Unhappy Endings

by Chris Philbrook

  JG had an idea. He pulled back on the control yoke, throwing the C-2 into a steep climb.

  The dead and furious MC White was thrown back away from the door. Reaching the end of the ICS cord still attached to his helmet, he jerked and crashed around inside the cargo hold. His angry arms flailing all about as his body crashed back and forth in the cargo bay he somehow hit the 'ramp up' lever.

  JG continued to reef on the yoke, throwing the aircraft around the sky. John and Mikeala, not strapped in, were also thrown around in the cockpit. Sally and JG, taken by near panic by now, were oblivious to the plight of their two children.

  The crazy movement of the plane sent the undead navy man all about. In back, a tool box broke loose as the undead Master Chief crashed into it. The heavy steel box began to fly around, crashing into things that should not be crashed into. A wire bundle here, a hydraulic line there.

  Warning lights began to flash in the cockpit. Sweat poured into the eyes of the pilots. Engrossed on what they were doing, oblivious to everything else. Nine year old John fell limp as his head impacted the radio rack. Seven year old Mikeala screamed as she fell under the co-pilots seat, her arm snapping as it got tangled up.

  Stomping on the left rudder pedal, the C-2 groaned and slewed to port. The extreme nose up attitude threatened to stall the aircraft. JG dropped the left wing and kicked the rudder, bringing it out of the climb, but putting a tremendous amount of stress on the airframe.

  That loose tool box kept soaring in the back with its ugly friend Waylong. It found another critical part to smash into.

  A fuel line, used to transfer JP-8 from various tanks located in the wings and fuselage was punctured.

  Mikeala was bleeding out. Under the seat her arm had a compound fracture and an artery had been severed. She fell into shock and passed out. She would die soon unless the bleeding was stopped.

  John had a nasty head wound, but one that was survivable with medical attention.

  Full of panic, JG and Sally were still fighting a runaway Greyhound.

  The ICS cord attached to MC White's helmet finally snapped as he continued to ricochet around in the cargo bay.

  Training eventually overcame panic and JG, along with his wife’s help, was able to bring the bucking Greyhound under control.

  Only 10 minutes had passed, but it seemed an eternity.

  It was then that they saw the instrument panel and all the warning lights flashing.

  Master caution.

  Fire warning.

  Hydraulic pressure, and a host of others.

  In back, The zombie that had been MC White regained his feet. Hunger throbbed. Fresh meat lay beyond that flimsy cockpit door.

  He charged it.

  His arm -lacking flesh- snagged the ramp door handle again in between the bones of his tattered forearm. Jerking the upper part of his limb free, the ramp began opening again. It opened slower this time as there wasn’t sufficient hydraulic pressure left in the plane, only gravity.

  Leaving his shattered forearm behind, he charged the cockpit door again.

  “#2 engine is smoking,” Sally reported as she looked past JG and out of the cockpit window.

  “Roger that,” he replied. Glancing at the gauges he noticed more bad news. “RPMS is dropping as is fuel pressure. Oil pressure is at zero." JG reduced the #2 throttle to idle and hit the feathering switch.

  Only with no oil pressure, the feathering mechanism failed to operate.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  The aircraft began to slew to the left as the dead engine now acted like a big speed brake. The wind milling propeller also began to speed up.

  Something slammed into the cockpit door, the latch almost giving way.

  Under Sally’s seat Mikeala opened her eyes. John groaned, but didn’t open his. Blood ran down his face and covered his shirt.

  Another tremendous crash came from the battered door.

  In back, fuel mixed with air swirling about in the cargo bay. A wire bundle leading to the aft anti-collision lights shorted out. Damage from the errant tool box was the culprit.

  Fuel pressure to the #1 engine began to decrease.

  More warning lights illuminated as the #1 engine began to starve of fuel.

  The #2 engine was reaching critical RPMs, and both props were shrieking a death song.

  Searing pain enveloped Sally’s right leg.

  JG turned to look at his wife, her features gone white in agony. He looked down.

  Mikeala’s milk white eyes returned his gaze. She shook her head, ripping a chunk of meat and skin from Sally’s calf. Blood spurted.

  The cockpit door burst open.

  Master Chief White (NAC/EAWS/ESWS/Undead) crashed headlong into the instrument panel between the two pilots. His body pushed both throttles to max.

