This is a story that includes explicit sexual content. It was not written as a sex story, nor was it written simply purely to depict sex.

Chapter 1 -- Enlightenment

"Don't forget to take out the garbage before you go," Valerie called out from the front door. "And text me tonight when you get in," she reminded him for the third time.

"Yeah, yeah" Joel answered with unguarded indifference from the kitchen. Don't forget to be a bitch. He knew marriage was not supposed to be a storybook romance all the time, but no one ever told him it would be this sad. The feeble apartment building air conditioning wasn't able to moderate the sweltering late spring heat wave. It didn't change how Joel and Val felt toward each other -- it only made those feelings more intense.

He started dating Val when she was a quality assistant at Quinton Systems, basically a glorified title for a filing clerk. He worked at the same company as an intermediate systems programmer. Both their career paths had plateaued. Three years ago, they both got drunk at the Christmas party. Every year Quinton held the annual party at some low cost meeting room center located in a commercially zoned area on the far side of Boston. Most businesses around the meeting center are light manufacturing and warehousing enterprises, and can't afford more luxurious accommodations. The downtown convention center, or any of the hotel ball rooms was out of reach of Quinton's sparing employee appreciation budget.

Sometime after dessert, they left the dining hall, wandered down the industrial cinder block lined corridor, and locked themselves into a family bathroom -- the one moms take their young families in to change diapers -- and started necking and groping. It was pretty tame until Joel took the next step, and he lightly brushed the outer side of her boob through her tight knit sweater. "I don't think so," Val chastised him, and pulled away. She straightened her hair and clothing, and opened the door, leaving Joel behind. When Joel returned to the dining room, Val was nowhere to be found.

She ignored him mostly after that, punctuated by manufactured moments of oblique interest. She'd occasionally show up at his cubicle with some obscure reason to discuss quality documents, or pass him in the hallway and say "Hey Joel" with a tone ranging between dismissal and indifference. He interpreted her occasional lackluster encounters as random moments of forced tolerance, and accordingly ignored Val.

Joel never fancied himself a lady's man, and few ladies would argue. Girls like Jenny in HR, with her long, wavy brown hair, brilliant green eyes, inviting smile, firm large tits, and curvy hips wouldn't look twice at Joel. Only in his dreams did Jenny play a role in his life. Joel used to concoct outlandish scenarios in his late night fantasies where Jenny was compelled to thank him for vanquishing a gang of malignant thugs that threatened to sully her impeccable honor. Night after night, Jenny professed her eternal gratitude through carnal gifts, which Joel translated into orgasmic release using his solitary right palm beneath the bed sheets. Sometimes she offered him a blowjob, other times a fuck, and on those special nights she squeezed those sweet, large tits together and invited Joel to fuck the cozy channel between her fun pillows until he sprayed a thick, sticky glaze all over her tits and face. When Joel was on business travel, which occurred frequently, he masturbated to fancies of Jenny just before drifting off to sleep.

Joel and Val didn't cross paths again until the summer after that Christmas party when they bumped into each other at a park he frequented on weekends. He considered himself something of a nature photographer, and Joel would venture out to the park in the wee hours after sunrise, when the squirrels, chipmunks, birds, and other nature's creatures were plentiful with no people to frighten them off. He was snapping shots one early June morning, just past six, when Val just happened to walk past, scaring away the animals.

"Hey Joel," she called out with her disinterested demeanor. "I didn't know you came here," she offered. "I was just out for my morning jog." She wore new jogging shoes and shorts, and a new sports top. Joel didn't see any sweat on her brow. She sat at a nearby bench, claiming she needed to catch her breath, but she seemed to be breathing restfully to Joel. They talked for a while, led by her questions and judgemental narrative on life.

The coffee shop at the end of the park opens at seven, and so they walked together to get a coffee. Joel just seemed to go along, having no better prospects to pursue. That sentiment was apropos of their entire relationship. Nothing better came along, so Joel started going out with her, and when nothing better came along, he agreed to marry her.

Back in the kitchen, Joel checked his watch. He had ten minutes before the Uber taxi would arrive. His company required he use Uber when it was available, because it was cheaper. Now that he had been transferred to the customer support division, Joel travelled frequently. Since he was young, he had a knack for fixing things. The skill was not lost on his employer, who moved him out of software development and into on-site technical and customer support.

His company sold multiple platform information display systems for the transportation industry. Displays in subway stations, airports, bus terminals, and train stations -- those displays that listed the arrivals, departures, delays, cancellations, gate numbers, platforms, next stop time, and so on. Joel went out and fixed them when they broke. Simple problems, like a failed monitor were generally the customer's responsibility. But when all the monitors started shimmering, or when half of the monitors inexplicably went dark, Joel would fly out to fix a system-wide problem.

Joel was flying to Atlanta. All the Atlanta city busses had a Quinton display system in them, and monitors sometimes cutting off the bottom half of the display. They bus company had replaced the monitors, but the problem persisted, and so they called Quinton support to fix what was suspected to be a systematic problem. Joel was flying to Atlanta today to investigate the problem. Atlanta was actually out of his territory -- he was North East -- but Stewart, centered in Jacksonville Florida, had been off sick for two weeks. Joel knew the technology employed in the Atlanta system, so he flew from Boston as a suitable alternate.

By the time Joel finished his breakfast cereal and went to the bathroom, it was time to head down to catch his ride. He grabbed his carry-on luggage and his travel toolkit, which was really two smaller kits that fit into a large hardened travel case. It had to be checked in as luggage, not only because of its size and weight, but also because it contained several implements that could be fashioned as weapons onboard an aircraft.

Joel wheeled his heavy toolkit case and his carry-on suitcase out the apartment and locked the door. The hallway was ten degrees warmer than the apartment. Joel started sweating even before he pressed the down call button for the elevator. When it finally arrived after many minutes waiting, the elevator was already crammed too full with people. For some reason, Monday mornings were always busier than any other weekday. He let the car go, and pushed the call button as soon as the doors closed again, and waited in the stifling heat for another five minutes before the next one arrived. The next car was nearly as full, but now Joel was desperate to meet his taxi downstairs. He wheeled his large toolkit onto the elevator, apologizing several times as people shuffled inside the elevator car, pressing closer together. He rested his suitcase on top of the toolkit case, and squeezed in himself.

Joel stepped out of the building where the blistering sun made it ten degrees warmer again. It was early June in Boston, and even the green grass was wilting under the heat. The Uber taxi was still waiting for him. The driver already knew the destination was Logan Airport, Terminal B, and was therefore willing to wait a few minutes extra for a good fare. With sweaty hands, Joel hefted the heavy toolkit case into the trunk, and there was no room left for his suitcase, so he wheeled it around and put it in the back seat beside him. Mercifully, the Uber taxi had functioning air conditioning, and by the time Joel reached Logan Airport, he felt almost normal again.

The non-stop American Airlines flight was delayed an hour because the inbound flight from Minneapolis was late. Joel and the other passengers lined up at the gate when they finally announced boarding. As he stepped onto the airplane, Joel noticed it was an Embraer E190 -- a small twin engine jet that holds about 100 people. While he was waiting in the aisle for people to take their seats, Joel scanned the row numbers until he found his row 14 -- two behind the emergency exit.

A large woman was ahead of him in the aisle, and she stopped at row 8 to put her bags in the overhead stowage, but there was not enough room. She checked the overhead bins on the opposite side, and still no room. She put her case on her own seat, which prevented her from sitting down, and Joel realized she was probably too fat to bend over and shove it under the seat in front while standing. The woman looked around, hoping to spy a flight attendant, but none were within her sightline. She had blocked the aisle for so long the path beyond her was now clear of people. Joel started to suggest she hand her case to him, and he would find a place for it further back, when he heard a loud, gruff man's voice call out from behind "c'mon lady, sit that fat arse down!"

