“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Bummer.” Sara was taking flying lessons and had rented Horace’s plane through the flight school on several occasions. She liked it better than the others at Condor. Horace didn’t like renting his plane out, but he couldn’t afford to keep it otherwise.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What’s with the bricks?” She was close enough to smell.
“Samples for a friend in Big Bear,” he lied.
“They don’t have bricks up there?”
“At three times the price. I’m driving up in a couple of weeks. It’s a chance to make a buck.”
“So, you’re flying up now?”
“Right.”
“You want company?”
“What?” Did Sara Hackett just ask if she could fly up to Big Bear with him? There and back would take all day.
“I need more cross country time. If you don’t mind riding on the right while I fly. I’d pay, of course.”
Horace bit his lip. She was gonna pay, too. But he shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve gotta stay overnight.”
“I could get a motel, come back with you tomorrow.”
He bit into his lip again, harder. “Sorry, I’d like to, really, but I might need to stay longer.”
“Alright then, some other time.”
“Sure.” Sweat trickled under his arms. All he could do was stand, feet lead, and watch as she made her way into the Condor building to rent somebody else’s plane.
Turning his attention away from Sara Hackett, he looked out at the wind sock. There was a gentle breeze blowing straight down Two-Five-Right. A Piper Cherokee was starting its take-off roll. There were clouds over the ocean, but they were at altitude, no problem flying under them. It looked like a good day for a VFR flight out to Catalina.
He started toward the plane with a brick in each hand. His Cessna was at the end of the line, closest to the runway, farthest from the hanger. At the plane, he set the bricks down and looked around. Nobody within viewing distance. He opened the passenger door.
The smell attacked him first. Meat. Not rotten, but getting there. Steeling himself, he wrapped a hand around Virgil’s wrist. Cold. He gave a gentle tug. Stiff. Rigor.
He picked up a brick. He was loath to touch the corpse again, but he had no choice. The feet were hard to push apart when he moved them aside for the bricks. Once they were in place between the legs, he pulled a couple short lengths of rope from his flight bag and tied one to each ankle. Finished, he studied his work. He was good with ropes and knots, they wouldn’t come loose.
“Best I can do, Virge.”
A fly buzzed by, then another, then more. They went for the eyes. Inside the plane there had been no way for the insects to get at the body. They’d come in droves now, making up for lost time. Horace shooed as many away as he could before closing the door.
He was careful about flying. Usually he did a complete preflight, talking to himself, so he wouldn’t forget anything, as he worked his way around the plane. Not today.
He pulled off the sun protectors, no choice, but he was far enough away from prying eyes. He was just a plane getting ready to go. Satisfied he was safe, he called ground control and got permission to taxi to Two-Five- Right. Then a shudder rippled through him. There was a chance they’d train binoculars on him from the tower. Would they be able to see his passenger was dead?
On the runway, he did his run up, then set the radio for the tower frequency.
“Long Beach Tower, this is Cessna 27 Yankee seeking permission for a straight out over the harbor.”
“Hold, 27 Yankee. There’s a Piper Cherokee on final, another turning base and a Bonanza in the downwind, you’re cleared after the Bonanza.”
There was nothing for it but to sit and wait.
“Damn, Virge, you look bad.” He shuddered at the sight of Virgil’s waxy, translucent like skin. Looked into his sunken eyes. Virgil’s lips were stretched tight, as if he were about to bare fangs. That and the blue hands made Horace think of vampires. He shuddered again. If only he could feed his brother some blood. If only he could make him live.
A couple of flies landed on the dead eyes to lay eggs that would never hatch, because shortly Virgil was going to be resting in the arms of Davy Jones. Horace loved his brother too much to let him become bug food. He waved a hand at the flies, shooing them from the face.
The tower cleared him for take off.
“Here we go, boy.” He taxied onto the runway, turned into position, stomped on the brakes, pulled out the throttle, let the revs climb. Feet off the brakes and the plane started down the mile long runway, Horace keeping it on the center line.
A fly flew into his mouth, down his throat.
He gagged. Revulsion rippled through him as he choked air up from his gut, trying to get it out. Another fly in his eyes. Fuck. He pulled a hand from the controls, swatted it, smacking himself in the face.
“Watch the center line, 27 Yankee.” The voice from the tower jolted Horace. He’d almost revolted himself off the runway. He swallowed the fly and eased the plane back to the centerline.
A quick look at the wind speed gauge. Fifty miles an hour. He’d almost really fucked up.
“You okay, 27 Yankee?”
Horace grabbed the mike, thumbed the talk button. “Swallowed a fly. I got it together now.”
“Yuck,” the tower said. Then, “You have a nice day, 27 Yankee.”
“You too.” Horace hung up the mike. Speed 70 MPH. He started his takeoff roll, felt the thrill as he did every time the wheels left the ground. At two hundred feet he eased off some of the back pressure on the yoke. He preferred a flatter climb than most. He loved looking out, watching the houses, yards and pools gradually shrink in size. In the plane he was like a kid.
Virgil loved the takeoffs, too. He’d get all excited, pointing out places he knew, the Taco Bell, the car wash, the graveyard by Signal Hill where they’d buried their dad. For Virgil, Dad’s ghost haunted that hallowed ground. Twice, sometimes three times a week he’d take his brother to Dad’s tombstone. Not anymore. Horace would never go there again.
He banked left over Long Beach Harbor, climbed up to five thousand. Over Huntington Beach, he banked right and headed out over the ocean. A slight detour before heading out toward Catalina and as usual a slight shiver shimmied up his back. It happened every time he flew over the water. Blue sea below, white clouds above, but he wasn’t worried about the weather, as the visibility ahead seemed endless.
The weather was the least of his worries. He was flying with a dead man as co-pilot. He grabbed another look at his brother, who believed in ghosts. Horace didn’t suffer that affliction. When you were dead, the light went out. That was it. Nothing, just nothing. No god like Ma said. No ghosts like Virge believed. It was over. Just plain over.
Still, he had to struggle with his nerves when he reached over Virgil’s stiff body and fished around in the pouch on the passenger door. Virge kept a lot of junk in there-cookies, comic books, his juggling balls. Virgil had been slow in the head, but he was agile of body. On more than one occasion Horace had to yell at him to stop the juggling when they were on final. Imagine trying to land a plane with them balls flying around the cockpit. Fingers moving through the crap, Horace found a CD. Music was necessary, Virgil wasn’t going out to the drone of a prop.
He shoved the disc into the player. Bruce Springsteen filled the cockpit. “Born in the USA.” Horace screamed along with the Boss. Virgil loved that song. Horace hit the repeat button. It would play for him for the duration of his last ride.
Billowy cumulus clouds loomed ahead. Shit, where’d they come from? Horace wasn’t instrument rated, but it looked like he could skirt them. He made a slight turn to the right. More clouds. “Born in the USA,” Horace ranted as he climbed to avoid them. Turbulence shook the plane, cloud vapor wisped by, cotton trails blurring his sight. Then he was up and over, still climbing, still banking right. More ahead, darker, grey. Storm or squall, Horace didn’t know, didn’t care. He just wanted to get over it.
