, Mr. Whitmore!” I shouted, using my loudest, most authoritative crew voice.

“Return to your seat and pull down your oxygen mask immediately!”

“The masks aren’t working!” he screamed, his fingers clawing through the gap, trying to find a grip on the inner frame.

His fingernails were bleeding, torn to the quick from scratching at the reinforced door.