The Savannah Story: I
It was November 1st, 2022, and my stomach dropped into a slow, sick roll. I gazed in horrified disbelief at the flight confirmation: November 5th. My phone's screen blurred as the room began to tilt. I was traveling from Phoenix to Savannah and the flight was booked for, of all the damn days, a date shackled to the symbolic imagery of The Collective.
This felt less like an uncomfortable coincidence and more like a dare. Remember, remember. I began calculating the likelihood of being shoved into a black van by government agents, assassinated by cult operatives in the terminal, or publicly butchered by the Baker Boys the moment I deplaned in Georgia. But after a month in the White Mountains enduring BabaYaga's violent diatribes and threats, even a firing squad felt like a reprieve. If this was the end of the line, at least it was a ticket out of that cabin and away from the old woman's malevolence.
I spent the next four days drenched in a suffocating anxiety, navigating the minefield of BabaYaga's unpredictable outbursts. When the fifth finally arrived, I descended the mountain towards Phoenix, my mind spiraling through the possible outcomes of this quest.
Unsure if I would ever return, I arranged to leave my truck at Wingnut's apartment and summoned a car. On the drive to Sky Harbor, I was so mired in morbid thoughts I didn't realize the driver was speaking.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Looking up, I blinked and the terminal signs snapped into focus. He was asking for my airline.
"Oh, umm…" I quickly double-checked my itinerary. "United."
The driver whipped into the loading zone in front of the terminal with a practiced, aggressive grace. With a fluid, terrifying efficiency, he put the car in park, was out of the vehicle, and at the trunk before I could unfasten my seatbelt. I collected my luggage and offered a quick, firm handshake—his calloused hand providing a brief moment of human contact that felt jarringly normal. He was back behind the wheel and pulling away before my brain registered the thud of his door. That's a man on a mission. I stood on the curb, clutching my bag, and watched him disappear into the airport traffic.
I inhaled deeply; the sharp tang of jet fuel and exhaust seared my nostrils. The concrete thrummed beneath me, a low-frequency shudder from unseen jet engines that I felt in my marrow rather than heard. Around me, the airport radiated; a stochastic squelch of voices swirled, anonymizing me.
There is a specific energy at airports, a gravitational potential generated by thousands of people suspended between their pasts and futures. It's a rare place where life feels surreal, composed of nothing but raw possibility. Despite the target on my back, a spark of genuine excitement flashed. I leaned into the moment and stepped through the sliding doors, letting the climate-controlled air wash over me.
In November 2022, the world was trying to move past the pandemic, yet the social fabric remained frayed, a lingering irritability charging every public space. This palpable tension, the corralled nature of the terminal, and the ever-present surveillance of the security cameras were constant reminders that this could be a trap. I weaved through the crowd toward the security checkpoint, my eyes darting, looking for a tail or the glint of a weapon in the hands of a would-be assassin. Everything seemed normal, just another day at the…
"Fuck you!"
The shout ripped through the white noise like an explosion. My heart hammered against my ribs. This is it. My body tightened as I desperately scanned for a shooter or a blade-wielding attacker. They found some nutjob to take me out before I even leave Arizona. But the threat was localized elsewhere. A woman stood at a check-in counter, her body writhing in rage as she screamed at a motionless agent.
"Call the police! Call TSA! Fuck you, bitch! I will beat your fucking ass!"
She was still projecting profanities when two airport police officers materialized, flanking her and steering her toward the exit. The airline worker didn't even blink. She simply tilted forward slightly and spoke into the sudden vacuum: "Next in line, please."
I exhaled, the adrenaline still surging in my blood. I pushed forward past the check-in counters and towards the security checkpoint, my hypervigilance now dialed to a deafening level.
As I approached the gauntlet of metal detectors and X-ray scanners, my mind locked onto The Item tucked inside my carry-on. Approximately six inches long, three inches wide, and one inch thick—wrapped in thick matte-black packaging designed, I was told, to protect and obscure its contents. If it was discovered, it would surely provoke an awkward interaction with the Department of Homeland Security. Sweat coated my palms; a flash of heat climbed my neck, prickly and persistent. I had been reassured there was nothing to fear, but in my experience, reassurances were often polite fairy tales used to comfort children. I rehearsed my cover story—short, boring, and plausible—ready to deploy the moment things got complicated.
Within ten feet of the conveyor, a TSA agent materialized, unhooking a stanchion to open a new lane. She looked directly at me and motioned with her hand: Come here.
Kicking off my shoes and whipping off my belt, I moved with mechanical intent. I carefully placed my bag onto the conveyor and watched the black rubber flaps swallow it whole. Silently I pleaded with the universe for it to emerge on the other side without questions.
I stepped through the archway. On the other side, the agent waited with the wand, gesturing for me to "assume the position" and crucify myself. A secular crucifixion of vigilance: arms out and feet apart. She began a slow, methodical sweep. My heart skipped a beat when the wand emitted a sharp, metallic chirp near the base of my spine. I froze, the air turning to lead in my lungs. Shit. The "tumor" next to my spine. She frowned, swiped the device over the area again, and this time—silence.
"You're good," she said flatly.
Time didn't just slow down; it congealed. I stood at the end of the conveyor, my lungs locked, waiting for my bag to reappear. The static roar of the terminal muffled into a dull, underwater echo until my entire world narrowed to another TSA agent who was staring dead-eyed at the glowing monitor.
The belt jerked to a halt. Oh my God, I thought, my heart stopping. Is that my bag? The agent leaned in and squinted at the screen that was displaying the tangled, chaotic contents of my carry-on. He hovered there for an eternity, seemingly contemplating a manual search. Finally, he tapped the controls. The belt groaned back to life. The world snapped back into existence, the fluorescent airport lights suddenly too bright as I finally permitted air back into my lungs.
My hands were shaking slightly as I shoved my feet back into my shoes and fumbled with my belt; my skin crawled with the sensation of a thousand watching eyes. I snatched my bag from the rollers and didn't look back, heading deeper into the belly of the terminal towards my gate.
I reached the gate just as the queue began to coil into a massive human serpent. I stood at the back of the line for a moment before the recollection hit: I'd been upgraded. The thought of business class offered a flicker of relief; at the very least, it meant more distance between me and any prying eyes.
The cabin was a hollow haven. The flight wasn't fully booked, leaving me with the entire row and a precious pocket of silence. I slipped into the oversized seat and let it devour my weary bones, the steady hum of the engines finally drowning out the frantic looping of my thoughts. For one solid hour, I would be entombed in this calming mortuary of solitude. I shut my eyes, drifting into a thin, nervous sleep to the rhythmic clinking of ice from the galley as the flight attendants began their service.