He moved on, ducking beneath a corded vine and took the lifeless path anyway. He knew it would lead him to his goal.
* * * *
When he was a child, before the loss of such blessings as the television, he recalled watching a cartoon about flying bears. They didn't have wings, were not some abomination like the lizard-monkeys even now, no doubt, devouring the flesh of hapless wanders like he. Instead they flew planes on adventures, solving crimes and righting wrongs. He remembered how much he wanted to fly that big two engine plane from those days. It wouldn't happen now, but, at least he could finally sit in one.
* * * *
The runway had not escaped the tyranny of vine or weed. Stocks broke up through the asphalt to wrap around clinging to the landing gear of a great steel bird. The only one left, save for what he thought was the wreckage of one of its sisters far down past the end of the runway. Hard to tell for sure, from this distance all he could really see was a great splotch of orange and violet. But the faded aircraft before him stood sturdy, and open.
Up the stairway he crept, holding tight to his revolver. He'd never shot it, and hoped he'd be able to continue that tradition, but in the World Now one had to be careful.
Pistol leading he took his fist step into the once mighty bird, and breathed a truncated sigh of relief. No vines or weeds here, everything was as it had been left twenty years or so before. Still, he should remain careful until he'd had time to check the place out.
Toward the back of the cabin he found a set of three doors. Each one had a little sign on it, near the handle. Two read VACANT, but the last he saw was OCCUPIED. Holding his breath he went to the last one, putting his ear up to listen. Nothing. He backed away, guessing that old bathroom was now being used as a tomb.
* * * *
After checking every corner of the plane, and satisfying himself that he was alone, he stood now before the door to the cockpit. God, how long had it been since his heartbeat so frantic from simple wonder, as it did now? There had been times when, back on the roads, he'd thought his heart would burst from his chest. But that was fear; fear of the reptilian-primate hybrids, from the marauders and cannibals. Now it was from an excitement he'd not known since bygone days of youthful adventure and discovery. He was about to fulfil an old dream from the Time Before, and wasn't that the greatest of wonder in these last days of humanity?
* * * *
Like the rest of the plane the cockpit was thankfully empty. No corpses. Good. He'd seen too many these past years, and didn't want anything to sully his last chance to foster the child surviving within him.
He giggled as he took a seat in the captain's chair, breaking the desolate silence of his world. When it died away a great smile remained as he took in all the knobs and controls and the stick and the headset dangling from it. Taking it up he put the headset on, adjusting the mic until it was in position.
'This is Captain Wilson, requesting permission to take off.' He wasn't sure at all if that was what a captain should say, and a sheepish twinge caused him to look about for the ghosts of chiding pilots, but still he was alone.
Permission granted, imagined authority replied.
Grinning, he began flipping switches and turning knobs at random until he deemed it enough and then grasped the stick. Disappointment flickered when he found the controls seized, but the child rising to the surface shrugged it off – pretending didn't need for things to work, so long as he could imagine it.
Engine sounds created by his throat and mouth filled the cockpit; beyond the windshield the ruined runway vanished, replaced by clear skies; the captain's chair shook as he hit turbulence; he called back to passengers through the mic, assuring them he'd get them through. Don’t worry Snowbirds, we'll be south before you know it!
Laughing at himself, he eased back in the chair and let himself settle back to reality. And as the clamour of his glee subsided he detected an odd noise, scraping from somewhere behind. Old cautions arising, the child in him stepping back into shadow, he slipped from the chair and pulled his revolver.
Peeking through the door he found nothing in the first class cabin, but the sounds continued. It came, he believed, from outside, as if whatever caused it was grating along the outer hull. Panic gripped him as a thought struck him, and now he rushed through the curtain partition into the larger section where the less than fortunate had been fated to ride.
A curse that would have caused Ma to cuff him in the Time Before broke from his lips when he reached the exit. It was near black with purple vines, the mutated vegetation had experienced one of those rarely witnessed boost of growth while he'd been playing around.
'No,' he said, stuffing away his gun and drawing his machete. 'No, no, no, fuck no!' He started working his arm in wild chops, scoring the thick iron-like vines over and over and over again. He swung until his muscles burned in his right arm, then switched to the other, but it was like trying to cut titanium with a bread-knife. With another curse he hurled the blade at the living barrier and then, for good measure, cursed again.
The cockpit! he reminded himself and sprinted back through the partition – the revolver returning to his hand. Busting though the door he saw that it was not too late – but it was close. The vines were even now stretching across the windshield, growing at exponential rate – soon he'd be encased!
Taking aim with the pistol he squeezed the trigger, letting the double action weapon work. A shot barked, deafening him. But when he looked, he saw the bullet had only made a crack in the tempered glass. Growling, on the edge of hysteria, he fired again, and again until the chambers were empty. On the last shot he was rewarded with the song of shattered glass, but the hole he'd blow in the windshield was only large enough to admit his hand.
And now he was out of bullets.
Letting the pistol fall from his hands, he dropped back into the captain's chair and watched as his tomb was thrown into Cimmerian darkness.
'This is Captain Wilson, here; grounded indefinitely,' he said to the empty chamber, sagging in the last chair he'd ever need.
####
Afterword
Thank you! (Yes with an exclamation point) Whether you are the first to read this collection or the millionth (right) I need to extend my gratitude to you. A writer’s voice is worth nothing if no one is listening, and I’ve been talking to myself for too long as it is. But the reader, especially in this day and age has the opportunity to let their voice be heard as well. With that in mind, please feel free to voice your opinion of this anthology in reviews or just a word to me personally.
On twitter, @marshallsmarx
On Facebook, at my personal page, or at the page for my Series-In-Progress here: Fragments of Noth
And at my one little blog, marshallnormanmccarthy.wordpress.com.
Let me know what you think, good, bad or ugly.
Yours,
Marshall Norman McCarthy
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