By JAY
The piercing screech of metal hitting tarmac swallowed the airstrip, like searing needles piercing Johnson's eardrums. A brilliant display of sparks illuminated the dense blanket of white, the silhouettes of the men that ran in desperation from the frenetic path of the monster scarring Johnson's eyelids. One. A fellow workmate tripped and was instantly devoured. Two. Three. Not fast enough.
The vast shadow grinded closer, always closer with interminable speed but his legs would not budge. Maybe it was the guttural screech which seemed to imbue his whole being that paralysed him. Or maybe it was the unearthly beauty of the fireworks profiling the immense shape's advance. Whatever it was, he was entrenched, stuck, with a thousand ton pile of machinery bearing down on him. The smell of soot and fuel drenched his nostrils, his eyes burning from the waves of fumes; but in his mind, there was nought but the monster. Nothing but the predestined collision of himself and his fate. Closing his eyes to the horror, he felt his hands fall limp at his side. The light he'd been carrying clattered to the tarmac...
The bite of the thick early morning fog stung David's cheeks, condensing as it made contact with the abrasive stubble that lined his jaw. The eccentric dance of the swirling clouds of white pathed his way down the bitcheman, the usually vivid runway lights now merely faint, glowing halos. His walky-talky purred with static at his belt, as if it too would rather be in the warm confines of the office. Taking one last glance at down the stretch, he brought the walky-talky to his mouth, his breath coming out in warm clouds that instantly amalgamated with the surrounding mist.
"It's not looking good down here, mate..." He articulated into the plastic speaker. "They need a landing. Sure it doesn't lighten up? Over." The words blurred into the importunate buzz the small hand held produced. Frowning down the air strip, he pressed a button. "Nah, she's pretty damn stubborn. What are the options?"
"The runway or the big blue."
"Better bring in the hand-helds."
Clipping the walky-talky back to his belt, he turned back towards the building. The very scuff of his boots seemed smothered by the unremitting blanket of cloud, but the aircraft needed to land, so land it would. Before long, the obdurate beam of the fluorescent hand-helds appeared ahead of him, valiantly fighting the hungry depths of the mist. Lengthening his stride, he nodded to the men he passed. It'd be a tough one but by no means the first. Being the closest airstrip on the west coast of America meant the occasional emergency landing and they had a knack for coming at the worst times. Thick fog was up there with the worst.
"Johnson!" The brusque summon was laced with apprehension. Grunting in reply, Johnson turned back towards the runway. "I'm afraid we're gonna need you on this one, mate. Not much men on shift y'see..." The ponderous figure of the manager on duty limped towards him through the half light.
"Where d'ya want me?"
Diffidently withdrawing his hands from his deep pockets, Johnson accepted the hand-held light and traipsed over to the left side of the airstrip. It was really pointless being this far down, merely protocol although he got to appreciate the cacophony of rugged up men waving lights about in that ridiculous routine. Sighing in self-depreciation, he joined the simplistic movements, thinking of the good laugh the men in the tower would be having.
The indolent blinks of the approaching aircraft disturbed him from his thoughts as it pierced through the unremitting cloud, the consistent static of his walky-talky lapsing into the incoherency that interference often wrought. A tad too low if it was up to him, but it wasn't.
Frowning down the airstrip for direction, he watched the coronas of light as they beckoned the approaching vessel. They continued the monotonous routine. Nonetheless, it seemed the frigid mist tightened its grip around his throat, seemingly becoming an ominous entity.
'KCHHHHH...' The incessant noise became lurid. Someone wasn't quite getting the hint. There was no reception. Flicking to another channel he sought some quiet, his light dangling from his wrist as the movement he'd been doing faltered. That was all it took.
The man adjacent to him wavered almost directly and jogged up to the man in front. A yell somewhere further up the line and three more paused ahead of him. For a moment he wondered at the luminosity of the hand-helds near the start of the runway, and then why everyone was running...
The piercing screech of metal hitting tarmac swallowed the airstrip, like searing needles piercing Johnson's eardrums. A brilliant display of sparks illuminated the dense blanket of white, the silhouettes of the men that ran in desperation from the frenetic path of the monster scarring Johnson's eyelids. One. A fellow workmate tripped and was instantly devoured. Two. Three. Not fast enough.
The vast shadow grinded closer, always closer with interminable speed but his legs would not budge. Maybe it was the guttural screech which seemed to imbue his whole being that paralysed him. Or maybe it was the unearthly beauty of the fireworks profiling the immense shape's advance. Whatever it was, he was entrenched, stuck, with a thousand ton pile of machinery bearing down on him. The smell of soot and fuel drenched his nostrils, his eyes burning from the waves fumes; but in his mind, there was nought but the monster. Nothing but the predestined collision of himself and his fate. Closing his eyes to the horror, he felt his hands fall limp at his side. The light he'd been carrying clattered to the tarmac, each bounce punctuated in his mind as understanding swept over him.
He was out of time.