  JG looked again at his wife. The undead man between them thrashed and flailed. She returned his gaze.

  “I love you Babes,” he mouthed.

  “I love you too sailor, numbah one long time,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  JG pushed the control yoke forward, putting the stricken Greyhound into a shallow dive.

  Fuel and air reached critical mass. An opportune spark ignited the cocktail of fuel and oxygen in the cargo bay.

  MC White gathered his one armed self and pushed away from the instrument panel as the plane dove. He cast his ravenous gaze on Sally, then at JG.

  JG began punching wildly at the snapping teeth bearing down on him.

  In back, Vulcan roared.

  The explosion blew the tail off and ignited what fuel remained in the tanks under the floor. An instant later, #2 engine shed five of its eight blades. Three of those passed through the fuselage severing more fluid lines, adding to the conflagration.

  The #1 engine, screaming past max allowable RPM’s like a runaway train pushed the dying aircraft further and faster into its dive.

  3500 feet below on the ground, a shrieking fireball appeared out of the mist and gloom in the sky, if anyone had been alive to see it.

  Storm Crow 602 plunged into the great dismal swamp at near vertical.

  The shrieking cacophony inside the plane silenced with a metallic wet “Whoomph” as it buried itself in the swamp.

  On the flat, featureless gray plain of earth, five more souls died, and joined the milling masses already there.

  No Fucks on Timmy

  J.C. Fiske

  He's got demons they say. He's crazy they say. He's drunk and stoned again they say. Well, that last part's usually correct, but not right now. You know how I know? The voices in my head are louder than usual. They get this way sometimes. Bastards are practically having a throw-down up there. I suppose it's a blessing. They're much more entertaining to listen to than my king shit of a boss. Can't really make out what he's saying, but I think he's yelling. Hold on, you who's listening in. I better focus for a second just to make sure... yup... definitely yelling. Most likely at me from what I can tell. I am the only one here in this pricey office that just screams I don't get laid.... Damn is he loud when he yells, but not loud enough.

  'Roid rage. It's a real thing. I've had experiences with roidheads before. Not by choice of course. Thing is with roidheads, their moods don't just go from hot to cold. They go from volcanic to frozen. How do I know my boss does 'roids? I'm the janitor you see. You want to really know someone? Look through their trash. And no, fuck you! I don't go routing through people's trash for shits and giggles. I learn these things like I usually do. The hard way. For example, Trish? From accounting? Yeah, the prissy one. Hypocrite dips after hours. I dumped her trash bin a little too fucked up one night. Next thing I know, Tinkerbell's spit cup spills all over my good jeans and my Metallica Master of Puppet's shirt. There's a 'swallow' joke here somewhere, I know it, but I'm too sober currently to think of one.

  Sorry, where was I? Oh, yeah, my boss... Let me see if he's still yelling... Yup. The guy's neck is bulging, getting red. He's starting to sweat. His bald head is getti
ng red too. Fuck, I mean sure, I've referred to him in passing as a 'prick' before, but damn, he's really starting to look like a throbbing shlong. If he blows a load out the top of his head I'll shit a brick... but that's not what pisses me off about him. It's his goddamn pink shirt. He looks like a fuckin' Ken doll on 'roids! God, I know his wife dresses him... poor mother fucker... prolly is on a short leash. I'd be miserable too if I had to slave away for some princess just to get laid, but damn, I know there was a saying for men who wear pink shirts somewhere in this brain of mine... oh, wait, he snapped his fingers at me. What am I? A dog? Well, I didn't shower this morning. Probably smell like one...

  I must have really done something to piss him off now, but what? I suppose if I just paid attention for a second I'd figure it out, but, nah, sorry, don't give a fuck really. Heh. I'm suddenly reminded of an internet meme that got passed around a while back. Not much speaks to me, but this one sure did. It portrayed a group of children huddled together. Above them was a line that read, "Everyone just wants to be liked, and accepted." Then off to the right it showed a boy holding a bundle of balloons floating away from everyone with a proud, sturdy middle finger raised at the children below. Above this lone floating boy it read, "Except for Tim. Tim doesn't give a shit." I never really believed in signs, or miracles, or a higher power, but let me tell you something. When I saw this, I felt like the universe spoke to me. Something out there sent me a message. And what was that message? I think it said, "You know what, Timmy? You're ok! Keep on keeping on soldier!"

