Mason surged through the chaos of cargo crates and broken boxes, following the sound toward what remained of the cockpit, frantically tossing debris aside as he went. The fuselage was a wreck of bent metal and blood, making it impossible for him to discern what exactly had happened.
Mason had seen numerous wrecks throughout his stint in the Airforce. He was accustomed to the sulphur ripe scent of fuel and flesh that often accompanied death. Smaller planes would plummet from the sky like meteors. If the pilot's didn't jump, there would be little left of them upon impact. Cargo planes were different. Where fighters were like speedboats, zipping through the air with deadly grace, cargos were yachts. Their mass kept them together, more or less anyway. Their hull would skid across the ground on impact, shaking loose the contents. Unless the plane had taken a nose dive, a pilot who had strapped themselves in were likely still in once piece. For better or worse.
A conglomerate of crates hung from the wall in canvas webbing, blocking the way through. Mason pulled a long knife from a sheath in his boot and cut the boxes free. They toppled to the floor with a loud crash, revealing a scene that Mason was wholly unprepared for.
The airman, or what was left of him, had been torn apart. Flesh and bone were scattered across the walls and floor in grisly tableau.
Mason held his arm up to his face, forcing back a gag. There was no way the emergency landing had caused such a catastrophic death.
Taking a careful step forward. Mason stopped at the feeling of something hard beneath his feet. Stepping away, he revealed a small brass cylinder, a shell casing. A closer inspection revealed dozens of them.
Definitely not the crash.
As Mason stood in awe at the scene, his attention suddenly returned to the muffled sound he had heard just moments ago. He turned his gaze to the iron hatch that separated the cockpit from the rest of the cabin.
That has to be where it came from. There's nowhere else to go.
Mason stepped gingerly toward the door, making sure to tip toe over the twisted scrap of a Thompson submachine gun. Standing next to the hatch, Colt raised at the ready, he slowly pulled the door open. The hinges were half frozen and squealed in protest as they moved.
Suddenly, a burst of automatic fire shredded through the cabin. Bullets pinged across the metal walls, sparks filling the gloom.
"Stop it! Stop shooting!" yelled Mason above the din.
"Collins, that you? You came back for me!" called out a man from inside.
"I ain't Collins. Name's Malone. Mason Malone. I'm hear to rescue you, get you back home." There was a long pause. Mason thought he heard a soft sob. "I'm coming in."
There was no reply.
Mason slowly peered around the threshold of the hatch and into the cockpit. The plane had skidded a good while, crumpling the nose of the plane like so much tin. The console and instruments were a mess of scrap, yet the pilot's chairs remained curiously untouched. There was barely enough room left for the single man, crouched tightly in the corner clutching a smoking gun.
"What's your name, son?" asked Mason, doing his best to not bring attention to the ragged gash torn through the boy.
"Cole," whimpered the airman. He couldn't have been more than twenty, still a young buck by any stretch.
"What happened here?" Mason hurriedly threw off his pack and began to rummage for anything that could help the situation.
"It was huge, sir. Bigger than any man I ever seen." Cole spoke haltingly, with a slight southern drawl. Had his pieces been fit together he would have been a handsome man.
"What are you saying, boy. is there someone else out here?"
Cole wearily shook his head.
Mason pulled out a metallic flask from his pack and handed it to Cole's gun clattered to the floor.
"Bourbon. From back home."
Cole took a long, deep swing. Hissing as the liquid fire slid down his throat.
"Don't stay here, sir. You can't. That thing will come for you."
"The others, where'd they go?" asked Mason, ignoring the airman's ravings.
"We jumped," Cole coughed, blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. "Came looking for help. Supplies." Another hacking cough. "It must have been watching. It came for us and the others ran. Collins and I were trapped. Did you find him? Did you find Collins?"
"Take another drink." Cole obeyed the order.
"I ain't going home," It was a statement, not a question.
Mason looked him in the eye and shook his head. "No. Afraid not."
Cole reached into his blood soaked jacket and removed a crumpled piece of paper. Mason took it and placed it neatly against his chest.
"A girl?"
"No. My parents."
Mason nodded with solemn understanding.
Cole took a deep, wet breath. His eyes fluttered and suddenly the color ran from his cheeks. Mason had seen death before. most men he knew had. But this was the first man he hadn't been able to get back home. The other men were still out there somewhere and by God, he would make sure they made it back.
If it's the last thing I do.
A haunting wail split the silence. A horrid, lonesome cry trapped somewhere between beast and man. A chill ran through Mason's body, and this time it wasn't from the cold.
Stay tuned next month for part 3!
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