‘These bottles are plastic,’ said Noble. ‘Throw them quick, once you light the fuse. Likely to burn through and blow up in your face.’
‘Touched you guys are so concerned for my welfare.’
‘Might as well just shoot the fuckers,’ said Hancock. ‘Only way to be sure.’
‘Fire will finish them well enough,’ said Frost. ‘Minute or two in the flames will turn eyeballs to steam. Couple more minutes will cook muscles rigid. Burn long enough, and their brains will poach in their skulls.’
She lined Molotovs on the nav console.
‘You guys better wait upstairs.’
‘Not sure I can move,’ said Hancock.
‘Give him a hand.’
Noble helped Hancock to his feet.
Hancock gripped the ladder.
‘Honestly can’t pull myself up.’
Noble held Hancock’s hips and helped him upwards rung by rung to the flight deck.
He put an arm round Hancock’s shoulder and steered him to the pilot seat.
Frost joined them.
‘You should be safe up here.’
She slid down the cockpit ladder, letting her good leg take the impact.
She fetched her crutch from outside and crouched on the floor of the lower deck. She opened a parachute pack, slit fabric and wound it round the crutch. Wadded nylon lashed in place by paracord.
Noble climbed down the ladder.
He stumbled, grabbed the nav console for support.
‘I want to help,’ he said.
Frost handed him the crutch. She picked up the jerry can.
‘Let’s get a fire going.’
The setting sun turned the desert rich caramel. Dunes cast lengthening shadows.
The extinct signal fire. A part-buried tyre.
They knelt and shovelled sand aside.
Noble stood back as Frost slopped aviation fuel. She flicked her Zippo and jumped back as vapour ignited with a thump and a fireball. The wheel burned blue and belched acrid black smoke.
‘Should tip the scales when our friends come calling. Rob them of darkness. If they want to bite a chunk out of our derrières they’ll have to step into the light.’
She held an improvised torch in the flames. Chute fabric caught alight. Nylon melted to bubbling tar.
‘Sure this is a good idea? None of us in much shape for a fight.’
‘We’ll have to face these bastards sooner or later. Might as well dictate terms. The plane is a good killing ground. Plenty of bottlenecks and fallback positions. It’ll give us an edge. They can’t try for us on the flight deck without leaving themselves fully exposed. I’d rather face them here than out there in the sand.’
‘Must admit, I’m a trifle apprehensive.’
‘Between you and me, never been so scared,’ said Frost. ‘But it’s good to be taking action.’
Frost looked up. A dusting of stars across a darkening sky.
‘We better get inside.’
They walked back towards the B-52.
‘So you want to head for the Panamints tonight?’ asked Noble. ‘Is that the plan? Wipe out these bastards then hit the road?’
‘Maybe I should give you guys longer to recuperate, but you know what? There will always be a reason to postpone, to sit around, making excuses, until the water runs out. Been here less than a week, but this plane has become my world. Everything else is a fading dream.’
‘We can’t leave Hancock behind.’
‘Guess we help him all we can. But in the end, it’s down to him. He’ll need to forget his plans to deliver the warhead to the target site, and decide to live.’
Frost staked the torch in the ground near the aircraft entrance.
Noble looked up at the emerging constellations.
‘It’s going to be a beautiful night.’
The flight deck.
Frost took Hancock’s lock-knife from her pocket. A Benchmark Griptillian. She flipped it open, put it in his hand. Burned fingers closed round the silicon grip. He contemplated the blade.
‘You could put it in my back easy enough,’ said Frost. ‘But I’m the only thing standing between you and our friends outside. Think it over.’
She unsheathed her K-bar and gave it to Noble.
‘So what’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘I need you guys to watch my back. That’s all. If I can lure them into a stand-up fight, I can take them down. Don’t care how sly these bastards are, how resilient. A full clip to the face, and the dance is over.’
Noble examined the heavy survival knife. Seven-inch blade. Curved Bowie tip. Blood channels.
He saw the pink blur of his face reflected in steel. A gaunt stranger. Stubble. Blistered skin. Bloodshot eyes.
‘Want me to guard the windows?’
‘Yeah. You and Hancock. And watch the hatches. If you hear a sound, the slightest hint they are trying to worm their way inside, holler.’
He tested the tip of the blade, adjusted his grip.
‘Forget it,’ said Frost. ‘You’re in no shape to tussle. If any of those fuckers gets in here, just stand aside. I’ll deal with them.’
‘I can still handle myself. Soft entry point. Eye socket, base of the skull. Put them down for good.’
Frost sat with her back to the wall, gun in her lap. She massaged her leg.
Noble sat against the opposite wall. He used the knife to dig dirt from his fingernails.
They listened to the tick of cooling metal, the symphonic contraction of the fuselage.
A muffled thud from down below.
They froze: Noble picking his teeth with the knife tip, Frost biting cuticle.
Clumsy, shuffling footsteps. Boots on metal.
Frost rechecked her pistol. Safety to Off. Brass in the chamber.
She towelled the butt free of sweat on her sleeve. She wiped the palm of her shooting hand on her pant leg.
She crawled across the floor to the equipment trunk blocking the ladderway to the cabin below.
Rumble of a heavy object dragged across deck plate.
‘Sounds like they’re moving something around,’ whispered Hancock.
‘How many of them do you reckon?’
Frost listened to stumbling footsteps.
‘One, I think.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Noble.
‘The others must be holding back.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘What’s to like?’
They listened a while longer.
Heavy bootfalls.
‘Pinback?’ asked Hancock.
‘Dragging foot. Hear that? Definite limp. Probably Guthrie.’
Fingernails raked metal. Frost listened hard, tried to picture the geography of the cabin below.
Clatter and thud.
‘Sounds like he’s trying to climb into the crawlspace. Fuckers are fixated on that payload hatch. They instinctually make for the warhead. Drawn back to it, time and again.’
She gripped the Molotov. She pulled the Zippo from her pocket.
‘You ready?’ she asked.
Noble crawled across the cabin floor. He put his shoulder to the trunk and got ready to push.
‘Count of three.’
He nodded.
She brought the lighter flame to the Molotov and lit the wick.
‘…One… two… three…’
Grit-grinding rasp as Noble pushed the trunk aside.
Frost held the bottle over the ladderway, using the fluttering wick-flame to illuminate the cabin below.
Stumbling footsteps. Something monstrous lurched out of shadow, gripped the foot of the ladder and looked up at her.
Guthrie. Half a head. Half a brain.
Frost hurled the Molotov. The plastic bottle hit Guthrie’s face and split open.
Fuel splash.
Fireball.
The creature ablaze. It thrashed and shrieked. The lower cabin was filled with fire and smoke.
Frost threw herself aside to avoid the wave of roiling fire rushing up the ladderway to envelope her. She kicked away from the hatch, covered her mouth and nose to mask the stink of kerosene and cooking flesh.