The woman snapped her head at Joel and scowled with a mixture of anger and resentment. Joel was starting to pantomime a gesture pointing behind him, as if to say 'it wasn't me' when she barked "You don't have to be so rude." Now the flight attendant arrived from the back of the plane, and took the lady's case and found an empty overhead bin further back, near row 12. The lady finally took her seat.

Joel was conflicted. He wanted to explain it wasn't he who made that comment, but he didn't want to publicly accuse the person behind him of such rudeness, and create a worse commotion. So Joel stepped past the flustered woman who bore holes in him with her angered eyes. With no one ahead of him now, Joel immediately reached his row, and put his suitcase overhead, only to realize an elderly lady was in his seat. "Excuse me," he said politely to the white haired woman, "I believe you are in my seat."

"Oh come on!" the same man behind Joel called out loudly, and this outburst brought the flight attendant back.

"Is there a problem?" the attendant asked with an annoyed tone. Boarding was taking far too long, and she needed to hurry it along.

"This woman is in my seat," Joel explained softly, not wanting to make a fuss. "I understand the flight is full, so I am not sure where to sit now." He was trying to sound like the reasonable one.

"Just take any seat but mine," the same guy complained from behind. The flight attendant realized that advice would just complicate matters further, so she asked the old lady for her boarding pass. It took a good two minutes of searching through her purse, pockets, and carry on items. Meanwhile the attendant and Joel stood across the aisle from each other in the empty aisle seats in the row behind the old lady. This way, other passengers could continue back to their seats. There was a young lady seated in the window seat beside where Joel was standing -- the seat behind the old lady -- and she looked affronted by his intrusion into her personal space.

Finally the old lady found her boarding pass tucked into her book as a placeholder. She showed it to the attendant, who realized the woman was supposed to be in row 15, not 14. The old lady should be sitting one seat behind -- exactly where the young lady was seated beside where Joel was standing now. Joel decided to expedite the matters, and asked the woman seated beside him for her boarding card. She indignantly refused.

"All right," the flight attendant said to Joel, "just stand at the back of plane, and take the open seat when boarding is finished."

Why am I the one being punished? When all boarding was complete, there were no seats left. Joel walked the aisle back to front and back again. He reported his concern to the flight attendant.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "Come with me," she ordered, now upset they were late pushing away from the gate. She knew, like every other crew member did, that the airline paid a hefty fee to the airport if they pulled away from a gate more than five minutes late. Everyone was trained and motivated for on-time departures, and reprimanded, and ultimately fired, for too many late departures.

The flight attendant marched up the aisle with Joel in tow, but there were no seats. "Check the young woman behind the old lady," Joel was about to say, knowing that had to be the problem -- because no one else was complaining about seat assignments. But instead, the flight attendant told him "you'll have to deplane."

"What about my luggage?" Joel asked, worried that his company's expensive toolkit will go missing forever.

"You checked luggage for this short flight?" she accused Joel. She knew for certain she would lose her job if she allowed checked baggage to fly unattended.

Just do your fucking job! Joel stood silently.

The flight attendant picked up the white phone at the front of the plane, beside the main entrance, and pressed the button for the cockpit, and waited for one of the pilots to answer her call. "We have an over-count," she complained. "No, the flight is full," she answered a question, and then she said "okay," and hung up the phone. Five seconds later, the cockpit door opened, and a tall pilot stepped out. "I'll start a row-by-row," the attendant advised the commanding officer.

"No, hang on," he put his hand up toward her, signalling her to stop. "Sir," the captain asked Joel respectfully, who was still standing beside the attendant, "may I please see your boarding pass?" Joel surrendered his boarding pass to the captain. He looked at it, and then kept it. The pilot walked down the aisle to seat 14D, and Joel followed. The flight attendant stayed at the front. "Madam," the pilot flashed a broad pearly smile at the white haired old lady, "may it trouble you too much if I could see your boarding pass?" The lady cooed at such polite attention from the pilot himself, and instantly found her boarding pass, and handed it to him with a fawning smile. He examined it, and kept that one too. "Madam," he asked the younger woman seated behind the old lady, "may I please see your boarding pass?"

The woman blew out an exaggerated huff of annoyance, and passed her boarding pass to him with a scowl. "Madam," he said, now with an official tone -- there was no respect in his voice anymore, "you are on the wrong flight."

"What!" she snapped. "That's impossible!"

"You're supposed to go to Chicago. This flight is to Atlanta." A murmur mixed with groans and snickering erupted from the neighboring passengers. The pilot handed back the elderly lady her boarding pass. "Mr. Winkman," he turned to Joel as he handed back his boarding pass, "would you kindly take the seat behind the one you were assigned?"

"Of course," nodded Joel.

The pilot looked at the flight attendant standing at the front of the plane, and then back to Joel. "On behalf of the airline," the pilot announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, including the flight attendant, "I apologize for this troublesome inconvenience." And now everyone on the plane knew just what really happened.

The pilot strode to the front of the plane, and handed the errant boarding pass to the flight attendant. If Joel were close enough, he would have heard him say quietly to her "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" But Joel didn't hear that. Instead, he saw her face collapse into anger and frustration as the pilot returned to the cockpit and closed the door. The flight attendant recomposed herself and walked down the aisle to supervise the orderly eviction of the stowaway and all her belongings. As Joel waited in the aisle behind the evicted lady, he realized someone inside the terminal had fucked up. Every boarding pass is to be scanned into the computer, or failing that, the gate attendant types in the seating assignment of every boarding pass. Joel had watched it happen a thousand times. The terminal-side computer then flags any duplicate seating assignments as part of the boarding process. The stewardess's incompetence had only compounded someone else's mistake.

The man in the aisle seat beside the departing lady stood up, allowing her to escape from her window seat, and then she walked up the aisle of shame toward the front door. "Have a good flight to Bolivia," an obnoxious, familiar voice rang loudly from the back of the aircraft, and the whole plane erupted into spontaneous laughter. Joel knew from his earlier remarks the intent was not to be humorous, but to deepen the woman's humiliation. The front door closed after the woman deplaned. At last Joel took his window seat, and the flight crew started their departure announcements.

Joel landed in Atlanta and waited for his toolbox case to surface from the airport's underworld onto the revolving baggage carousel. It was nearly three in the afternoon before he left the airport, and caught a proper cab to the MARTA regional command and control center. Uber was not allowed to pick up passengers at the airport.

Surprisingly, the Atlanta weather was more moderate than Boston. It was sunny and warm, but not scorching hot as Boston was.

It was a 45 cab minute ride from the airport, which was well south of the Atlanta, through heavy downtown traffic, to the MARTA headquarters in far north end of Atlanta. The building was a modern, glass and concrete six story professional structure. From the exterior, it belonged on any large, modern university campus.

MARTA ran a complex network of 100 bus routes that intersected with 50 miles of rail line. Half a million people rode the system every day. The command and control center, located at the MARTA headquarters, was one of the most advanced facilities of its kind in North America. Quinton Systems played a miniscule role in the overall command and control function. The problem MARTA was experiencing with the Quinton system was a minor, almost trivial nuisance compared to some of the more disruptive malfunctions MARTA had had to contend with.

Joel announced himself at the MARTA headquarters' front desk, and said he was from Quinton Systems. The receptionist had no record or knowledge of his visit. Joel explained he was visiting Keith Bradshaw, Director of Information Systems for MARTA. He was here to work on a problem MARTA was experiencing with the automated display systems.

