1. Woodley

ONE

Woodley

Oh, the weather outside is frightful / But the fire is so delightful / And since we've no place to go / Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Tuesday, December 19, 2023

Chattanooga Metropolitan Airport

1001 Airport Rd, Chattanooga, TN

11:42 AM

Isn't that nice?

They're playing "Tis The Season" before take-off. I might appreciate this any other Christmas season. I'm sure most of these people, besides Thorne and me, are flying to some magical place to celebrate holidays with their loved ones.

Not us. Not me! Our flight it purely work related. Only the most important meeting of my life is coming right up, just days before Christmas. There is no time for nostalgia and cozy thoughts.

I hope they don't do Christmas music the whole flight. I can't get into the festive spirit until this is behind me. The infusion of the Santa hats into the flight attendants' uniforms and the carols ringing through the plane only further remind me of how shitty this is.

I'm glued to the glowing screen of my laptop, racing to perfect the last details of the presentation before the flight attendants force us to shut everything down for takeoff. It's the hundredth time I've tweaked this deck, but working with a trust fund loser like Thorne Chilton, I have to basically do it all if I want it to be done properly.

It means I can't rely on him to get it right. I've got to do all the heavy lifting. At least we aren't sitting anywhere near each other on this plane.

I'm not sure what it is, but there's a sense that something is missing. This holiday season has been so blah… Looking out the window, I notice gray clouds hanging low over the tarmac, winter casting a dullness in the sky. I sigh, settling back into my seat. We'll be taking off soon.

Just a few more hours and I'll be in Boston, settled into my hotel room.

Then, out of nowhere—BOOM!

The entire plane shudders beneath me. The sound is so sudden, so loud, that it rips through me like a shockwave. My fingers freeze over the keyboard, my heart hammering away in my chest as I try to understand what is happening.

My breath catches. What the hell was that?

It's the type of sound that puts my Spidey-Sense on full alert.

There's a beat of silence like the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen, something worse. I look around, trying to gauge what everyone else is thinking, trying to determine where the loud noise came from.

A chill crawls up my spine. Something's terribly wrong.

The murmurs start low at first, whispers of confusion. But they grow quickly into panicked cries and questions, passengers twisting in their seats, looking out windows, trying to figure out what's happening. The plane tilts slightly, the vibration of the engine humming beneath us. We haven't even taxied yet, but I can feel it in my bones that something is off.

I unbuckle my seatbelt, leaning toward the window. My hands are shaking, the nerves creeping in before I even know what I'm looking for. That's when I see it.

Smoke. Thick, black plumes rising in the distance, curling up from one of the wings of the terminal, not far from where we sit on the runway. Fortunately, the boom does not seem to be related to the plane we are on. Thank the heavens.

"Oh my God…" I whisper—The words barely make it past my lips.

There's not just smoke. There's fire. Bright, searing orange and yellow flames are now angrily emerging. They lick menacingly at the side of the building.

Panic erupts all at once, it seems, inside of me and all around me on the plane.

People are shouting, passengers turning to each other, voices loud and terrified. Babies and adults alike are crying. I don't know if I've ever felt so frightened and trapped in my entire life.

"What's happening? What the hell is going on?" someone yells from the back. The flight attendants look as stunned at the rest of us. Time has stopped momentarily and they are frozen in place. As if they all got the memo, they start moving, pressing buttons on their radios, eyes wide with alarm.

"Everyone, remain seated, please remain seated—" one attendant says, her voice shaky but rising over the chaotic noise of the plane. It's no use, no one's listening.

The man across the aisle is on his feet, gripping the seat back in front of him, his face pale and twisted with fear. "We need to get off this plane! We need to get off now! This is a death trap."

More people are standing, fumbling with their seatbelts, ignoring the attendants' pleas to stay calm. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, the rising panic around me pressing in like a physical force.

It's chaos—pure, unfiltered panic, and no one knows what's happening, even the people that are supposed to be in charge of keeping order.

I glance out the window again, and the smoke is thicker now, blotting out the horizon. The fire is spreading. Whatever happened was big. I don't know if it is better to stay here, away from the fire, or run somewhere far away. I'm paralyzed, waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

And then the oxygen masks fall. I'm not sure what that says about the current state of things, but I can say without question that just the fact of them dropping has upped the tension and panic by a hundred percent.

They sway in front of us like a cruel joke, an outward sign that shit's getting real.

A woman somewhere behind me screams—a sound that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. People are scrambling to put the masks on, hands shaking, voices thick with agitation.

