Morning in the Plane - WfW 15/1 - 4th Part

Still using the new Words for Wednesday:
    Constipation          and / or         Snot
     Rivalry                                       Beluga
     Occupation                                Emergency
     Sneeze                                       Qualify  
     Wishy-washy                             Coffee
     Diatribe                                     Butt
  For this installment I used: Constipation, Wishy-washy (of which my spellchecker does not approve), Diatribe and Qualify
  Back to Allan in the stranded plane . 

  Allan awoke to the tantalizing smell of freshly brewed coffee. As they drank and ate more sandwiches, Allan told them of the story and of his wish to set out into the world to find his Mary.
  "This must qualify as the most wishy-washy diatribe I ever heard!" These words came from the young man, looking as if he hurt all over. The one who had suggested pine trees as a safe landing spot.
  "Wishy-washy," the plucky granny said. "Just because you're a censored young whelp suffering from constipation, it's no reason to berate other for dreaming big."
  "Allan here is onto something," the pilot admitted. "What's the use of sitting in this plane, eating gradually more stale sandwiches and possibly die miserably from hypoxia or hunger."
  "Can we get at  our luggage," the priest added. "By the way, I'm Father Paul, a Franciscan. I was on my was home, and my coffer is filled to the brim with edibles given as a gift from a community in Idaho, for an American-style Valentine party. Hunger won't be an issue for days to come."
  "No, but water will, and oxygen as well," the co-pilot said. "Haven't you noticed how hot it is in here? The heaters shut off with the rest of the equipment, but the thermometer in the cockpit shows a roaring 106 degrees. The water in the tanks will be off soon and harmful in a day or two." 
  "Let's vote," the pilot rose. "all in favour of opening the doors raise their hands.
Alan, father Paul, Granny T and some of the other passengers raised their hands. The co-pilot, Henny and her co-stewardess slowly raised theirs as well, and then more and more of the passengers.
  "OK, you can take them down. And those against?" The hurting youth, a family of five, an elderly, sickly looking man, and two men looking for all the world like English police officers, raised their hands. Then two more on the third row, and a softly crying lady. "No more?" the captain asked. "25 voted for and 12 against. Let's get it over with." 
  "Wait," the crying lady said. "Won't the Americans, or the Australians, or somebody come and save us."
  "Dear lady errr ..."
  "Cordelia," the crying lady said.
  "Dear Cordelia," the captain began again. He cleared his throat, opened and clenched his fists and then continued in a rush: "There are no Americans, neither Australians, Russian, Chinese, ... you name it. I've been fiddling and twiddling the radio most of the night. It's battery-operated, and ... well I did get a carrier wave, some statics, but no speech, not even the dots and dashes of old. Nothing but silence all around the globe. And now even the radio has died." He looked at Cordelia, and then at all the other passengers. "Even if somebody did survive, and I'm almost certain somebody did somewhere. We can not be the only ones. Submarine crews may have survived for instance. To the point," he said, once more clenching his fists. "These survivors are in the self same predicament as we are, and they are not going to come and help us or anybody else sometime soon, if ever." 
  "I did not realize this," Cordelia said. "I vote for leaving as well then."
  "That makes it 26 for and 11 against leaving,"
  Then the hurting youth jumped up, brandishing a baseball bat. "I'll kill you. You're not going to kill us all, I'll get you first."
  "Yes and then!" the captain said. "Are you going to squash us all one by one using that bat?" 
  "Yes one by one by one. I was going home to my sweetheart. We were going to be married, and now you're going to kill me before I even have a chance of seeing her again."
  "Ronny!" father Paul called softly. "You could hurt someone with that bat. How do you think your Lisa would greet the news that she was going to marry a murderer?"
  "Me, a murderer. It's the captain here, what's a murderer and that old man with his wishy-washy heroism."
  "Didn't you listen to what Allan said," Father Paul asked. "He is going to look for his Mary. He's not counting on dying, no?"
  "I sure am not," Allan said. "Mary is as fine a wife as I ever could dream of. I would never let her down. If your Lisa is just half as good, you're one lucky young man." Allan could not stop smiling, thinking of Mary, and that smile made something break inside Ronny.
  "You had your chance, Mister" he sobbed. "I never had one. And Lisa even less. I'm sure ... no I'm not sure of anything anymore. Padre, you better take that bat before I hurt someone, or myself." He sat down on the seat, a picture of dejection and desperation.
  "Where does your Lisa live?" father Paul asked, taking the bat from the young man's hand.
  "In the countryside somewhere, she was visiting an aunt and uncle. I have the address here in my pocket."
  "We'll try and find her," father Paul said. "Henny did I hear something about a cake and some brandy?" I sure could use some before we open those doors.

to be continued ...