The receptionist called Keith Bradshaw, and spoke with him briefly, being careful not to reveal too much from her end of the conversation, and then hung up. "Mr. Bradshaw isn't expecting you until Tuesday," she explained to Joel. "Would you like to come back in the morning?"

"Sure," Joel sighed. Another cock-up. Derrek, his regional boss, told Joel to report to Bradshaw this afternoon. He pulled out his work smartphone, and called up an Uber to take him to a nearby Holiday Inn, where he had a reservation. He could have walked the distance without his equipment.

Joel checked into the hotel and dumped his suitcase and toolkit case in his room. He sent a text to Valerie on his personal phone, saying he was at the hotel. Her only reply was You forgot the garbage. Joel never understood the principle behind Val's outrage when he forgot to take out the garbage. Every floor in his apartment building had a small garbage room, and you take your bag of garbage into the room, and drop it down the chute. So how hard is that? "I love you too, honey," he whined out loud at the phone. Joel left the hotel room and strolled down the street to a Target store, and bought a toothbrush and toothpaste after he realized he forgot to pack his. Around the corner he found a restaurant called the Fusion Bistro. Joel enjoyed an early supper, and returned to his hotel room. He set up his wifi, and watched a few episodes of American Horror Story on Netflix. Joel closed his laptop, turned out the lights, and lay in bed. He let Jenny from HR come to him once more as he jerked off into his underpants before fading off to sleep.
Joel arrived at the MARTA headquarters on Tuesday morning at nine sharp on another warm sunny day. He announced himself to the same receptionist, who again asked his purpose for visiting. She once again called Keith Bradshaw, and this time the receptionist reported someone will come down to collect Joel.

A young woman -- she couldn't be over 25 -- breezed into the front foyer and extended her hand with a smile. She was tall and slim with straight black, shoulder length hair. Her narrow hips and tiny tits presented the physique of a runway model. Her face was attractive, more aptly gorgeous. "Hello Mister Winkman," she extended her hand with a smile, "I'm Amber, Mister Bradshaw's assistant." She exuded that confidence that comes with natural beauty. She was wearing a knee-length red pencil skirt and a white button-up blouse with frills hiding the buttons. Her black high heels clicked as she crossed the hard floor to greet Joel.

He didn't know any women called Amber who wasn't a stripper. Joel tried to hide his bemusement. "Hi Amber," he smiled back weakly, and shook her hand, but he couldn't hold her beautiful blue eyed gaze. Joel looked down instead.

"If you'll sign in, please," Amber gestured toward the register at the front desk. Joel picked up the pen on the counter and filled in his name and company. Amber completed the remaining fields, depicting Keith Bradshaw as the person visited, and she signed for him in the signature field. "If you'll follow me, please," Amber offered, and used the ID card hanging around her neck to unlock the secure door she entered from. Joel retrieved his large rolling toolkit case and followed. "We better take the elevator," Amber nodded toward the heavy looking rolling case.

They arrived on the third floor, and Amber led him through a maze of hallways to a small conference room. "If you'll have a seat," Amber gestured to the row of chairs, "I'll let Mister Bradshaw know you're here." Joel watched her sleek figure walk away to the doorway and turn left down the hallway. As he watched her snug skirt hug the contours of her tight ass, Joel wondered if Amber fucked Keith regularly.

Joel started unpacking his toolkits from his case. He was just putting the empty protective case aside when he heard a voice in the room. "Joel," he heard, and looked up. A balding man in his fifties with a black and white speckled beard swooped into the room and extended his hand with a confident smile. "I'm Keith Bradshaw." Joel shook his hand, feeling intimidated by Keith's room-filling presence.

"Hi," Joel shook his hand back. Keith's eyes sparkled with self-assurance, and Joel looked down at the table.

"Listen," Keith offered, "I really want to thank you for coming down here on such short notice. I know Stewart would be here if he could." Joel nodded. "How did his surgery go?" Keith asked with genuine concern.

Joel didn't even know what was wrong with Stewart, let alone having surgery. "Uh," he faltered.

"That's okay," Keith gracefully rescued Joel from embarrassment. "I trust all went well." Joel nodded in agreement with Keith's sentiment. "Listen," Keith backed away two steps, "I hope you don't mind, I've invited some of our techies to join us. They can give you the lowdown on where we are."

"Yeah," Joel nodded uncertainly, "uh, that's fine."

Just then Amber returned to the doorway, and leaned in. "Can I get you gentlemen some coffee or anything?'' Joel's fantasy world was leaning toward the 'anything' option, but he asked for a coffee instead, two sugar, two milk. Tonight, he'd have to conjure up a scene with Jenny and Amber together. Keith said thanks but no thanks. Joel watched Amber retreat down the hallway without trying to look obvious.

A minute later, a man and a woman entered the room. He was perhaps thirty five, had fine red hair and fair skin. She looked slightly younger with wavy brown hair, bedroom brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Her skin was perfectly smooth, and her physique was attractively muscular without being butch. They both wore jeans and a button up shirt. They introduced themselves as Geoffrey Toller, head of the Message Management System, and she was Beatrice DeFalco, head of mobile display systems. Beatrice was another unusual name, Joel considered, as he wondered if this organization hired only good looking women with odd names.

"Where's Bill?" Keith asked them both.

"He's in a meeting with Judy," Geoffrey offered. "I'm guessing he's going to be a while."

"Okay," Keith nodded, understanding the hidden subtext that eluded Joel. "Let's get started, then." Just then the lovely, slim, dark haired Amber re-entered the room, and set a coffee down in front of Joel. "Thanks, Amber" Keith smiled as she backed toward the door.

"Yes," Joel remembered, "thank you," he offered weakly, embarrassed he didn't think to say it first.

"So," Keith started, "I think you have the background. Our mobile monitors that are cutting off the bottom segment of the display. We've run tests on the bench system here, and we can't duplicate the problem. It only happens on the live feeds. I'll let Geoffrey and Bea take it from here." Joel felt a moment of privileged intimacy to be included with the small circle of people who call Beatrice 'Bea'.

"We've checked the packets at both ends," Geoffrey added, "and they come out identical."

"Do you mean identical in size, or content," Joel asked, growing confident now that the topic of conversation was in his area of expertise.

"We can't check content -- we don't have the analyzer for that," Bea chimed in.

"Yeah," Joel nodded, "It's our proprietary protocol, that's why. I brought an analyzer." Joel paused. "So Derrek told me you are not using a FourLine FCS anywhere in the pipe," Joel checked for confirmation.

"No," Keith jumped in, "we didn't say that. Derrek phoned me and asked if we were using a FourLine FCS, and we said no. We don't know what the carrier is using."

Joel hung his head in frustration. That's two fuck-ups Derrek made. Joel specifically asked him to ask MARTA if there was a FourLine FCS used anywhere in the end-to-end connection. Joel looked up. "You need to find out if your carrier uses a FourLine FCS," Joel stated, "and if they are, make sure they are using version seven or later, otherwise you will get data loss, like what you are describing to me."

Geffrey pulled out his cell phone, and looked up a number in his contact list, and pressed CALL.

"Tom, it's Geoffrey," he opened the conversation, and everyone in the room listened to his end. "Can you tell me if you are using a FourLine Frame Compression System in our mobile bus data network?" ... "you are. What version?" ... "you're sure it's five point two?" ... "Yeah, okay, thanks." Geoffrey hung up, and gave Keith a hardened look as he saddled his phone.