  My name's Tim you see, Tim O'Kane. Write it on my gravestone; Timmy never gave a fuck.

  Suddenly, my boss is on his feet. Oh, now he's smacked the desk with not one, but both hands as if loud noises will get my attention. One of his many autographed celebrity pictures falls off the wall. That's the thing with these muscle-bound freaks. It's for intimidation only. If one truly had it in them to fight they'd be, I don't know, in martial arts, MMA, a dive bar on a Friday or Saturday night. The desire, the hunger has to be there. This guy? Not a chance. What kind of man aspires to wear a monkey suit, sit in a cage of a cubicle, and slave his days away doing mental gymnastics for money? Fuck, sounds like a zoo! I feel for the guy in a way. Everyone knows what it's like to feel weak, powerless --especially me-- but some overcompensate. Oh, well, I'll give him some eye contact and let him vent away for a bit...

  Ok, that's enough. I'm bored now and I've had enough of this job anyway. Time to take my leave, but first... do my eyes betray me? Or is that a bottle of whiskey on one of his shelves? Looks expensive as all hell too! That son of whore is coming home with me! Seems your luck is turning up, Timmy! Suddenly I'm upset. This prick didn't even send out a Christmas bonus this year. I got the job because I was promised a Christmas bonus. I will get my Christmas bonus you greedy mother fucker. And just like that, seems I'm on my feet. I'm walking past him, and, ugh, damn prick is still yelling. Fuck, he just sprayed a whole shit ton of spit across the back of my neck with his yelling. I'm suddenly reminded of Trish's spit cup. Ok, spit on me once, shame on you, spit on me twice... shame on me. Maybe I've been a bit dishonest. Yes, on the whole, I'd like my tombstone to say, "Timmy didn't give a fuck." BUT, well, I'm only human. Every now and then Timmy does give a fuck. And when he does? Well, I have no idea what will happen! Things go white, sometimes red, and then things tend to break and people, the right sort of people mind you, get hurt. And now? Now just may be one of those times. Suddenly, everything comes into focus, like coming up out of a dream, my boss's words are coming in loud and clear, and I don't like his tone...

  "NOTHING BUT A LOWLIFE PIECE OF SHIT! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO GODDAMNED TOUGH!? YOU'RE A FUCKIN' LOSER! A FUCKIN' NOBODY! LOOK AT ME! TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT ME YOU FUCK! I AM YOUR BOSS! WHEN I SAY TO TURN AROUND YOU FUCKIN' TURN AROUND! WHEN I SAY..."

  My boss didn't get out much else after that. Uh, oh... Timmy gave a fuck... one thing that makes Timmy give a fuck? When someone tells me what to do. This may get deep for a second, but every now and then my head comes up with something of substance, but I'm a firm believer that free will is not an illusion, and the only illusion we have is that some of us honestly believe another human being can have authority over you. A boss is just that, a boss. Someone just as lost as you and me pretending they have all the answers. You've heard 'em. I have a degree! I make this much a year! I've read this many books! I've sucked THIS much dick! Right... now, I'm not saying I know everything. I know I never will. And that's just my point. Be wary of pricks who say they have all the answers. Chances are they're just as, if not more lost than us! Me? I got one life to live. I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want, when I want. It's worked out so far! Oh, right, back to the present moment... I tend to get ahead of myself... my fist, it seemed to move all on its own. Damn, sorry, boss. I cracked him right in the throat. Leaned my bodyweight in a little too far. Fuck. Now I feel bad... fuck... better say something, help him up.

  "Jesus, man... get up! Christ, stop crying... everyone's watching... come on, dude, man up! Be a man! Just, ah, fuck it." This one's a lost cause. I tried. Life's too short for this bullshit...

  Ok, where was I? I know I got up for a reason... oh, right! My bonus! I quickly grab the expensive bottle of whiskey, or is it scotch? I'll find out soon enough. The label is in some foreign language I don't understand. Foreign liquor... should fuck me up good! Maybe just a taste? There's an actual cork. Fancy! I pop it off, take a smell. I take a quick swig. Smack my lips. No burn at all. Oh, shit, Timmy's got the good stuff. Wait, that's right, everyone's looking in on me now. Think someone's calling the cops.

