Adam Baker - Impact

Hard to estimate time. Must be heading towards dawn.

She looked down at Noble’s backpack. Maybe she should strike out at dawn. Pack water and meds and head into the desert at sunrise. But she was overcome by an enervating wave of what’s-the-point. The infected crewmen hiding amongst the dunes wouldn’t let her leave. She was a part of their unfathomable plan.

Thud. A tremor ran through the plane. Frost pulled back a blast blind and stared out into the darkness.

Swirling sand. Brief moonlight.

The engines were back in position. The connecting pylons were a fractured mess of fuel line and cable, but the turbojet pods were stationed neatly beneath each wing.

She glanced around the flight deck looking for anything that might provide additional firepower.

A thin steel wall pipe running the length of the cockpit at eye level. The hydraulic line. She traced the pipe and found a screw joint. Leatherman pliers. She pinched the joint, loosened the screw for a moment. Hydraulic fluid dripped onto the deck plate at her feet.

She crouched, flicked open her butane lighter and sparked a flame. The fluid fizzed and burned blue.

She stamped out the flame.

An empty water bottle. She uncapped the bottle and shook it into her mouth in case the slightest droplet of moisture remained.

She pulled an Arctic parka from a locker, slit the quilted liner and pulled out tufts of synthetic down. She stuffed the wadding into the bottle.

She unscrewed the hydraulic line and let clear fluid dribble into the bottle, soaking into the foam, then rescrewed the cap.

Down the ladder to the lower cabin. She put her ear to the stacked trunks blocking the tear in the fuselage wall, tried to hear if anyone were moving around outside.

Duct tape. She strapped the bottle to a strut above the door. She lashed a gyrojet flare pen to the bottle. She pushed the barricade aside, ran a monofilament trip line across the aperture and tied it to the deck grate.

She stood back and inspected the trap.

Nod of satisfaction.

Frost sat in front of the Camcorder and pressed Rec:

She wiped away tears of exhaustion.

She composed herself.

‘ You never know what you got until it’s gone. Who said that? Johnny Cash? Kind of thing he would say. Never a truer word spoken. Can’t help but think back to stuff I took for granted. Queuing in the post office, pushing a trolley round the supermarket. Feels like a long-lost paradise. Guess everyone with a cancer diagnosis feels the same way. Leaving the clinic full of heart-pounding death-terror. Suddenly that hour you spent mowing the lawn the previous day feels like a lost Eden. Give anything to turn back the clock to that bored, complacent humdrum.

‘Right now I’d give anything to be back at home, cleaning my oven or something, living an average day.’

She re-angled the camera.

‘They’ll come for me, sooner or later. Wait until I’m least alert. Sneak inside, or rush en masse. Depends if they want me alive, I guess. Depends if they have a use for my ass.

‘I’ve got no illusions. Fight long as I can, but they’ll win for sure. Dead by sunrise. Am I scared? Tired. Just tired. Fuck it. If those bastards outside want my hide, they’ll have to work for it. Make them pay a heavy price.

‘I’ll hide this tape in the cockpit. My last testament. Maybe someone will find it, years to come. Long shot, but what the hey. And remember: if you are standing here in this cockpit, listening to my message, then take my warning. Get away from here. Get away from the sand. Nothing out here but death.’

She leant forwards and reached for the power button.

‘This is Lieutenant LaNitra Frost, signing off.’

Rising wind. Whisper to a moan. The fuselage creaked and ticked. Sand gusted through torn blast screens, coated control surfaces with dust.

She unzipped her flight suit and sponged herself with wet wipes. A grey layer of grime and grey dermis stripped away. Her bicep tattoo revealed clean and clear.

She combed her hair and freshened her face.

She squeezed toothpaste into her mouth and rubbed it round her teeth. She squeezed worms of paste onto her fingers and wiped stripes across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose like warpaint.

Codeine for her leg.

She strapped a gas mask pouch over her shoulder. The respirator would protect her airway if she found herself outside in a dust storm.

She rezipped her flight suit and buckled her survival vest. Pocket check. One spare clip. One in the gun.

She double-tied her laces, lashed duct tape round each ankle and wrist to proof her suit against sand.

She stood in the centre of the flight deck. She stretched and flexed her limbs, shook out cramp and cold.

She pulled on Nomex gloves and unsheathed her father’s survival knife. A Nam-era jungle blade. Rangers stamp on the weather-worn sheath. He used it to probe undergrowth for trip-wires. He used the tip to punch open beer cans. Visible strapped to his chest in the platoon group shot hung on his office wall. 151st. Eight grinning guys sitting on the roof of an M113 APC. Boonie hats, camo faces, jungle backdrop. Peace signs and a couple of fuck-you middle fingers.

She swept the blade back and forth, sliced the air.

Ready for war.

If she had to die, let it be here, let it be now.

Out onto the roof.

Strengthening wind. She wore the M40 respirator to protect her face from driving sand.

She looked up. Vaporous clouds scudding past the moon, east to west.

The signal fire had been extinguished. At first she thought the flames had been smothered by wind and sand, but she focused her flashlight and saw the tyre that provided fuel for the pyre had been removed. No doubt remnants of undercarriage, the buckled actuators, hydraulic cable, burned and shredded radials, had been returned to their respective wheel wells.

Conscious determination to get her shit together.

She stamped her aching, injured leg and savoured the invigorating jolt of pain.

The desert swept by intermittent moonlight. Deep shadows, pools of blackness coagulating around the plane and between each dune.

A dark shape near the extinct signal fire. The discarded jerry can. She held the pistol in both hands, took aim, and waited for moonlight to gift her with a clear shot.

Guncrack.

A neat hole drilled in the side of the can. The container pissed a thin stream of aviation fuel. The fuel spattered on sand, a spreading stain of wet.

Guncrack.

The bullet sparked metal. Vapour ignition. Double fireball: the spilt fuel caught alight then, a moment later, the fuel can blew with a concussive thud.

A slow-blossoming mushroom of fire rose over the crash site. Dunes and wreckage lit by flickering flame light.

A figure, standing at the ridgeline. Ragged flight suit. A patient sentinel, oblivious to the storm.

She pulled back her respirator to get a better view. Sand stung her face.

She threw her arms wide.

‘Come get some, motherfucker.’

She sat in the dark a while, perched on the lip of the ladderway.

She looked down into the lower cabin. Her eyes projected phantom shapes into nothingness. After a while, her sight adjusted, and she could see intermittent washes of moonlight filtering through the rip in the fuselage.

She shifted and stretched each time she felt herself sliding into sleep.

Flicker.

She sat still, breathless and unblinking, as she tried to discern movement below.

She followed her survival training: used peripheral vision to monitor deep shadow.

Flicker.

Someone, or something, outside the plane, hesitating at the threshold.

She slid a hand over the pistol butt and rested her forefinger on the trigger.

She waited. It seemed like an age.