"So that's almost certainly your problem right there," Joel explained. "We found the problem in version six, and FourLine corrected it in version seven." Joel added after a moment's thought. "I reviewed our technical specs on the way down here, and those specs rule out the use of version five point two. Not by name, you understand, but by performance requirements. If you passed those specs on to your carrier, which I am sure you must have, then you can make them change to something else."

"So that's it, then?" Bea asked.

"Well, I'll run the analyzer on both your source and destination packets, on both the bench and in a live setting, just to be sure," Joel assured them. "I'll be done before lunch, unless it turns out to be something else. But right now it is looking like it isn't a Quinton Systems problem."

"You know," Keith jumped in, "it's great that you identified this problem so quickly, but Jesus, Joel, why couldn't this have been sorted out over the phone?"

"I really don't know," Joel sympathized, because he agreed completely. "I specifically asked Derrek to ask you guys if there was a FourLine FCS anywhere in the end-to-end connection."

"You're shitting me!" Keith snapped back angrily. "Derrek phoned me, and asked me about FourLine. I asked him did he mean just us, or us and the carrier. He told me just the MARTA components."

"I'm really sorry," Joel offered understandingly, "I don't know what to tell you. It could be my mistake, and I just don't remember it right. I will check my notes -- I log every technical phone call and meeting. I have the log with me. I'll check after I'm done my tests."

"Can you check now?" Keith asked.

"Sure," Joel shrugged. "Give me a minute to boot up." He pulled out his ruggedized Toshiba laptop, and powered it on. While it was booting up, Joel asked "Do you notice it works in some areas and not others?"

"We seem to be okay downtown," Beatrice offered, "and we get problems everywhere else."

"Yeah," Joel nodded. "I know TrackTel is upgrading their network. I'm guessing that's who you're using for your carrier." Geoffrey and Beatrice exchanged a look at that comment. "They start with the urban core first, and they're probably installing the version nine FourLine FCS." His laptop came alive, and Joel entered his login credentials, and then went to his technical log app. He scanned through the entries. "Yeah," he pointed to the screen, "here it is. June Third, 3:17 PM. I sent an email to Derrek to ask MARTA if they used FourLine FCS anywhere in the end-to-end connection between the control and command center and the live bus terminal."

"Can you give me a copy of that email?" Keith asked.

"I'm really not supposed to. I know we really value your business, but it is considered privileged and proprietary information. I could get into serious trouble for that." Joel paused. "I'll tell you what, though, I can print out a copy of my personal log that describes the email. I can't give you a soft copy, though."

"I appreciate that much," Keith thanked him. Joel understood that, under their contract, MARTA had to pay for a service call that was not a Quinton problem. If it was Quinton's problem the service call costs were covered under warranty, which came out of Quinton's profit. Joel realized Keith was angling toward not paying for a service call that could have been prevented with a simple phone call. Frankly, Joel agreed with him, and he felt it was good customer relations for Quinton to pay for the service call, especially for a customer as valuable as MARTA. Joel pulled out a small portable printer, and turned it on. It automatically established a wireless link with the laptop, and he printed the entry of his log, and handed it to Keith. "Thanks," Keith nodded.

"So," Joel said, "do I do my bench testing in here, or do you want me to go to you lab?"

"We'll bring the equipment to you," Geoffrey said, and Bea nodded in agreement. Joel wasn't surprised. Often customers don't want contractors in their labs. "Then we'll take you to our live lab out back, and you can test on an actual bus."

"Perfect," Joel said.

"Joel," Keith stood up, "I really appreciate your honesty and candor. I wish we had more contractor reps like you and Stewart," and he extended his hand to Joel. Joel stood and smiled, and reached for Keith's hand, and Keith shook his hand firmly. "I have to leave for another meeting," Keith explained, "so I'll leave you in these two capable hands," he gestured toward Geoffrey and Beatrice. "But if there's anything you need, find Amber and she'll come get me."

Joel liked the idea of finding Amber, and resolved to manufacture a reason to see Keith. "Thanks," he replied.

An hour later, Joel was in the conference room alone conducting tests on the bench equipment. As he expected, everything worked properly. His work cell phone rang. Joel looked at the call display. It was Derrek McAlister, his boss. "Hey Derrek," he answered, ready to relay his report with confidence.

"What the fuck, Joel!" Derrek yelled.

"Sorry?" Joel asked, confused by Derrek's outburst.

"You're fucking right you're going to be sorry!" Derrek yelled through the earpiece. "What the fuck were you thinking, giving Keith Bradshaw a copy of your log?"

"It's not considered company proprietary," Joel defended himself.

"First of all, you fucking retard, it is proprietary," Derrek continued yelling. "Any fucking notation you make about our system on our time is our property. Just because it's not in an email doesn't mean shit," Derrek continued his belligerent rant. "Second, I don't give a fucking rat shit if it's proprietary or not. You don't pass internal information about conversations or emails you and I have to a client without my permission. Jesus fucking Christ, Joel! How the fuck did you get a job as a customer rep in the first place?"

Joel ignored the rhetorical question. "Look," he tried defending himself logically, "the client is right. We should not charge him for this trip."

"Then that's what you say," Derrek snapped back.

"I don't have the authority to make that decision," protested Joel.

"Then you tell them you'll take it back for discussion. You call me. You make me part of the solution. Instead, you've made me look like the problem. You don't make your customer happy by throwing your boss under the fucking bus, you fucking moron!"

"I'm not the moron that fucked up in the first place," Joel didn't have the courage to say. Instead, he eked out a weak "okay."

"Finish your testing, and get on a plane home today," Derrek ordered.

"My testing might go into the afternoon," Joel noted, concerned the problem might not be what he suspected it was.

"No," Derrek emphasized, "it fucking won't. I don't fucking care what you find in your fucking testing. You will finish your live lab testing by noon, then you will go to the airport, and get on a fucking plane, and you will fucking fly home tonight. Is there any part of that you don't fucking understand?" Derrek barked.

"No," Joel sulked. "I got it." The call went dead.

Joel's ears were still stinging from Derrek's rebuke when Beatrice came into the room. "How's it going?" she asked.

"I .. uh ..." Joel felt his face flush with embarrassment. He felt like she had listened into the whole tirade he had just suffered, even though logically he knew that was impossible. He took a deep breath. "I'm pretty well finished in here," Joel finally announced. "I'm ready for the live lab test." He paused looking at his equipment. "I ... ah ... just need to pack up my stuff."

"Okay," she offered cautiously. It didn't take a mind reader to sense something was definitely amiss with Joel. "I'll come back in five minutes."

Joel finished the live lab testing just before noon, and packed up his toolbox case. As he suspected, he found no problem with the Quinton equipment, but he did confirm the data signal was being corrupted when it passed through the wireless carrier network.

He was so flustered by his conversation with Derrek, Joel forgot to find Amber. He decided to walk back to his hotel, dragging his rolling case behind him. It took all of ten minutes.

He packed up his clothing, and called an Uber cab to the airport. Inside the cab, he texted to Valerie. "Finished up here. Heading to airport. I think I am fired."

"figures" was the one word text reply from his loving wife.

Joel used his work smartphone to book a 3PM flight to Boston. He arrived at Hartfield airport just past one, and after passing through security, he had just enough time to grab a quick lunch at a fast-food sandwich wrap outlet. His plane boarded on time, and he had no problems with his seat this time. This flight was an Airbus 319 -- six seats across with a center aisle. The plane was only two thirds full. Joel was sitting in seat 16A -- on the left window two rows behind the emergency exit. From his seat Joel pulled out his work cell phone and sent a quick email to his boss, Derrek, saying he was on the 3 PM flight, and then switched his cell phone to airplane mode before any reply could arrive.

