“The doctor said the gas is in the oxygen lines too! We have to get into the cockpit! It’s the only sealed air!”

He threw his shoulder against the door again.

The lower hinge snapped with a sound like a pistol shot.

The door swung inward, pinning me against the auxiliary jumpseat.

Gerald stumbled into the cockpit, his expensive leather loafers slipping on the threshold.

He was carrying a heavy, metal galley drawer like a battering ram.

His chest was heaving, and a thick, yellow froth was forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Out of the way!” he yelled, raising the metal drawer.

He wasn’t looking at me; his eyes were fixed on the pilot’s seat where Malachi sat shivering.

“Get that kid out of there! He’s going to kill us all!”

My training took over before my brain could register the fear.

I stepped inside his reach, just like the instructors at the academy had taught us during unruly passenger drills.

I grabbed the wrist of his right hand, the one holding the heavier corner of the metal drawer.