Red Dust

24 Hours to Thunderbolt – (10 a.m. Mountain time)

 

“The red dust! We’re going down!”
The woman beside Manny Volynsky screamed, clutching his arm as the plane lurched.

Gasps and cries rippled through the cabin. Passengers pointed toward the wing where a strange electric-blue glow pulsed—unnatural, alive.

“Too soon,” Manny muttered. He’d calculated the timeline carefully. This was early. Too early.

Red dust streaked past the windows like ash from a furnace. The cabin filled with a sharp electric tang—ozone and scorched metal. It hit Manny like a memory: bumper cars, sparks, and the scent of fear.

The plane jolted. Oxygen masks dropped with a collective hiss. Screams. Prayers.

Manny blinked. The cabin was still pressurized.
So why the masks?
Then he saw it—red dust inside the cabin, swirling like smoke.

A baby wailed.
A man near the front leapt up and clawed at the cabin door before two flight attendants tackled him back into his seat.

The plane lurched again. More shrieks.
The woman next to Manny screamed louder, and he clutched his leather case tighter to his chest. His life’s work.

Red dust caked the engines.
One sputtered, coughed to life—then died.
The jet rocked violently, blue flames bursting through the haze.

Phones emerged.
A man across the aisle shouted into his: “I love you. Tell the kids I love them.”

“This is insane,” a teenage boy muttered, still filming.
“It’s like something out of a disaster movie.”
The girl beside him smacked his arm. “Put the phone down, idiot.”

Beside Manny, the woman’s groans turned into a chant.

The blue glow on the wing vanished.
Fields gave way to pavement—runways.

Another jolt. A roar. The left engine caught.

The woman opened her eyes and grabbed Manny’s leg. Her tears hadn’t stopped, but now they shimmered with something new: hope.

The right engine sputtered, then roared. The plane leveled.
Tarmac rushed beneath them. Thick white stripes loomed—runway markings.

Too fast. Too high.
They can’t land like this.
They’d circle back. They had to.

“Brace, brace,” the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom.

Manny ducked, hugging his legs. His arthritic fingers burned, but he wouldn’t let go of the briefcase.
Please let me live to get my research to the conference.

Wind screamed past. A name came to him—Cynthia. His daughter.
He hadn’t seen her in months. His chest tightened.
Let me see her again.

A man behind him started loudly:
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

Not now, Manny thought.
Too much talk of death.

“Holy crap,” the boy whispered. “We’re gonna die…”
His phone slipped and hit the floor.

Manny gripped his legs. Pain surged through his joints. Still, he held the case.

The plane bounced once—then slammed hard.
Wheels possibly collapsed. He couldn’t tell.
Emergency lights flickered. The grinding of steel drowned the screams.

The plane skidded.
Slid.
Then—
A jarring stop.

The aisle lights sputtered back on.
Jet fuel stung the air.

Stunned passengers stood, dusty and dazed.
Some wept. Others whispered, “thank God.”

Flight attendants sprang into action, flinging open doors and shouting to the passengers at the wing exits.
The woman beside Manny cried again—this time in relief.
He helped her unbuckle.

They stumbled through the wing exit, cloaked in red powder.
He tasted sulfur.

The woman clung to his arm until the flight attendant barked, “Jump!”

Manny slid down the yellow chute, arms wrapped tight around his briefcase.
He landed hard, staggered to his feet, and paced away.

He turned. Looked back.

The jet had come to rest in a shallow ravine, just short of the airport road.