Joel was seated beside a young mother and her five year old daughter. The daughter was in the middle seat, beside Joel. Seated ahead of him in the three seats were the father and two sons of the same family. The five family members exchanged various glances and conversations between the two rows. Although they were energetic, the children were well behaved, and Joel didn't at all mind the polite, inquisitive young girl sitting next to him.

An hour into the flight, somewhere over West Virginia, Joel heard the young boy in the seat ahead of him ask "Dad, what's that?" Joel looked out his window. Far ahead and way out to the left he saw a brilliant white light. It was brighter than anything he'd ever seen, save the sun itself. It appeared to be travelling in the opposite direction their plane was travelling, however Joel couldn't tell if that was true motion, or apparent motion because they were flying at such a high speed. The boy's father could not see it, because in the middle seat, he did not have the correct viewing angle out the window.

The light seemed to both increase speed and bank to its left -- toward their aircraft. Now Joel heard others in the plane gasp at the light, and quickly the entire cabin become abuzz between those who could see it and those who wanted to see it. People on the right side of the plane stood up and leaned across the aisle, trying to catch a glimpse of the bright flying object.

It picked up speed and turned again, and for the first time, Joel feared it might come close enough to become a concern to the plane's safety. It seemed to grow larger, but Joel couldn't tell if it was actually growing or if it looked larger because it was closer. Suddenly, Joel realized it was going to collide with the plane -- there was no escaping it, and he heard a volley of screams throughout the cabin as other people on the left side of the plane triangulated the same intersecting vectors.

Joel awoke in his seat. His mind was foggy, sluggish, as if he was dazed or in a dream. He shook his head, and noticed the young girl beside him was unconscious, as was her mother. The cabin was deathly quiet save the steady drone of the engines. No one was speaking. Finally he heard a distant male voice ask "What happened?"

Joel looked right, across the aisle. One of the three people seated there was just waking up. Joel looked left, out the window, checking the status of the aircraft. They were still flying straight and level. He could see the port side wing and engine, and both appeared fine. Signs of life were returning, as people started to awaken, but the girl and woman beside him were still unconscious. He felt the girl's neck for a pulse, and found one. Then he checked the woman's neck, and as he did, he heard "Are they alright?" It was her husband from the row ahead, looking back over the seat.

"They both have pulses," Joel replied, "but they seem unconscious."

"Dad, what happened?" one of his sons asked him.

"I don't know, Tod," he answered honestly, "but we're going to find out, and everything will be alright."

"Someone check the cockpit!" called a man's voice ahead. Right! Joel realized they could be flying on autopilot with everyone dead on the flight deck. He stood up, and crawled over the unconscious girl and woman beside him, and looked up the aisle, and that's when Joel became truly afraid. At least a half dozen people lay dead or unconscious in the aisle. He picked out both flight attendants among the stricken. He looked backward, and counted four more collapsed bodies behind him. Make that five -- he just barely could see the feet of someone in the back galley -- he guessed that was the third flight attendant.

He started walking carefully toward the front of the plane, stepping over the bodies as he did. Some of them were stirring awake, others remained still. In the front galley Joel saw a flight attendant lying on the floor, not moving. Her head was gashed, and she was bleeding. He surmised she must have struck her head on something as she went down. Joel squatted down and felt for a pulse. It was faint and rapid. That's not good.
Joel looked at her more carefully now, and saw her lips were blue. It was a symptom of hypoxia -- lack of oxygen. He remembered that from CPR classes. Joel placed his hand on her chest, above her bosom. She was not breathing. He knew time was critical. He rolled her onto her back, tilted her head back, and opened her mouth. He could see something in there. He remembered -- sweep the finger -- don't push. He put his finger down the side of her mouth, and swept sideways, and something moved. He did it again, and it broke off. He pulled it out. It was the part of a boiled egg white. She still wasn't breathing. The rest must still be further down her windpipe.

What to do when they're unconscious? Think! Okay, now I remember. He straddled his knees over the flight attendant's knees, and he placed the heel of his left hand just under the center of her rib cage, and he placed his right hand on the back of his left hand. Then he straightened his arms, braced, angled upwards, into her lungs, and PUSH! She made a "thwoop" sound as the piece of egg white literally flew right out of her mouth and landed on the floor beside her.

Joel listened to her mouth. She was breathing, but her head was still bleeding. He looked at it more closely. It was a nasty gash above her left eye that reached into her scalp. The cut was C shaped, and a flap of skin pulled away, revealing muscle tissue beneath. He pressed the skin back into place.

Joel looked around for something to bind her wound. An unconscious or dead woman in the front business class seat wore a scarf. Joel removed the woman's scarf, and tied it tightly around the flight attendant's forehead head, fixing the skin flap tight against her head.

Last thing they taught him in CPR is put the victim into the recovery position in case she vomits. Joel rolled her on to her right side, so the cut on the left side was facing up, hopefully helping the blood clot. He gently rested her head on her own arm. If she threw up, now the vomit would drain down her open mouth, and she wouldn't choke to death.

As he stood up again, Joel looked down the plane toward the back, counting the bodies in the aisle, and a curious notion struck him. All the men were waking up and all the women were still dead or asleep. He examined the aisle again, looking at each still body carefully, one by one, and every single person not moving was female. He scanned the faces of the seated passengers in the cabin, and all the women were dead or sleeping, and all the men were fully awake or rousing.

He was about to bang on the cockpit door, knowing it was impossible to breach. Then a thought occurred to him. Joel went to the white phone mounted on the wall next to the main door, and pulled the handset out of its cradle. There was a button marked COCKPIT on the cradle. Joel pressed the button, and listened.

"Granger," came the voice at the other end.

"My name is Joel Winkman," he announced. "I am a passenger." Like, duh! He knows I am a passenger. "All three flight attendants are down."

In two seconds the door opened, and a stocky fifty year old pilot with four chevrons on his shoulder -- he was the captain -- stepped through the door. He had the name tag "GRANGER" on his left breast pocket. Joel put the phone back to its cradle.

"All the women on the aircraft are dead or unconscious," Joel reported to the captain.

"WHAT!" Granger exclaimed incredulously.

"See for yourself," Joel gestured down the aisle. "The third flight attendant is in the back galley," Joel reported.

Granger looked down the length of the cabin for five whole seconds, surveying the corpses in the aisle. As he visually checked every body, and he confirmed they were all women. The captain spun on his heel and poked his head into the cockpit, and barked a command to his first officer. "Gary, squawk seventy seven hundred. Put us down R.F.N. Multiple code black. I'm checking for damage."

"Center, American 7921," Joel heard from the flight deck, "we are declaring an emergency. Possible mid-air collision. Commencing rapid descent. Require direct vector to nearest major airport for immediate landing."

Holy shit! This is getting real.

Joel couldn't hear the air traffic controller's reply, but then he heard the co-pilot say "Right heading zero eight zero, descend at my discretion, not below twelve thousand, American 7921." Moments later, the aircraft banked hard right. The engines went quiet, and Joel felt the whole aircraft tremble and he heard something new -- a faint howling. He looked out the window, and saw the spoilers on the wings had risen to their maximum deflection angle. Joel worried something had gone horribly wrong, because he had only ever seen the spoilers come up when they landed on the runway.

Captain Granger listened to his first officer's radio communications while he looked backward, surveying the cabin. As the plane banked right, Captain Granger was satisfied the co-pilot had the situation in hand, and he closed the cockpit door.

"Do you have a first aid kit," Joel asked Captain Granger, pointing to the flight attendant on the floor. "She was choking to death -- egg white," he pointed at the broken remains of the hardboiled egg on the floor. "I gave her the Heimlich, but her head is still bleeding badly."