  Oh, well.

  In situations like this there's only one thing to do. In my mind, I pull an invisible rip cord. Balloons appear, and begin to carry me out of the office as I whistle the Star Wars Empire theme song all while raising a middle finger proudly, making sure I hover it over everyone so they all get a turn. I'm sure to linger it lastly over Trish, why? Because fuck, Trish.

  The balloons have drifted me safely to the doorway. No one's saying a word. That's a good thing. Here it is. The moment. I sort of live for this. Shocking societal sheep with a dose of reality. I enjoy giving people like this a wake up call. A wake up call that says there's far more to life than keeping up appearances. Sure, you know what you want. You got to do what you do to live the way you want. I get that. But make sure it's what you want and not what someone else wants for you. If you live in any other reality besides your own? You're gonna have a bad time... so, here we go. I have my audience. They're waiting for me to say something, anything... I think long and hard... heh, long and hard... and then come up with the perfect phrase. With my middle finger still raised high and proud, I clear my throat, and remember now why I was so pissed to begin with. My goddamn boss's pink shirt!

  "Listen and listen well, and weigh the gravity of the situation here. Pay attention to the man who leads you. The clothes make the man as they say, and pink is the color of just two things in life. Uninfected vagina, and an asshole. Girls wear pink because they enjoy taking it in the pink. Guys who wear pink, also like to take it in the pink! Never forget that folks!" I then take another swig from the bottle like the drunken asshole that I am, close the door, walk down the office hallway, down the stairs, and I'm out the door.

  The sun is shining. It's a fine late June day. I take a deep breath of this fine New Hampshire weather. Live free or die bitches. I live for it. Hm. Well. Let's take a reality check. I'm jobless, but got plenty in the bank for what I need. I'm a man of VERY humble pleasures. Give me a thirty rack, Netflix, my friends, a curvy blonde with boobs so big they can suffocate me, and Timmy is one happy hombre. Well, I guess I'll take a week off then find some kind of new employment and some more people to fuck with and spread the good news all while keeping the faith and living the dream. I hope Jesus would be proud of me. What would Jesus do they ask? Well, Jesus would probably drink some red wine, light up a J, put on some sandals, and strut around being awesome, inspiring people to enj
oy the gift of life, and putting high society dicklocks in their place. BOOM! I have the moral high ground here. I really do live to inspire people. Fuck. Where did I park again? Oh, right... that blue Camry I hot-wired. Belongs to some local writer fuck. I hate writers. They're all assholes. Especially this prick. Drives around advertising his series like he's hot shit. He was passed out in a snow bank this winter with a bottle of Jack in his hand. Amateur... keys were right there! Mine now, you pretentious fuck. I should peel off the decal on the back of his car for his website eventually. I hate that I'm giving that fuck free advertising. But where the fuck did I park it? Oh, right! I parked in the back today! Time to roll a fresh one, blast some Rush and have the best ride home ever! Wait 'til Reckin' Ball Ryan hears this story! Wait, hold the phone... what do we have here folks? Jackpot! Holy shit, Timmy! Your day just gets better!

  I don't have a lot of weaknesses but I do have one, and that's a curvy blonde with boobs big enough to suffocate me. Hell, there's one right now, and, well, this is new, seems she's humping my car... kinky. I'm just going to stop for a second. Take this in. Make sure what I'm seeing is actually real. May as well take another sip while I'm observing this. AH! It's so fuckin' smooth. Ok, on my second observation I realize she's not humping it, but keeps like, bumping into it. Her boobs jiggle and bounce every time her hips hit the side of it. Suddenly, everything that just happened seems so unimportant. I may even forget about it. I'll find out tomorrow I guess. Uh, oh. Timmy's giving a fuck again. Twice in one day! Hot bosomy blonde, dressed to kill, business professional, and seemingly born without motor skills is walking into the side of my car, bumping into it, looking confused, then does it again. It's like watching someone with a blindfold trying to play pin the tail on the donkey. Ok, take a deep breath, Timmy. You either have hit the jackpot today, or something's seriously wrong. Most likely the latter, but hey, consult the liquor a few more times and then go start up a conversation! She's obviously really digging your wheels... You have an in already! Ok, I'm going in...