"I'm not staying in here!" someone shouts, louder this time, and I hear the unmistakable click of a seatbelt being ripped open. "We're a damn sitting target! We're all going to die in here!"

I hear the sound of someone beating on the plane, although I can't tell if it's coming from the inside or the outside.

A wave of pushing starts, people rushing for the aisle, bumping into one another, spilling into the narrow space. The attendants are shouting now, trying to hold them back, but they can't stop the mob of people. It's mayhem.

I grab the armrest, knuckles white, trying to steady myself, trying to keep the rising panic from choking me, but it's everywhere. The air is thick with it, the tension building like a living thing, threatening to swallow us all whole.

The plane shakes again, a tremor running through the cabin. It feels like the world is about to crack open beneath us.

Then the captain's voice comes over the intercom, precarious but trying to hold control. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've encountered an emergency situation at the terminal. Our plane is safe. Right now, the best course of action is to stay put in your seats until we have a safe way to exit. Please remain calm. Emergency services are responding. We will begin evacuation shortly. Please stay in your seats until instructed."

But no one's staying in their seats. They're pushing, yelling, eyes wild with terror. I can barely breathe. The oxygen mask hanging in front of me is useless.

I grip the armrest tighter, trying to steady my breathing as the captain's voice crackles over the intercom again. His words cut through the chaos, momentarily silencing the panicked voices around me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. We have received further instructions regarding our situation. We will be deplaning onto the tarmac and boarding two buses that will take us to a different terminal. There has been an unknown incident in Terminal B, and for your safety, we need to evacuate this area immediately."

My heart pounds in my chest. What kind of "incident"? Because, from where I'm sitting, it looks like a bomb went off. I glance out the window again, the thick smoke now obscuring most of the view. The reality of the situation hits me hard.

The captain continues, his voice straining to remain calm. "Once we reach the new terminal, you'll be able to speak with gate agents about rescheduling your flights. I urge everyone to remain calm so we can get out of this area as quickly and safely as possible."

With that, the flight attendants begin opening the hatch and door. We had already backed up, so there is nothing outside of the door leading to the terminal. A self-inflating ramp pops out, leading out of the doorway. Are we really going to slide down a jump house slide into the tarmac? This ought to be graceful with my sensible pencil skirt and heavy wool coat.

Around me, passengers exchange worried glances. The initial panic seems to subside slightly, replaced by a tense, nervous energy. People gather their belongings, hands shaking as they reach for bags in the overhead compartments.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to think clearly. I need to stay level-headed. Panicking won't help anyone.

"Please, everyone," I say, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Let's follow the captain's instructions. The faster we move, the sooner we'll be off this plane and safe."

A few people nod, seeming grateful for a voice of reason. I stand up, grabbing my carry-on from under the seat. The flight attendants are at the doors now, preparing for evacuation.

"Remember," one of them calls out, her voice steady despite the circumstances, "leave your larger items behind. A bag agent will retrieve larger roller bags and bring them to the new terminal. We need to move quickly."

We file towards the exits. I can't help but wonder what caused the "incident" and why they are evacuating us. Was it an accident? Or something more sinister? I push the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. Right now, getting to safety is all that matters.

The smell of smoke hits me as soon as I step onto the edge of the plane. It's acrid, burning my nostrils and making my eyes water. In the distance, I can see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, their sirens a distant wail beneath the roar of idling jet engines.

Two buses wait on the tarmac, their doors open. Airport staff in high-visibility vests direct us towards them, their faces tense but professional. The ridiculous Santa hats some of the crew are still wearing didn't age well amid all of this chaos.

I remove my high heels as instructed, send my messenger bag down ahead of me and jump down. Here goes nothing.

1:39 pm

The new terminal is a mess of noise and movement—displaced passengers crammed into every available seat, lines stretching out from the gate agent counters in all directions, and the sharp hum of voices buzzing with panic and frustration. It is complete chaos.

I'm standing in the middle of it, trying to wrap my head around everything that just happened. I haven't stopped shaking since we got off the plane, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. My heart is literally pounding in my chest like it's trying to escape. I can still hear the explosion in my head. The fire. The smoke.

Now I know what happened. Someone planted a bomb. Just days before Christmas.

I swallow hard, glancing up again at one of the news screens in the terminal. The story of the bomb in Terminal B is now being shown on every channel. There were no fatalities, but several people sustained injuries. Emergency services are swarming the scene, shutting down the entire terminal.And planes all over the airport have been grounded due to their proximity to the incident. Thousands of passengers are stranded. I've never seen anything like this.