Granger went to galley at the front of the airplane, and opened a panel door marked FIRST AID. He pulled out the kit and gave it to Joel. Joel opened the first aid kit and found a compression bandage, gauze pack, and antibiotic ointment. He ripped the sterile packaging open. As he tended to the flight attendant's head wound, the captain carefully walked down the cabin aisle, picking his way over the bodies, and stopped three rows short of the emergency exit. He looked out both sides of the aircraft, inspecting the wings and engines. Then he went aft of the wings, and looked again out both sides. Next Granger continued to the back of the plane, stepping over more women, until he reached the galley.

By the time the captain returned to the front, Joel had finished bandaging the flight attendant's wound, and he was checking the pulses of stricken passengers. "What's your name?" the captain asked Joel as he returned forward.

"Joel," he replied, "Joel Winkman. So far they're all alive," Joel pointed to the downed women.

"Stand up please," the pilot ordered him, "so everyone can see you." Joel stood uncertainly.

"Mister Joel Winkman," the pilot announced loudly enough for all near the front of the aircraft to hear, "I am deputizing you as commander of the passenger cabin. You will keep calm and order back here. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Joel answered immediately.

The captain stepped over the remaining unconscious women and returned to the flight deck door. He entered a code on the numeric key panel, and waited a few moments. The door unlocked and he stepped in and closed the door.

About a minute later, Joel heard Captain Granger's voice over the public address system. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Granger on the flight deck. As you have no doubt determined by now, we have incurred an unknown event that has rendered many of our passengers and crew incapacitated. Rest assured that both pilots are fully alert and capable. We have declared an emergency and we are descending to Richmond Virginia where medical and emergency response teams are standing by. We have received priority approach to Richmond, and air traffic control is right now clearing out all traffic ahead of us. There has been no damage to the aircraft, and all systems are functioning normally. We temporarily lost our flight attendants due to incapacitation, and I have appointed Mister Joel Winkman commander of the passenger cabin. You will follow his instructions to the best of your abilities. Above all, stay calm, and keep your seat belts on. Air traffic control advises us we will have you on the ground in about fifteen minutes."

Joel looked around the cabin. "Is anyone a doctor or paramedic?" he shouted out.

"I am a retired surgeon," a man in his sixties put up his hand. He was three rows back. Joel waved him forward. The man left his unconscious wife beside him, and stepped over the bodies to reach Joel.

Joel spoke to him quietly, so others could not hear. "Count the dead. Assess the injuries," Joel told him, "and tell me how serious they all are. Take no more than five minutes for the whole plane."

"Yes sir," the surgeon nodded.

"Is anyone a flight attendant on any airline?" Joel yelled out.

"I did some training, but I wasn't hired," a man put up his hand.

"Go into the front and back galleys," he ordered, "lock everything down and button everything up so nothing flies around on landing." He nodded and started with the front galley.

Five minutes later they were still descending. The retired surgeon reported the flight attendant at the very back of the plane had an obviously broken wrist, and the one at the very front might have serious head trauma -- possibly a concussion. He was worried about moving them, especially the front one, if she had a spinal injury. At the same time, he was worried about leaving her there, and her back would be jolted upon landing. He couldn't be certain about the other unconscious women without a more detailed examination.

Joel explained he already moved the front flight attendant to administer the Heimlich maneuver, so he may already have done serious damage to her spine. "It doesn't matter," the doctor shook his head, "she still should not be moved, or moved very carefully."

The doctor added he counted thirty eight unconscious women, none dead. Joel nodded and went to the white phone, and pressed COCKPIT again.

"Granger," the pilot announced.

"It's Winkman," Joel replied. "I have a surgeon on board. He has declared one serious head trauma, and one badly broken wrist, thirty eight unconscious -- all women, no dead. The injuries are two of the flight attendants. The status of the rest is unknown due to unconsciousness."

"Will advise ground," Granger replied. "Anything else?"

"We're going to start putting unconscious people back into their seats now, but I'm going to need about a five minute warning before landing."

"Five minutes, roger," Granger acknowledged. "Anything else?"

"We need a decision about whether to move the injured flight attendants into their seats, or leave them on the floor for landing. Either way, the surgeon is worried about making possible spinal injuries worse."

"We'll chew it over with ops center," Granger advised. "Anything else?"

"That's all."

"Good job, Winkman," and Granger disconnected.

Joel deputized two teams of four strong looking men, and told each team to gently, carefully, and respectfully place the unconscious women lying in the aisle back in their seats. He ordered the retired surgeon to supervise the two teams to minimize injuries, and make sure each seated woman's seatbelt is fastened. As they started reseating the unconscious women, Joel realized someone could be in the washrooms. He checked both front and aft lavatories, and found them empty.

Five minutes later, nearly all the women who were lying in the aisles were back in their seats. The captain announced over the speakers "Winkman phone."

Joel went to the front of the plane, and picked up the phone, and called the cockpit. "Granger," he answered, as always.

"Winkman," he shortened his salutation.

"Our ops center says to move the flight attendants into business class fully reclined seats as carefully as possible. Make sure there is no one seated in a seat behind a reclined seat. Do not leave anyone in the aisles."

"Reclined seats, okay," Winkman tried to be as brief as the pilot. "The aisles are already clear except the front flight attendant. We'll do her next. The surgeon is supervising all body movements."

"Seven minutes to touchdown," Granger announced.

"Okay," Joel acknowledged.

"That's all. How are things back there?"

"Under control, mostly calm, all women are still unconscious. Men are very anxious about wives and daughters. I checked the washrooms -- they're empty. That's all" Joel tried to be brief. He was wondering if making a joke about it being calm because all the women were unconscious was appropriate, and decided against it.

"Good job, Winkman," and Granger disconnected.

Joel asked the retired surgeon to supervise the lifting of the front flight attendant into the business class reclined seat. He had to move two business class passengers into economy to assure no one was behind a reclined seat. One team of men carefully carried the aft flight attendant all the way forward, and the other team carefully lifted the business class flight attendant into her reclined seat. The doctor examined the two flight attendants briefly and fastened their seatbelts over their hips. He started to set and splint the attendant's broken wrist.

"Three minutes to touchdown," Granger announced over the public address system. "Everyone to their seats immediately and fasten your seatbelts now." The doctor abandoned his first aid treatment of the flight attendant's wrist, and returned to his seat beside his sleeping wife. Joel decided to take the jump seat near the front of the aircraft in case he was needed at the door.

They touched down to a textbook landing on the center stripe of runway 16, the longest runway at Richmond airport, clocking in at nine thousand feet. The Airbus easily slowed to taxi speed before crossing the perpendicular runway 25, and under instructions from the tower, the pilot turned right onto runway 25, taxied down the second runway a few hundred feet, crossed taxiway 'L', and stopped on runway 25. This plan left runway 16 open for regular traffic while a battalion of emergency vehicles waited on taxiway 'L', next to the shorter runway. The fire trucks were the first to approach the aircraft. The firemen checked the entire aircraft to make sure the environment was safe to approach. Once the fire chief gave the okay, the next two vehicles to approach were stair trucks that nuzzled against both sides of the fuselage where the two main front doors were. Then the rest of the emergency vehicles swarmed the aircraft while the pilots went through their shutdown checklist.

There was a rap at the left door, and Joel stood up from his jump seat. A large red arrow pointed which direction to turn the handle to open the door, so Joel turned it, and the door opened as easily as that. Then he opened the door on the right side. Paramedics were first aboard the plane. "Those two need spine boards," Joel pointed to the two flight attendants in the reclined business class seats, "and this one was fully obstructed -- she had Heimlich -- she needs to be checked over."

