by Dan H Kind
Chapter 42
The Adventures of Charly Dodgers, Part Two
Wednesday started just like any other day of the week, with Charly Dodgers stumbling into the airport at seven in the morning with a nice hangover. He turned on the lights and went about his business opening up for the day. Despite it being great flying weather, it was a slow morning, as just about everyone in town had taken the day off or called in sick to work to attend the “Your Trash, Their Treasure” sale at New Shaolin Monastery.
The Eden/Jimstown Airport was located near Jimstown Island, about five miles east of Eden. The airport mainly hangared Cessnas and Cherokees, small two- or four-seater planes. The airport grounds consisted of a maintenance building, a few rusty hangars, and a decrepit one-story terminal. Charly ran a one-man operation for the most part, checking planes in and out, fueling them up, and controlling the minimal air traffic. The Eden/Jimstown Airport didn't make much of a profit, but he had built it himself from the ground up thirty years ago and was quite proud of the place.
Charly sat in the tiny FBO, checking the internet for the latest news on horrific plane crashes from around the globe—a hobby of his that was much appreciated by the local airport rats, who were always up for a good aviation yarn, the wilder the better—when the bell at the counter rang.
A tall stranger dressed in a trench coat and black fedora that kept his face hidden in shadows stood on the other side of the counter. Sure is a strange choice of attire for a hunnerd-degree day, thought Charly.
The stranger grinned at him in a not-so-nice way. Or at least Charly thought so, for when he stood up to greet him, he just couldn't seem to focus on the man. His eyes kept slipping off of him, and Charly would look over the guy's shoulder or down at his own nose.
“Can I . . . help you?” asked Charly, unsuccessfully attempting to uncross his eyes.
“I'd like to take an airplane ride. You do that here, yes?”
“We sure do. When did you have in mind?”
“Right now, actually.”
“Well, okay,” said Charly. He didn't want to be anywhere near this strange person he couldn't look at right, much less in the confined space of a small airplane with him. “But I'll have to call Bill Icarus, my other pilot. He can be here in twenty minutes. He's a young buck, a little reckless, a little crazy with the new medication, but he'll get you back here in one piece.” That should deter the strange man.
A long moment of silence, which bored into Charly's brain like nails.
“You yourself are a pilot, are you not, Charly Dodgers?”
“Uh . . . yup.” Charly did not recall telling the guy his name, and he wore no name tag.
“See, I don't want you to call Bill. I want you to take me up. Right now.”
“Well, I can't do that,” drawled Charly. “I've gotta man the control room. FAA regulations.”
“FAA? Never heard of 'em. You know that old crop-duster you've got stashed in the back of Hangar Seven?”
Charly was now downright suspicious—and a little bit scared. “How do you know about that? You're starting to sound like some kinda terrorist, mister!”
The stranger chortled, and Charly caught a glimpse of dagger-like fangs and fiery eyes that burned like the ovens of hell. A chill of terror shot from Charly's brain down his spinal cord and spread like an ice-cold drug throughout his body.
“Indeed,” said the fanged one. “Sower of Disorder. Bringer of Chaos. Terrorist. These are what I am. And I know all about you, Charly Dodgers. (NOW LET'S GO FOR AN AIRPLANE RIDE.)”
The stranger's commanding voice invaded and conquered Charly's discombobulated brain. Like a robot, he grabbed the keys and walked out the back door of the terminal and onto the runway, leading the fanged man to the hangar.
Charly wheeled the crop-duster, a 1973 Air Tractor AT-300, out into the sunlight. He prepared the plane for take-off under the stranger's unforgiving gaze.
“Why you wanna fly this ol' hunk-a-junk?” asked Charly. His mind was still a bit frazzled, but he could think again. Perhaps the stranger needed him to keep his wits about him in order to fly the plane. The old crop-duster was actually Charly's pride and joy, and he disliked taking it up except on special occasions. And he especially didn't want to for this man—that is, if he was a man. After all, what man had fangs like that?
Sweat beaded on Charly's brow and dripped down into his eyes. Or was he crying tears of frustration at his inability to stand up to this evil interloper? He didn't know. He had never encountered the powers of darkness, and he did not know what to do when they were breathing down his neck like this.
From the fanged one's throat issued a brain-mangling chuckle that hinted of primeval forces never meant to be ruminated upon by the minds of men for fear of the onset of madness.
(STOP ASKING POINTLESS QUESTIONS, HUMAN. NOW GET IN THE PLANE, AND LET'S GET OURSELVES OFF . . . INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER, THAT IS.)
The devil—for surely he must be—chuckled at his dirty little pun, then he and Charly climbed into the plane. Charly started her up and taxied down the runway for takeoff.
Five minutes later they zoomed a thousand feet above Eden. Charly sat in the pilot's seat, the demon adjacent. They both wore headsets. Charly wondered if the demon's undisobeyable Voice would work through the radio, or if it would be muted and not as effective.
“Charly Dodgers,” crackled the demon, “do you know where New Shaolin Monastery is?”
Charly sucked in a quick breath. The “Your Trash, Their Treasure” sale! Everybody and their mothers-in-law were there!
“Yes,” croaked Charly in a meek, subdued voice he barely recognized as his own.
“That is where we're going. (WE WILL MAKE FOUR PASSES OVER THE MONASTERY GROUNDS. OPEN THE TANKS ON MY SIGNAL.)”
Charly allowed himself a small smile. Those tanks hadn't had anything in them for years. The demon must not be that smart after all, although his commanding Voice was just as effective over the airwaves.
“Oh, and Charly,” added the demon. “I myself filled the tanks of the ol' crop-duster here with an especially potent liquid a few hours ago, so don't you worry your tiny little brain about that.” Its horrible cackle split through the radio's white noise like sonic waves of hellfire.
Charly grimaced and grasped the controls in a death-grip. He tried to cry out in protest, tried to tell his hands to turn the plane away from New Shaolin, but could accomplish neither. Next to him, the demon chuckled and slapped him on the back. The beast's touch left a searing residue upon Charly's flesh that absorbed into him and touched the edges of his soul, infusing it with suffocating darkness, imbuing it with inescapable helplessness.
Charly gritted his teeth. For the sake of the people of Eden, he had to break the curse the hellspawn had placed on him! Purple veins stood out on his forehead like jagged strokes from a demented artist's brush, and his mouth filled with bitter powder. The Eden sky hurtled past outside the cockpit as he tried like hell to turn the plane somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Charly wasn't able to resist. Not on the first pass, the second, or the third. He was inexorably under the control of the demon. He didn't know what he was dropping on the unprotected townspeople—who swarmed about like ants far below but were not seeking shelter—but no matter what it seemed like, he knew that it was not something good.
(RELEASE TANK NUMBER FOUR . . . NOW!)
And then something snapped inside of Charly. For the first time since the demon had invaded his world . . . he relaxed. He let go of fear, like dropping a burden carried since birth. Charly's soul underwent a magnificent, beautiful shift, and he said quietly but firmly: “No.”
And Charly Dodgers sent the plane hurtling in a nosedive towards Earth.