K. Weiland - Storming

Walter couldn’t suck in enough air through his nose, so he opened his mouth and gulped.

The plane flew in from high above Schturming . Then, like the fall of an ax, it dropped its nose and dove straight at the open doors where Zlo and his men stood. Everybody inside, even Sheriff Campbell, scrambled. Zlo waved his arms. His bird got scared and flapped away from his shoulder. Schturming moved again, dropping low and shifting sideways, trying both to avoid Hitch and to swing the cannon around to face him.

Far away across the field, Jael and the others ran, dragging the wing directly underneath the airship’s huge shadow. Schturming hovered only twelve feet off the ground. Hitch had forced it down. It was low enough now.

What Hitch had done… it could have killed him. He was so brave he didn’t even care about dying. He didn’t care he was in a tiny plane and the bad men were in a huge airship. He didn’t care they were shooting at him with a cannon or that they could light him on fire and knock him out of the sky with a bolt of lightning. Walter made himself unclench his fists.

But maybe he would care if he found out Walter was so scared he couldn’t help anybody, couldn’t even move.

Walter sucked in another breath through his open mouth. He lifted one foot off the ground. It came slow, and his other leg shook so hard he nearly fell over. He put his foot down in the dust, then lifted the other.

Mama Nan grabbed at him. “Walter!”

Now or never! He leaned forward, and he ran.

“Walter, get back here!”

She’d be mad at him again—and worried. But he’d make it up to her later. There were some things he just had to do.

He pumped his arms and pounded his feet against the ground. Jael and the others would need a rope if they were going to tie the wing onto Schturming . Papa Byron always kept one in the automobile. He ran back through the cars. People jostled and pushed him. Miss Ginny Lou Thatcher shrieked his name and tried to grab his overalls strap. He ducked free and kept running.

His hands shook as he hauled the rope out. But he could breathe steady now, and his heart pumped hard and firm. He turned and headed back. Across the line of the airship’s shadow, the sudden cool engulfed his sweaty skin. He ran to the back end of the ship, just under the propellers.

Jael and the others crouched over the wing. She glanced up at him. “Rope! Good boy.” She pointed up. “There is door in floor—we can tie rope to its handle.”

Earl finished ripping a hole through the fabric at the wing’s tip. He threaded the rope through and snugged the knot. Then he handed it to Mr. Matthew, who was the tallest of them. “Gonna have to get you something to stand on.” Earl whipped around to look at Mr. J.W. “Get your car!”

Jael stood and used both hands to shove her blowing hair out of her face. “Walter can do it. He can ride on Matthew’s shoulders!”

Mr. Matthew glanced at Walter. “How about it, son?”

Walter couldn’t breathe again. He managed a nod.

Earl grabbed him under the arms and swung him up to sit on Mr. Matthew’s shoulders. “You’ll have to stand up, kid! Can you do that?”

Walter’s head didn’t want to nod, so he just planted both hands on top of Mr. Matthew’s hat and pushed himself up. Jael grabbed one of his ankles and Mr. J.W. grabbed the other.

Earl handed up the end of the rope. “Loop it through that iron ring in that trapdoor. Pass the end back to me, and I’ll knot it off down here on the wing again. Got it?”

“Bite it in your teeth!” Jael said.

He bit the rope hard. If nothing else, maybe it would keep them all from hearing his teeth chattering. He pushed up from Mr. Matthew’s head, first one hand, then the other. Inch by inch, he straightened. Then he leaned his head back and looked up.

The endless bottom of the ship hung a couple feet above his head. Its wood was sun-bleached and weathered, the paint stripped off in long shreds. It smelled of dry wood, like the split-rail fences around the hayfield. The whole thing swayed, creaking. The taut skin of the balloon thrummed in the wind like a flat palm against a drumhead. All around, the plane engines shrieked. The cannon thundered rhythmically, joining the sharp scent of gunpowder with the gasoline fumes and the rain smell.

He reached up with both hands. Don’t move, don’t move , he wanted to tell Mr. Matthew. But it wouldn’t do any good. Plus everybody would probably fall over from surprise because he’d actually said something. Then the plan really wouldn’t work.

The tips of his fingers brushed the wood—smooth where it still had paint, rough where it didn’t. He took the rope from his teeth, carefully pushing the rough weave out with his tongue. Then he raised his hand again. The rope slid through the iron ring. He pushed it all the way through, then reached for the other end.

Beneath him, Mr. Matthew wobbled. Walter clenched at the two ends of the rope and managed to stay upright.

“All right.” Earl sounded like he couldn’t breathe either. “That’s okay. Good job. Now pass it on down. Easy.”

The cannon cracked again, bigger and louder. Beyond the edge of the ship’s hull, a blast of flame winked: a plane hurtled to the ground.

The tremor rattled all the way up through Mr. Matthew’s body, and Walter swayed.

Earl grabbed the rope’s end and hauled it the rest of the way down. “Get him off there! I can tie it now!”

“Wait!” Jael said. “Look up, Walter! Can you pull open door?”

He straightened back up long enough to wrap both hands around the large iron ring and pull on it. But it wouldn’t budge. A three-inch slot—like an odd keyhole—notched the wood beside the ring.

“Look for my pendant! Is there anything you see?”

Mr. Matthew was already reaching for him, a hand on either leg to help him down. Walter scanned the whole length of the ship. A haze of smoke from the explosions and the plane exhaust filled the air. If anything was there, it blended in against the wood and the shadows.

The ship started to move. Ponderously, the tail swung around toward the grandstand.

“Get him down!” Mr. J.W. yelled.

Mr. Matthew hauled Walter off his shoulders and practically dropped him to the ground.

The airship’s long shadow rotated, and the line of sunshine on the ground crept toward them.

Earl yanked the knot tight. “There!”

Walter stood up and turned to see.

The wing skidded through the dirt. Then, as the airship started to rise, the wing flipped up off the ground. The free end spun around, headed straight toward his head.

Earl leapt at him. “Watch it!”

The wing caught Earl’s outstretched arm with a loud crack. The arm flopped, and Earl sprawled, taking Walter down with him.

ANOTHER PLANE CAUGHT a cannonball square in the tail. It spun a full circle in the air, then pitched nose down, screaming until it hit the ground in a splash of wood and metal. Hitch swooped into an Immelmann turn and hauled his Jenny back around through the haze of smoke and exhaust. He swiped the heel of his hand across the oil sheen on his goggles. Right after that last pass, the engine had started leaking pretty good.

He couldn’t get close enough to Schturming to hook it. All things considered, that might be a good thing. The way it looked from up here, Earl was probably right about that being a pointless way to die. But that left him weaponless. If he’d kept his .45, at least he could have popped some shots at the envelope. That would have made him feel better even if it didn’t bring down the ship.

_Schturming_’s propellers started chugging. The dirigible eased forward.