Then Joel paused, aware just how ridiculous his next words would sound. "Every female on board is unconscious," Joel said.

"You said what?" the lead paramedic asked.

"You heard me," Joel stated plainly. He looked at the paramedic's name tag: WILLIAMS. "Every woman and girl on board has been unconscious since the incident."

Williams looked at the passengers, and saw that every woman was asleep. "Fucking hell," Williams cursed, never before hearing of such a thing. He looked back to the door, and saw a woman paramedic step in. He recognized her instantly -- Lorena Ruiz. She was a firecracker from Puerto Rico with a big attitude and dirty mouth. "Out!" he pointed at Ruiz, and yelled. "No female EMTs allowed," he ordered.

"Fuck you, turd" Ruiz challenged him loudly. Williams stepped into her path and blocked Lorena's entrance. "Every female onboard this aircraft is down. I don't know how or why, but I don't want to lose any EMTs."

"Holy shit!" Ruiz backed a few steps back. "We need a fucking quarantine."

"With you in it," Johnson pulled her back in.

"Fuck me!" she cursed at her bad luck, knowing he was right.

"Central this is Williams," he spoke into his radio microphone, "we need to isolate the aircraft. All females onboard are unconscious. Repeat. All females on board are unconscious."

There was a long pause. "Williams did you say all females are unconscious?" crackled over his radio speaker.

"A married man's dream," he smirked into his microphone. "You also need to pull back all female EMTs, fire, police, everybody. Males only."

A long pause. "Williams we're pulling everyone back and rethinking this. Seal it up. Everyone on board stays on board. Charlie Delta Charlie."

"Affirm," nodded Williams into his mike. They closed the aircraft doors tight again. "I need to talk to the captain," he said to Joel.

Joel lifted the phone, and spoke with Captain Granger, and explained he was requested in the cabin for a conversation with the EMT lead. The flight deck door opened, and Captain Granger stepped out. Williams explained the entire plane had just been placed in strict isolation by order of the Center for Disease Control. For how long, no one knew.

Joel sat down on the jump seat and turned on his personal cell phone. He sent a text to Valerie. "Flight diverted to Richmond, Virginia. Might be here a long while. Its complicated." There was no reply.

When he turned his work cell phone on to regular mode, it downloaded an email from Derrek, his boss. It was official. He was fired. "Fuck them," he murmured to himself, and smiled.

Then Joel got a thought. Joel carried two cell phones -- a personal one and a business one. Quinton didn't permit their phones to be used for personal email and phone calls. Joel had received the email telling he was fired on his business cell phone. He forwarded the email to his personal email account, just for safe keeping. You never know, right? He checked his email on his personal phone, and his you're fired email appeared.

- - -

"Do you have any aches, pains, headaches, or sore spots," Dr. Brighton asked. She was a cute young doctor assigned to examine Joel and about thirty other passengers. She had big brown eyes and a round face capped with sharp bangs and straight hair. She stood five foot four, and barely looked over 18. She insisted she had completed medical school long ago and was a certified doctor. It was hard to guess at her figure beneath her white doctor's coat, but Joel was pretty certain he'd enjoy playing doctor with her.

They had been held in isolation for 12 hours on the plane while Tuesday faded into Wednesday. The EMTs decided not to leave the two injured flight attendants onboard. They deplaned the unconscious crew on spine boards under strict isolation protocol. During the 12 hour wait on the plane, all the remaining women and girls woke up.

When they finally allowed the passengers to deplane, they took everyone into a cordoned off building and examined them individually. Even with six doctors, it took a long time to process everyone. Through the luck of the draw, Joel was one of the last passengers to be viewed. He had waited six hours in the sitting room before his name was called. It was ten o'clock in the morning -- twenty hours after he first boarded the plane in Atlanta.

"No," Joel shook his head. "No pains."

"Are you tired or fatigued?"

"Are you kidding, doc?" he grunted. "I've been up all night on a plane and then in your waiting room. I'm slammed."

"Yeah," she nodded, "sorry about that. It has taken a long time to get through the list."

"Don't worry about it doc," he smiled. "It's nothing a hot shower and quick fuck won't cure." Joel wasn't sure why he said that. He never says things like that.

Dr. Brighton looked at him strangely. Joel was about to apologize, when she said "well, there's a shower down the hallway, if that's what you mean?"

"Doc," Joel grinned, "you know that's just an expression, right?"
Her face collapsed with sudden realization, and then her cheeks flushed red with untold embarrassment. She couldn't look at him anymore. "I ... ah ..." she faltered. "Of course I knew it was a saying," she proclaimed unconvincingly. "I was just ... you know ... joking around."

"Do you know where I'm staying?" Joel asked, changing subjects.

"They booked the Airport Marriott," the doctor said. "I'm pretty sure you'll be staying there."

She continued the interview, but she was badly distracted by her deep embarrassment. Joel sensed she cut the examination short. As she wrapped it up, Joel asked "what's you cell number?" Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? To his amazement, she gave it to him. He pulled out his personal cell, and called her. When he heard her phone ring, he hung up. "Now you have my number," he announced. "When you're finished here, come to the Marriott, give me a call, and then we can continue our talk about funny expressions."

She just looked at him without speaking. Well, so much for that.

Dr. Brighton was right. The airline had rented a hotel room at the Marriott for Joel. Even though it was mid-morning, he was bagged -- he badly needed sleep. A private shuttle service the airline hired exclusively for the passengers of his flight took him to his hotel. Security guards were at the hotel to prevent the press and keeners from pestering the weary passengers and crew. The press had got wind of a mid-air collision -- probably by monitoring the air traffic control radio, and then to add intrigue to the story, the plane was held in isolation for twelve hours. Hordes of reporters were sniffing around for a story, which the various government agencies were keen to prevent until they could present a reasonable explanation what happened. It was leaking out anyway. Passengers called their relatives, who spoke to reporters. The headlines were already heralding a plane load of women who were sedated against their will, which was accurate, but easily taken out of context.

Joel was told he would have interviews with the NTSB, the FBI, the CDC, and maybe others. But all that could wait. Now he needed sleep. He was given a room key, and was escorted to his hotel room on the seventh floor, which had more guards on it. Inside the room, Joel stripped down to his underwear and undershirt, crawled under the blankets, and closed his eyes.

His personal cell phone rang. He looked at the incoming call. It was Valerie. "Hey," he allowed.

"Tell me you were not on that sex offender plane!" she demanded right away.

"Yup," he sighed, closing his eyes with his head back on the pillow. "That was me."

"How do you get yourself caught up in these things?" she challenged, like it was his fault. 'What things?' he would ask if he weren't so tired.

"Listen," he said instead, "I haven't slept for thirty hours. I'm just going to bed now. I'll call you later."

"You can't go to sleep, it's eleven in the morning!" she argued.

"Val, goodbye," he announced, and cut off the call.

He had just put down the phone when it rang again. "For fuck's sake," he yelled, picking up the phone, but when he looked at the incoming call, it wasn't her. "Hello?" he answered.

"Hi," a familiar voice announced. "You wanted to talk to me about funny expressions."

"Are you for real?" he asked with mixed emotions. He started worrying she was some psycho doctor that stalked her patients.

"Well," Dr. Brighton protested, "I thought I would come here and talk to you about it."

"You're in the hotel?" Joel asked.

"In the Airport Marriott," she confirmed. "I'm in the lobby."

"I'm in room 723," Joel explained, "but you can't get in -- there's too much security. I'll come down for you."

"Okay," she said and disconnected.