One of those stranded people could have been me.

I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm my racing mind. The lines at the counters are moving slower than molasses. The gate agents are swamped, voices hoarse as they repeat the same message over and over: "We're doing everything we can to reschedule passengers, please bear with us." It's clear there's only so much they can do and there are only so many seats on however many planes that can get out of here today.

Everyone is trying to get out of here. But no one's going anywhere fast.

My phone vibrates in my hand, but I don't even look at it. Instead, I glance around at the sea of people. Some are sitting, heads in their hands. Others are pacing, furious or scared, snapping at anyone who gets too close.

I catch my reflection in the glass windows and feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. I'm supposed to be in Boston by first thing Thursday morning for the biggest pitch of my career, and instead, I'm stuck here in a terminal that looks like Buddy the Elf from Elf got hold of it. It's about to crack under the pressure of a thousand stressed-out passengers trying to get their Yuletide on.

2:10 pm

There is no way going to get to Boston in time. The next available flight isn't until early Thursday morning, and even if I wasn't too freaked out to get back on a plane after what just happened, it won't get me to Boston in time for the meeting.

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. I've worked too hard to let this fall apart now. Being an account manager at this firm is everything I've worked for. I've spent years proving myself, step by step, just to get here.

Thorne, on the other hand, had this opportunity handed to him. I have never been so fortunate. I worked my ass of to get to where I am. If we don't land this client, all the promotions and progress I've dreamed of—the things I need to give me a sense of security—are out the window.

As if on cue, I hear the sharp, unmistakable voice of that very same trust fund loser. I can't stand him. FML.

I look up and there is Thorne Chilton, standing a few feet away, talking to a Delta agent. He looks as annoying as always, so sure that his charm and influence will somehow get him on an already-full plane.

God, he's such a smug asshole.

I knew I wouldn't be able to avoid him forever. But at least I've managed to do so for the last few hours in the the pandemonium and aftermath of the bomb threat. I'll take any win I can get right now.

Even in this disorder, Thorne has managed to look as polished as ever. His suit is pristine and his hair is perfectly tousled in that way that makes him look like he didn't even try. I wish I could hate him for his looks, but the truth is, it's everything else about him that I hate.

I can't help but wonder how he felt about sliding down the inflatable exit slide in his expensive bespoke suit. The thought of that gives me a little inner tickle, and I smile to myself at the prospect of him losing his mind over having to do it. So there is that tiny silver lining.

Arrogant. Entitled. He's never had to work for anything in his life, and now here he is, acting like this whole disaster is just another inconvenience in his very important existence.

"What a fuckshow. There are no flights available for us within a two-hour drive of here that will get us to Boston before our meeting on Thursday."

"What are you still doing here, then? Don't you have somewhere more important to be?" I snap, unable to help myself.

Thorne turns, narrowing his eyes at me. "Woodley. Still as pleasant as ever, I see."

I grit my teeth. We've never gotten along. We work for the same company, but he's one of those guys who coasts through life on his parents' wealth and connections. He was handed his job, just like everything else, I'm sure.

Before now, we haven't had to work together on a project, but for some unknown reason, Dani, our manager, assigned him to work with me on this client. I'm sure it's par for the course for him: I did all the work to get us a foot in the door, and he will breeze in and reap the benefits.

Now, it appears, I'm stuck with him on what is shaping up to be a nightmare of a trip.

"We need to figure out how we're getting to Boston," I say, ignoring the urge to throttle him right here in the middle of the terminal. "I don't think our solution is here in this insanity. If you're in, then let's look into renting a car. Unless you want to drive us in yours."

"We can't drive to Boston." Thorne scoffs, folding his arms. "You've lost your mind."

I shake my head, my mind already racing. "We need another option. We aren't missing this pitch."

"Driving for a full day in the snow isn't an option. It's a fantasy." His tone is sharp, sarcastic, like he's already given up.

I turn toward the rental car counter, my eyes narrowing. "Unless you have a better idea, we're driving."

His laugh is short, almost mocking. "You can't be serious. It will probably take us fifteen hours to get there in this weather."

"It's not like we have a choice, Thorne. Unless you want to miss the meeting and explain to Dani why we couldn't pull through."

His expression darkens at the mention of our boss, Dani Walters. She's the one person Thorne actually seems to care about impressing. For a second, I think he's going to argue, but instead, he just huffs in frustration, glancing over at the rental counter where the line is already starting to form.

"We drive," he mutters. "Unbelievable."