freefall. At twelve thousand feet a barometric trigger should have unlatched the chair harness and released his main chute. The seat should have fallen away, letting Guthrie float to earth unencumbered.
Instead he remained shackled to his chair, achieving a terminal velocity of over two hundred miles an hour before he slammed into the ground.
Dead on impact.
Frost crossed herself. She wasn’t religious, but she half-remembered Guthrie pocketing a rosary as they suited up.
It should have been possible to hit a manual release to ditch the seat. He should have pulled a shoulder-mounted rip to deploy the chute. Maybe air-pressure and g-force pinned him to the heavy steel frame as it fell to earth at sickening speed.
Or maybe his oxygen supply failed and he lost consciousness. Succumbed to hypoxia. Desperately slapped and clawed at harness buckles as his vision narrowed and his mind began to fog.
Or maybe he chose to die. A dark supposition: Guthrie watched mesmerised as the ground rushed to meet him and became gripped by the same strange throw-yourself-on-the-track death wish that tugs at subway commuters as their train emerges from a tunnel and pulls into the station. The world in ruins, everyone he knew and loved dead or worse. Maybe he couldn’t find the will to grip the parachute cord and save himself.
‘
Via con Dios
, brother.’
Pat down. She unzipped sleeve and thigh pockets.
A Spyderco lock-knife. She tossed it. She would stick with her old K-Bar survival blade.
Morphine shots. She stuffed them in her pocket.
She searched his vest. She took water, batteries, matches and flares. Felt like grave-robbing, but the guy would understand. He would want her to live.
She tried his radio in case her own were defective.
‘This is Lieutenant Frost, US-B-52
Liberty Bell
, any one copy, over?’
No response.
‘Mayday, Mayday. This is an emergency. Airmen in need of rescue. Does anyone copy this transmission, over? Any one at all?’
NO COMMS.
She dropped the radio in the sand.
She ejected the mag from Guthrie’s Beretta and stashed the clip in her survival vest.
His head jerked and trembled.
‘Jesus. Guthrie?’
She leant close, examined his chest for the rise and fall of respiration.
He slowly raised an arm. His gloved hand gently pawed her shoulder.
She knelt in front of him. She squeezed his hand.
‘Hold on, dude.’
She unlatched his oxygen mask. Shattered teeth. He drooled blood.
She gently lifted his head, and raised the smoked visor.
‘Oh Christ.’
She jumped backwards, stumbled and fell on her ass.
Guthrie’s upper face was a mess of suppurating flesh. Metallic spines anchored in bone, protruded through rotted skin like a cluster of fine needles.
‘So they got you too.’
He wretched and convulsed. He reached for her, clawed the air, constrained by his seat harness.
Jet black eyeballs. Guthrie, his mind and memories, replaced by a cruel insect intelligence.
He raged with frustrated bloodlust.
Frost struggled to her feet. She watched him thrash in his seat. She contemplated his onyx eyes, his livid, bruise-mottled skin.
A choking, inhuman howl. He spritzed blood and teeth.
She unholstered her pistol and shook it from its protective bag. She racked the slide and took aim, anxious to silence the guttural vocalisations, the imbecilic aks, das and blorts of a friend succumbed to dementia.
‘Sorry, Guss. Best I can do.’
Point blank through the right eye. Whiplash. He slumped broken doll, wept blood from an empty socket.
Sudden silence.
She blew the chamber cool then reholstered.
She sat in the sand beside the dead man.
She contemplated the view.
The desert. Harsh purity, endless dunes and the widest sky. The kind of place a person might come to confront an indifferent God. Like Buzz Aldrin said, standing in the Sea of Tranquillity, looking out at an airless wasteland:
magnificent desolation.
Good place to die. Better than a hospital bed.
A water sachet. She sucked it dry and
Instead he remained shackled to his chair, achieving a terminal velocity of over two hundred miles an hour before he slammed into the ground.
Dead on impact.
Frost crossed herself. She wasn’t religious, but she half-remembered Guthrie pocketing a rosary as they suited up.
It should have been possible to hit a manual release to ditch the seat. He should have pulled a shoulder-mounted rip to deploy the chute. Maybe air-pressure and g-force pinned him to the heavy steel frame as it fell to earth at sickening speed.
Or maybe his oxygen supply failed and he lost consciousness. Succumbed to hypoxia. Desperately slapped and clawed at harness buckles as his vision narrowed and his mind began to fog.
Or maybe he chose to die. A dark supposition: Guthrie watched mesmerised as the ground rushed to meet him and became gripped by the same strange throw-yourself-on-the-track death wish that tugs at subway commuters as their train emerges from a tunnel and pulls into the station. The world in ruins, everyone he knew and loved dead or worse. Maybe he couldn’t find the will to grip the parachute cord and save himself.
‘
Via con Dios
, brother.’
Pat down. She unzipped sleeve and thigh pockets.
A Spyderco lock-knife. She tossed it. She would stick with her old K-Bar survival blade.
Morphine shots. She stuffed them in her pocket.
She searched his vest. She took water, batteries, matches and flares. Felt like grave-robbing, but the guy would understand. He would want her to live.
She tried his radio in case her own were defective.
‘This is Lieutenant Frost, US-B-52
Liberty Bell
, any one copy, over?’
No response.
‘Mayday, Mayday. This is an emergency. Airmen in need of rescue. Does anyone copy this transmission, over? Any one at all?’
NO COMMS.
She dropped the radio in the sand.
She ejected the mag from Guthrie’s Beretta and stashed the clip in her survival vest.
His head jerked and trembled.
‘Jesus. Guthrie?’
She leant close, examined his chest for the rise and fall of respiration.
He slowly raised an arm. His gloved hand gently pawed her shoulder.
She knelt in front of him. She squeezed his hand.
‘Hold on, dude.’
She unlatched his oxygen mask. Shattered teeth. He drooled blood.
She gently lifted his head, and raised the smoked visor.
‘Oh Christ.’
She jumped backwards, stumbled and fell on her ass.
Guthrie’s upper face was a mess of suppurating flesh. Metallic spines anchored in bone, protruded through rotted skin like a cluster of fine needles.
‘So they got you too.’
He wretched and convulsed. He reached for her, clawed the air, constrained by his seat harness.
Jet black eyeballs. Guthrie, his mind and memories, replaced by a cruel insect intelligence.
He raged with frustrated bloodlust.
Frost struggled to her feet. She watched him thrash in his seat. She contemplated his onyx eyes, his livid, bruise-mottled skin.
A choking, inhuman howl. He spritzed blood and teeth.
She unholstered her pistol and shook it from its protective bag. She racked the slide and took aim, anxious to silence the guttural vocalisations, the imbecilic aks, das and blorts of a friend succumbed to dementia.
‘Sorry, Guss. Best I can do.’
Point blank through the right eye. Whiplash. He slumped broken doll, wept blood from an empty socket.
Sudden silence.
She blew the chamber cool then reholstered.
She sat in the sand beside the dead man.
She contemplated the view.
The desert. Harsh purity, endless dunes and the widest sky. The kind of place a person might come to confront an indifferent God. Like Buzz Aldrin said, standing in the Sea of Tranquillity, looking out at an airless wasteland:
magnificent desolation.
Good place to die. Better than a hospital bed.
A water sachet. She sucked it dry and
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