Now he was wide awake. He put his clothing back on, which was everything he owned. His suitcase and personal effects were being processed by some lab. Joel took the elevator downstairs, and there she was. She was wearing the same black slacks with a dark blue T shirt, but a black leather jacket had replaced her doctor's coat.

Joel brought her up to his room. She was challenged by security when they stepped of the elevator together on the seventh floor. She flashed her airline credentials and her MD badge, but the security guard, who looked a significantly more diligent than the average rent-a-cop, said she was not on the list of allowed guests, and he would have to check. He was reaching for his radio when Joel said "Look, this is Doctor Brighton. I am in her care. She examined me after the flight. I am having some medical issues, and she is checking out some new concerns. So let her pass, please." The security guard weighed the debate in his head, and decided to let the good doctor accompany him. Joel thanked the guard. They walked to room 723. Joel unlocked the door, and ushered her inside, and he closed the door behind them. She stood awkwardly, wondering what to do next.

"Come sit down," he sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the mattress beside him. She walked over and sat beside him.

"So," he tried breaking the ice, "you wanted to talk about funny expressions."

"Well, no," she corrected. "You did. Remember?"

"So I did," he replayed their earlier conversation in his mind. "So tell me, do you always follow up a patient examination in a hotel room."

"Never before," she shook her head.

"So what do you want to talk about, then?" he asked.

"I don't know. What funny expressions do you know?"

This was getting weird. He couldn't tell if he was about to score or get stabbed to death. Sticking with what works, he asked "You never heard the expression about a hot shower and a quick fuck?"

"No," she shook her head.

"I think it's British," he said. He waited a long time. Now or never. "So do you want to see if it works?"

"If what works?"

"If having a hot shower and a quick fuck makes you feel better."

"Are you asking me to have a hot shower and a quick fuck?" she asked casually, as if they were discussing which movie to go see, "and see if that makes me feel better?"

"Sure," he nodded, feeling his breathing quicken, "let's do that."

"Okay," she stood up, and pulled her jacket off her shoulders, and laid it out carefully on the bed. Then the cute young doctor hoisted her blue T shirt over her head, revealing a delicate pink bra with roses embossed in the fabric. She neatly folded her shirt on the bed beside her jacket. She reached behind her back, mechanically, not sexy at all, and unsnapped her bra, and folded it on her T shirt. Her firm, C cupped breasts had almost no areola -- just brown nipples centered in her white fleshed love melons.

The rejuvenated Joel watched the topless doctor push her toe to heel to push off one shoe, and then the other, and she set the shoes carefully on the floor. With no sense of romance or titillation, Dr. Brighton unfastened and unzipped her pants, and pushed them down her thighs, wiggling her hips as she did, and then stepped out of them, and neatly folded them on the bed. Finally, she pressed her underpants down her legs, revealing a neatly trimmed bush. She picked up her underwear, and folded it on top of her pants.

Without saying a word, Dr. Brighton walked naked to the bathroom while Joel sprang to a raging hard-on. He heard her start the shower. She had no sense of urgency, intimacy, or passion. There was no connection with him at all. It was as if she didn't sense him in the room, and she decided to take her routine morning shower.

Joel walked into the bathroom fully clothed, and the naked doctor was stepping into the stream of water, having adjusted the temperature to her liking. If she sensed his presence, she didn't show it. She turned her back to the warm water, and grabbed a bottle of hotel shampoo, and started lathering her hair. Her tits jiggled as she massaged her scalp, prompting Joel's manhood to ache a little more. He wondered if she was some human automaton -- a sexy body with no soul, no passion, no feeling.

She rinsed the suds out of her hair, slowly twirled in the shower stream to wash the lather off her body, and then she stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a fresh towel. "Let me do that," Joel offered, and he took the towel away from her. She obliged, and Joel stood behind her, and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. He dried her back first, then her shoulders, and then he wrapped his hands around to her front, and started massage drying her tits through the towel, and felt just how firm they were. He pulled the towel open, and cupped her breasts directly in his hands, and began gently squeezing, while she remained perfectly still. He ran his fingertips over her nipples, back and forth, and they firmed into hard buds.

He took the towel off her shoulder, and moved to her front, facing her. He toweled her tummy, and then let his hand slip down, down, down over the towel, until he landed on her crotch, and massaged the towel inward. She remained motionless. Joel squatted down, and toweled her legs, and as he did, he brought his lips to her twat, and started kissing her sweet pussy lips. She made no sound or motion.

"Well," he said as he stood up, "I guess the shower part is done."

She looked at him with no expression. "Time to fuck," she said with vacant eyes.

He led her to the bedroom, and told her to lie on her back, which she did. He undressed in front of her, and she neither watched nor seemed to care.

Joel mounted the bed on top of the waiting doctor. She didn't resist when he spread her legs apart. While Joel was never a ladies man, he had enough plumbing for the job. He lowered his eight incher between her legs, and touched the tip of his hardened cock to her waiting pussy. She looked unblinking at the ceiling as he penetrated her love tunnel. This must be what necrophilia is like. He started driving his hips, pumping his piston in and out of her fuck hole.

Joel reached down with one hand and started playing with her white tits while she silently lay motionless on the bed. He closed his eyes, and thought of Jenny from HR, and that helped. It wasn't the lifeless doctor he was fucking anymore. With his eyes closed Joel was fucking Jenny's delicious pussy and watching her spectacular tits. He kept his eyes closed, and Joel found his pressure building, and he started slamming harder into the mute doctor's pelvis. He kept his eyes closed and saw Jenny lovingly smile up at him from her blessed missionary position, and his balls started to seriously churn.

He felt his release growing closer, and Joel burst into a savage sprint, fucking the good doctor with all his strength. "Oh fuck, yes Jenny," he whispered as he felt his balls pass the point of no return, and then he growled hard as he unloaded a stream of hot cum deep into Jenny's cunt. He opened his eyes wide, and there was the unresponsive doctor still staring up blankly without making a noise. Joel's second orgasmic wave burst forth and spilled into the back of the catatonic doctor's pussy. He fucked her brutally, compensating for her lack of affect, slamming his hips as hard as he could against her pelvis. Her tits bobbled in rhythm to his thrusts, as he felt the next contraction squeeze out another burst of liquid love deep into her hole.

At last his orgasmic contractions faded, Joel pulled out, leaving the doctor motionless with her legs still apart. "All done?" she asked neutrally, as if checking if he had finished eating his spinach. She sat upright, swung her feet over the edge of the bed, and stood up. She started dressing in silence.

"Doc," Joel announced, sitting naked on the bed, "I just gotta tell you that was the weirdest sex I ever had."

"Me too," she nodded. She finished dressing, pulled her coat on, and without another word, or even so much as a glance back to Joel, she walked to the hotel room door, pulled it open, and left.

"Holy fuck," Joel grumbled to himself after she left. "Not one person would believe the day I had." He mentally listed his experiences over this trip. He was nearly kicked off a plane because an unwitting stowaway took the last seat. He made a customer happy, and for that he was fired. He was on a plane that was struck by -- by what? -- A UFO? Every woman and girl on the plane passed out for about twelve hours. He was deputized as commander of the cabin. He performed the Heimlich maneuver and saved a crew member from certain death. His wife, who hates him, blames him for all the women that fell unconscious. And he had weirdly ungratifying sex with the undead Doctor Brighton.

But as the saying goes, even bad sex is better than no sex at all. Joel smiled. He turned both of his cell phones off, and put them beside the clock on his bedside table, and noticed it was noon. He pulled on his underpants and undershirt, and slipped under the bed covers. In less than one minute, Joel was snoring heartily.

- - - End of Chapter 1 - - -