by S. T. Boston
“Wh – when I was examining your phone,” there was no hiding the pain in Ackhart's voice, it spewed forth with every word, “there was a single unread message. I do not remember who it was from but it just said, Wiltshire. I…” he paused as another broiling wave of pain filled nausea hammered his body. “I don't know – if – it helps.” He removed his hands from the controls and clutched at the sticky red stain on the front of his shirt. He'd lost too much blood now, he could feel it trickling down his gut and into his trousers. It had flooded his lap and he could feel that he was now sitting in a warm, concealed puddle of the stuff. Ackhart was not afraid to die, he just wanted the pain to end. If he'd not been in the plane, and the only qualified pilot, he would have ended it himself by now.
“I don't know,” said Sam, thoughtfully, the county's name tumbling over in his head. Then like one of those novelty charity donation points, the penny span for the last time and dropped. “Adam!” he said, “It had to be from Adam. Wiltshire.” The name felt good to say, he finally knew where to go, and that Adam was safe. Or had been when the text had been sent. It meant that things were happening at home, too. He'd had reason to flee to the small cottage near Pewsey. He hoped to god that Lucie was safe, she had to be or there would have been more in the text, wouldn't there? Sam brushed his worse fears aside and tried to recall the last boozy weekend he'd spent at the quaint little place, his train of thought was broken as Ackhart growled in pain. His face was already wearing death's mask, pallid and drawn. Sam felt sure that if he were to glance into the back of the small corporate twin prop he'd see the Grim Reaper sat, scythe in hand, waiting for his next customer. Sweat drenched his brow and matted his greying hair to his head, his face, wracked with pain, wore deep lines that gave an almost hard angular appearance to his slightly chubby face.
“You're going to – need – to land – th - this plane,” Ackhart stammered.
“Just get us as close as you can,” said Sam, “I will do the rest, I've survived one plane crash before.” Ackhart gave him a confused look. “Another story for another time,” Sam concluded, knowing he'd never get the chance to tell it. “Just run through what I need to do, as simply as you can.”
Sam listened intently as Inspector Ackhart ran painfully through the most basic of ways to get the small twin prop on the ground without killing himself in the process. “You're going – to – want to land on grass – or soft Earth. Shallow – water is also good.” Sam nodded, his attention fully focused on the dying man. “At about t – two hundred meters –put the gear down, but bring it – up – before you land.”
“Bring the gear back up?” Sam questioned, “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Monsieur, please,” Ackhart's brow creased, deeper still as he fought to hold consciousness long enough to get the job done. “You are – not a pilot, use the gear to help lose speed, it creates drag. Not before two – hundred meters or it will destabilise the plane. You stand – a – much better chance of landing if you go belly down.”
Sam understood where he was coming from, he had a pretty much zero chance of landing the plane on a conventional runway. A gear down, off balance touchdown could see him flip the plane and career off the tarmac. He knew where Adam was and he had a bloody good idea where he was going to land, well crash the plane. Finding the location he had in mind from the air and over a darken landscape would be another matter.
Ackhart took his bloodied hands off the yoke and let Sam experiment with gaining and losing altitude, as well as scrubbing off speed. “Piece of cake,” Sam said his voice caked with nervous uncertainty. “I can do this.” Sam wasn't sure quite who he was trying to convince, it wasn't like Ackhart could just spin round and ask the Reaper to hold off for an hour or two, his scythe was pressing firmly into the inspector's back and the deadly blow was about to be struck. Ackhart offered up a grimacing smile that was creased with pain, his body convulsed and went into a coughing fit, a fine spray of blood painted his covering hand and the instrument panel in front. Helplessly he pawed at his ruined gut, as if his hands could magically heal the life-sucking wound. Sam wanted to turn away but his morbid curiosity held him firm. Finally the coughing subsided, and Ackhart swayed woozily from side to side before slumping forward against his harness. Reaching over, Sam pushed two fingers into the crease of his neck, searching for his garrotted pulse. His skin felt cool to the touch, the sheen of painful sweat caused his fingers to slip grotesquely across his pallid flesh. Much to his surprise, with a little work, he found a weak pulse, his heart was still working inanely, and pumping what little blood he had left around is body. Sam breathed a shaky sigh of relief through his teeth, making a whistling sound. Taking his fingers away and wiping them on his dirty Craghoppers cargo trousers he hoped, for the inspector's sake, that he would not regain consciousness.
