Day 7

Lantern.

The yellow light bathed everything in an eerie light, making Giles feel as though he were in a surrealist’s painting. Obwall snored too loudly and Dunstill’s mouth hung slightly open as his head rolled slowly from one shoulder to the other. The swaying motion of the airplane had lulled most of the grime-covered men to sleep, but Giles stayed awake. He never could sleep in a vehicle. It always made him feel uneasy, his body moving faster than it was supposed to. Giles supposed it went back to blood, as his family were all dirt farmers from the Deep South, and had only purchased a car when Eisenhower built the freeways. The 1957 Chevy Bel Air was still the family car, a faded baby blue with spots of rust and a rebuilt engine so old it had parts from four different manufacturers. Giles could remember the feel of the steering wheel the first time-

‘Hey Joe,” said a sleepy voice to his right. “You mind killing the light?” Sergeant Creeg had fallen back asleep before Giles had a chance to answer, but he dimmed the light of his Coleman lantern all the same. The shadows lengthened, casting odd shapes on the steel floor and padded walls of the compartment of the C-17. Giles was just glad it was roomy enough for them all. He laid Military Strategy and Tactics: A Soldier’s Guide on top of his ruck, gripped the belts of his harness, pushed his boots out in front of him, and yawned widely, blinking the sleep from his eyes. All the other soldiers were racked out.

That’s odd, thought Giles. He could have sworn Lucas and Boles were awake just moments ago, chatting quietly about the mission. He looked at Boles. The red haired bodybuilder took up almost two seats by himself, but Giles had never seen him so relaxed, even clocked out in a bunk. Lucas, the skinny, dark haired scout of their motley crew was likewise normally tense, and had an odd habit of waking up every few minutes at night, ever since his previous platoon had been mortared for two days while taking an enemy compound. Now, though, he was splayed in his seat, limbs pointing at odd angles.

Giles looked at everyone else. Then he realized that their faces were clear, in sharp relief.

He looked at his lantern.

The little Coleman bulb was growing brighter. The dial was still, but the bulb burned with more and more force. Giles had to turn away.

A stab of fear ran down his throat.

The windows were lit from the outside. They were far up in the mountains, and the only thing they should see were clouds and stars, but he could see pale light taking up the entirety of each ovular window. Giles stared dumbstruck for a moment, his heart deep in his stomach. Was it an enemy plane? Were they going to be shot down? He glanced down the compartment toward the steps leading to the cockpit. He sat on the side of the plane, on the last row at the front, but at the right edge of the airship, blocked from seeing the flight deck. Were the damn pilots going to tell them what the hell was going on? He strained his ears.

And heard nothing.

There was no hum of engines.

There were no small gurgles of air escaping from the cabin air system.

Giles eyes bulged. With a massive effort, because it suddenly seemed that his entire body was filled with lead, he grasped at his buckles. His fingers felt like frozen sausages, stiff and lifeless, even though he could detect no change in cabin temperature. The muscles of his forearms burned from even this small effort, but he was able to unbuckle his harness. He pushed his body forward with another monumental effort of will, and his face hit the gritty slip-resistant strips.

Above him he heard a small pop.

The bulb on the lantern had exploded in its case.

Giles looked up.

With a terror he could not explain, he saw the filaments glowing even brighter, beginning to burn holes in the plastic case.

Giles took a shallow, shuddering breath. Then, suddenly, he felt a deep anger in his chest. The rational part of his brain had no idea what was happening, but his instincts told him his life was in great danger. He wasn’t going to die, cowering on the floor.

Slowly, he pushed himself upward, then onto his feet. He felt no vertigo, just the heavy sense of his own muscles, as though great weights had been attached to every joint of his body, pulling him down. He put one foot in front of the other, and began to stagger toward the cockpit steps. The faces of the men stood out like sentinels, as though each step were miles and his journey endless. The pale light from the windows had not faded, but had taken on a different hue, somehow less benign, more sinister. He leaned his right hand on the wall, struggling where gaps lead to storage compartments.

Finally, after what must have been hours, he reached the cockpit steps. He let out a small grunt of success.

Then something else grunted.

And clicked.

And, for some reason, let out a small squeal.

There were sounds above him, small clatters and creaks, as something moved on the flight deck.

It was not footsteps.

Giles glanced behind him. In the rear of the cabin, his lantern had finally burned itself beyond recognition. However, he noticed for the first time other lights, which had come to life. Battery lights from headlamps. Small pocket flashlights. Even a laptop screen, a blank white rectangle in the darkness. Like the lantern, they were all burning brightly, casting their light forward. He glanced upward, trying to see the flight deck.

A long, thick cylindrical appendage, like a tentacle but larger than any sea creature had ever possessed, drooped over the edge of the flight deck, illuminated by the lights.

His heart felt ready to leap out of his mouth.

Tears began streaming down his face, an unknown horror gripping his chest.

“Giles,” barked Sergeant Creeg, “Wake up, boy, the damn plane’s getting ready to land and you’re dreaming about the fucking prom queen. Christ on a cracker.”