Boone's mouth dropped open in shock for a moment. He could hear Locke yelling for him to get out and get out now, and once more there was the horrible whining of the Beechcraft as it tipped forward again. He looked to the side, trying to come up with a response to the transmission, determined to do something to contact these people or something, and in that moment's hesitation he apparently lost all hope of escaping this situation. The Beechcraft lurched forward and in that moment, he forgot to breathe, his system flooded with terror as gravity suddenly dragged him down with the aircraft, smashing him into the other contents of the plane while they were still in free fall.
The force of the impact with the ground shocked him back into reality, and he just lay there for a moment, stunned. Everything hurt, and he was pretty sure he'd grayed out for a moment or something because he didn't actually remember much of the fall, just the bone jarring reconnection with solid ground, and really, he was just content to lie there for a moment and not think about it. He was breathing, and in pain, and that at least meant he probably wasn't dead. Slowly, he tried to pick himself up, using shaky limbs to lever himself up off the floor, remembering just in time to mind the low ceiling of the craft.
But it was just then that he realized something was really, really wrong. He was filthy, bleeding, and standing in a well lit hotel lobby, not a dark, dusty plane. And it was a nice looking hotel lobby. There was no sign of the beechcraft, the crates of heroin, Locke, the island, or really, anything familiar. He shakily looked around, wide eyed and opened mouthed, trying to process what the hell he was seeing and failing pretty miserably. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, probing a gash just above his eye - probably from smashing it into one of the crates - and went back to just numbly staring at the sight in front of him, completely oblivious to the weird looks he was probably receiving from anyone who happened to wander by.