Turning his attention away from the dying man he surveyed the array of dials and switches, the majority of which he could ignore for his haphazard landing. All of a sudden the dark cabin felt like the loneliest place on Earth, he may as well have been on his own, orbiting the planet in a tin can. With two unsteady hands he gripped the yoke and wiggled it left to right, the aircraft responded immediately, its port and starboard wing tips mimicking his movement. “Good, good,” he reassured himself. Checking the altimeter he noticed he'd dropped a couple of hundred feet whilst his attention had been fixed on Ackhart, he didn't bother to rectify the slight change, it would be tough enough getting the plane down to terrafirma as it was, the shattered windscreen had prevented them from climbing too high in the first place.
Leaning forward he surveyed the black expanse that lay like an endless darkened lake before him. Navigating the craft to Wiltshire in the dark and with the country in blackout mode would be a virtually impossible task, no points of reference, no landmarks and no roads to follow. Like a slow incoming tide the magnitude of what he had to do dawned on him. Chewing some skin loose on the inside of his bottom lip, as he always done in tense, high pressure situations, Sam ran through his options. The plane was heading due north and that was fine, he would undoubtedly pass over the British coast very soon, it was setting the plane on the right north westerly heading that would be the issue. With the gentle thrum of the twin turbo props as a soothing soundtrack Sam finally had his eureka moment, it all depended, once again, on Inspector Ackhart, thankfully he didn't need to be alive for it to work.
Leaving one hand on the yoke, Sam reached across and patted the pockets of the inspector's trousers. When he'd first met Ackhart those dark grey suit trousers had been well pressed and looked freshly laundered, now they wore a variety of battle scars from the night's events. The first pocket was useless, just the outline of a wallet made itself known under Sam's hand, leaning further left and running his hand over the other pocket he found his quarry. Ackhart had a phone on him. With more than a little difficulty, Sam teased the device from its blood soaked home, the red liquid had congealed and turned dark against the sodden material, like molasses that had been left out too long on a cold day.
Praying the device was one, not wrecked from the blood, two, modern enough to carry out the task in hand and three, charged enough to last the trip, Sam wiped the screen clean against his cargo trousers. The Samsung Galaxy was a few years old, tatty with a badly cracked screen that spider webbed from the bottom left hand corner, blood had found its way into the microscopic cracks, and when the screen came to life it looked like a network of tiny red veins had been sown into the glass. Sam's eyes immediately checked the battery level, it was green and sat somewhere between half and three quarters full. Not ideal but it would have to do.
Using his spare hand, whilst the other kept the plane steady, Sam flicked though the menu, naturally post curfew and lights out there was no coverage, but he didn't need it. Like most people who had phones in the old world, and those fortunate enough to have one in this new, broken version of society, Ackhart had a GPS mapping application that was easily accessible from the front screen. Hitti
ng the application tab Sam was greeted by a request that read, activer le GPS. The last time Sam had spoken or done any French had been back in school but having used a similar phone he knew the device was asking if he wanted to activate the GPS function. He pressed the part of the screen that said Oui and hoped.
