This article is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
( ©2016 Sean Dorsey )
Back at the plane, Gabe stops at the tail-end and looks at the slope at the rear, staring at the rectangular indentation on the side that outlines the opening to the cargo.
“Here we go again.”
He walks over to the crevasse between plane and wall and begins making his way to the door, stepping onto the slope, hands pressed to the wall and back against the plane. A couple minutes of sidling later and he arrives at the cargo hatch. It takes a few tries to disengage the lever, and he has to flip around to pull. His hand slips off once and the back of his head knocks against the wall, a film of slime outlining the impact. The oblong metal panel opens outward just enough for Gabe to squeeze into the plane. Inside the cargo hold is dark and belies the room it would take to hold all the passengers’ necessities. Gabe pulls himself in, an arm on either side of the opening. Shadowy lumps populate the interior and Gabe squints in the dark as he attempts to wend his way through them, hunching over as he progresses. Fly on →
Landing is a splash, smack onto the surface of sour-smelling, oily liquid. Gabe rolls face up, coughing and gasping. The liquid tingles on his skin, and he spits for a bit before resuming gasping. He is able to stand, the waterline reaching just above his waist. He looks up, but visibility is even less than before and the faint swarming noise of the tentacles can be heard from far above. The buzzing noise has subsided. He walks towards the wall that leads up to the spot from which he fell. The walls down here are not smooth, but they do not have the same hellish qualities as those above. Instead, bulging lines of fleshy material run up and down, unmoving and droopy. Gabe sloshes through the muck, moving slow and periodically glancing from side to side, though he is the only apparent moving thing within the stinking lake. Up ahead in the darkness an archway appears, almost the same shape as the tunnel their plane crashed in, though the ceiling is much lower. Gabe picks up the pace, but just as he does tentacles rise up from the muck, thicker than the previous ones and with what appear to be suckers on their ends. They open and close, like toothless mouths. They flap with wet, rubbery sounds.
Fly on →
Justin appears from the gloom.
“Justin! Where the hell is the plane? Please tell me you passed it on your way here.” Justin walks closer, mouth slightly open, eyes staring down the tunnel. “Justin? Are you okay?” Gabe takes a step towards him, rubbing the arm upon which he fell.
“The plane is gone.” Justin looks at the ground, arms held straight at his sides.
“What the hell do you mean? Where did it go?”
“It sunk down.” He looks up, staring straight ahead. “It’s gone.” Fly on →
Gabe turns and holds a hand out at Justin, handing him the equipment.
“Stay here and keep trying to reach them!” Justin nods and Gabe turns and starts running again, each step producing a quick squish. As he passes back under the wing in between the cabin and the engines, the bottom of the wing is a few inches closer to the top of his head this time, and he bends slightly. One of the flight crew is leaning out the emergency exit and looking to the left. They hear Gabe approach and turn to face him.
Fly on →
The captain wakes to the dim glow of the emergency light and a band of pain over his shoulders and down his front from the seat-belt. He lets out a small hiss and groan as he reaches down to unbuckle. He peels back the straps and pulls himself to his feet, squinting out the window as he leans forward, but there is nothing to be seen outside. Condensation lingers in front of the stark black background. He hears a groan from his right. Justin is in a similar state, one hand over his eyes.
“You alive over there?” He puts a hand on Justin’s shoulder.
Fly on →
First post of the new year! CΩT will be back in a few days. Without further ado, take flight with the Blood Rock.
The cockpit is cold and cramped, and visibility is low, both inside and out. Dials and buttons glow like gems in the rain-enhanced dark, the falling drops hitting the front of the plane, a constant and noisy assault. The two pilots stare at the altitude and navigational readings, small remarks passed between them without looking at each other. The one on the right squeezes his arm rest when his hand is not adjusting the controls. His responses are short and quick, his colleague responding in much more level manner, addressing each remark after checking their measurements. He activates the intercom, addressing each the passengers.
Fly on →