After what seemed like an age, but in reality was no more than a few seconds, the map loaded and pinpointed him at a location somewhere in the suburbs of Le Havre. Sam guessed it was Ackhart's home address, and the last place he'd used the application. Unfazed he waited for the small device to locate enough satellites to return his current location. Another painful minute passed as the Samsung clunked its way to life, the phone was slow and out of date. Finally the map sped by and much to Sam's relief the arrow blinked into view, about ten miles off the coast of The Isle Of Wight. In the old world Sam had always cursed car drivers who he'd spot whilst on his Triumph, chatting on their phones, he'd nearly been taken off by two brain dead motorists in his biking life. One who'd pulled out in front of him, causing him to almost do what stunt riders called an endy. The other, your archetypal white van man, had pulled across two lanes of traffic whilst engrossed in a conversation and almost side swiped him off the motorcycle. Thankfully the driver had been quick enough to react to Sam planting a foot squarely into the side of the van before the worst happened. For some reason he felt a pang of guilt at not having his full attention on the path ahead, as if a momentary lapse of concentration would see him crash into some unseen object at over five thousand feet.
Flicking his eyes from the phone to the altimeter and then to the windscreen he carefully located the search function and typed in Pewsey. England. The Samsung thought about the request briefly before a small pin appeared over the tiny village. Finding his landing site was now one issue he didn't have to worry about, the only issue now left of concern was the very minor one of landing, which he would worry about when the time came. One thing at a time, Sam, he told himself in his head. One thing at a time.
Sam propped the Galaxy up in a natural right angle behind what he called the power handle, the control that Ackhart had shown him for adjusting his airspeed. The small arrow that represented his King Air crept slowly over the channel until it broached land and began to crawl over the small island below. Sam gazed out of the window at the black expanse, here and there small pin pricks of light sung out from the ground, places that had their own generators for when the power was cut. It amazed him that anyone could afford to run such a luxury item with fuel prices as they were, and still set to rise, thanks to the Russians.
The King Air said goodbye to the Isle of Wight, just west of Cowes and powered across the Solent, the small stretch of water that separated the island from the mainland. As he once again flew over land he adjusted the plane's course very slightly, pointing it toward Salisbury.
As the New Forest slipped by unseen below him he began to descend. Pushing the yoke toward the clocks and dials he felt his stomach pitch slightly as the twin prop lost altitude. He watched the dial spin round; five thousand, four thousand. As he descended he noticed the airspeed was creeping up. Just as Ackhart had shown him, he compensated by scrubbing the power back. The engines responded and their smooth hum dropped in tone. As the plane passed three thousand feet, somewhere just north of Salisbury, Sam steadied his descent out as best he could. Heart hammering in his chest, and with the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, he scanned the instrument panel, trying to remember where the adjusters were for the flaps that would apply the air brake. Calming himself with deep breaths he found it and at two thousand feet, engaged it. A small, mechanical whine met his ears and casting an eye out to each wing he saw the small strips of metal rise from the top of the wings. The effect on the airspeed was instantaneous, the dial crept slowly down.
A variety of strange village names swept by on the phone's map, he was close to Pewsey and even recognised some of the names, Manningford Bruce being one that he often found amusing.
At eight hundred feet Sam flew over the village that he'd been aiming for, he'd engaged and disengaged the air brake a number of times, trying to get a speed that felt right, in truth he had no idea and imagined any instructor would be hiding his face in his hands, or more likely crying with the fear of his impending death.
As he swept north of the small Wiltshire village, the first tendrils of light began creeping into the sky as the night began to lose its battle with the dawn. The early autumn sun, although still hiding over the eastern horizon, offered a little view of the ground below.
His attention now away from the phone, Sam surveyed the view below, casting a look at the altimeter. Five hundred feet, he said in his head. A sudden blaring alarm made him recoil in shock, his eyes searched frantically for the source and found that the landing gear alarm had kicked into life. Evidently the King Air knew he was below a certain height and thought it was time for the wheels to go down. Inwardly Sam thanked the small plane as he'd forgotten Ackhart's instructions. He hit the control and felt the wheels lock into position. The yoke immediately felt the extra drag and began to vibrate gently in his hands. His attention flitting between far more tasks than he felt comfortable with, Sam located the small ribbon of tarmac which threaded its way through the Vale of Pewsey and into Alton Barnes. Banking the plane to the left slightly, he dipped below the hills that lined the ploughed fields like massive bleachers in some giant sports hall. Two hundred feet, Sam knocked the power all the way back, he had no idea if he was right or wrong and a mistake now could cost him his life, Gift or no Gift. The propellers died and began to spin down, and he re-engaged the air brake, cursing himself for not doing it sooner. As he slipped below a hundred feet he took the gear up, and the alarm immediately scalded him for giving it such a ridiculous command. Nonetheless, it complied and Sam heard the wheels clunk back into place, beneath the wings.
As the cropless, bare fields sped by beneath him, Sam carried out the inspector's final instruction and threw the engines into reverse, killing yet more speed. Before the plane could slam down into the ploughed field, Sam cut the engine and switched off all the electrical systems, lessening the chance of a fire. Gripping the yoke so tightly his knuckles turned white, the King Air glided into East Field, lost the last forty feet of altitude with a gut wrenching drop, and just slightly faster than Ackhart would have liked, if he'd been alive to witness it, the plane slammed down onto its belly, sending a hail of debris behind it in a frenzied wake of clumpy brown earth and stones.
Sam felt the impact, breathing out as the twin prop hit the deck, hard. The shock of the haphazard landing jarred every bone in his body, rattling him to his skeletal core. Stupidly he was still gripping hold of the yoke, as if he could steer the King Air in off road mode. He closed his eyes as dirt from the field hammered the windscreen, the small stones that ricocheted off the thick glass, sounding like a bevy of BB gun pellets hitting home. The windscreen section damaged by the bullet gave way, showing the cockpit in glass. Sam felt the tail begin to lift as the nose dug into the soft dirt, the limp and lifeless body of the Earth-Breed pilot he'd killed was flung forward, like a rear seat passenger in a car crash without a seat belt. His body, moving with more speed than seemed possible for a corpse, slammed into the back of Sam's chair. Ironically, as Sam would realise later, the dead pilot actually had the last laugh, as despite being dead he still managed to hit Sam's chair hard enough to catapult him into the instrument panel and knock him unconscious.
Chapter 19
Adam stood, his slender figure shadowed from the unforgiving desert sun. Nonetheless, the heat was sweltering, and he could feel his white cotton polo shirt was wet with perspiration and stuck uncomfortably to the nape of his neck. Walking back a few steps, he craned his head upward and looked toward the shielded sky. Towering some three hundred feet above was the black underside of a colossal spacecraft. He tried to focus on the perfectly flat, black surface, but instead felt his head spin with a dizziness akin to being on top of a tall building and ti
lting your head back to look at the sky. Moving his gaze to the ground he took a few long seconds and waited for the nausea to pass. Gradually feeling better he walked for what seemed like an age, shielded by the massive hull of the craft that loomed ominously overhead. Despite his Converse All Stars pounding their way hurriedly over the highly compacted sand and his slightly heat-laboured breathing, there was no sound, all he could hear was the steady thump, thump, thump of his own heartbeat. Finally reaching the fringes of the shade, he walked out into the sun.
Thump, thump, thump.
With fresh sweat pouring from his hot skin, as if someone had left an internal tap on inside his body, Adam walked along the side of the massive craft until he reached a point where the hull swooped down from the sky and met the ground. Momentarily he stopped and placed a hand against the ship's onyx-like surface, it felt surprisingly cool to the touch and seemed to hum very gently beneath his fingers as if it were a living thing, a familiar feeling.
Thump, thump, thump.
Feeling nauseous once again, he rested his back against the cool surface and relished the slight chill that ran through his hot and weary body, and slowly turned his face toward the merciless sun. Only now the sun was gone, replaced by two hungry amber eyes that regarded him from a god-like height with hatred and interest. Adam felt himself shrink back, as if the craft would absorb his body and shield him from the heavy gaze of those hateful eyes. Inch by inch, Adam felt himself slide down the hull until he was on his knees cowering on warm compacted sand. As the fiendish eyes continued to drink him in, he noticed them almost smile at him, but not in a nice way, in a way that installed a fresh fear into his gut. Those eyes knew something, something he didn't, and it scared him.
