Dragged into Darkness Read online

  DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS

  By Simon Wood

  This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are factiously used. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, real events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2003 & 2009 Simon Wood. All rights reserved.

  For more information about the author and his work, please visit www.simonwood.net

  Cover art: GAK © 2003

  DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS

  RUNWAY THREE-SEVEN

  THE SUNSEEKER

  THE LADIES ROOM

  PURELY COSMETIC

  POLKA DOTS

  SPECIAL DELIVERY

  THE HOARDER

  HUNGRY FOR MORE

  IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

  ACCEPTABLE LOSSES

  THE HEAD

  THE SHOWER CURTAIN

  FAITH

  Excerpt from Simon Wood’s WE ALL FALL DOWN

  Excerpt from Simon Wood’s PAYING THE PIPER

  RUNWAY THREE-SEVEN

  It was all going wrong. A storm wasn’t predicted but the weather was turning nastier by the second. Puffy white clouds had darkened to a ditch water gray and were now turning black. The light was fading. Rain was splatting the windshield but the propeller smeared the droplets out of the way. To add insult to injury, the Cessna’s engine had caught a cold. It coughed on a regular basis and it was obvious it wasn’t going to get Neal back home to Davis. All in all, for a light aircraft pilot, the situation was as bad as it could get. He had to get the plane down before circumstances did.

  When it came down to it, it didn’t matter how good at flying you were. It was about how good a pilot you were and that meant remembering the training. Half of flight training was about how to deal with a situation when it had gone tits up. Well, it had gone tits up now. He would have liked to say he was being gosh-darned brave about it all. But the amount of adrenaline he was producing said otherwise.

  Some pleasure flight, he thought bitterly. Get a grip, Neal. Remember—training, training, training.

  He tuned the RT to Davis’ radio frequency. It was a long shot. He was forty miles from the airstrip and their transmitter wasn’t that powerful.

  “Davis, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance.”

  Static.

  Neal repeated his message.

  He cursed. The Cessna’s engine fluttered in sympathy. He checked his P’s and T’s. Oil pressure was non-existent and the oil temperature was on the rise. He could almost hear the bearings shredding themselves into fine pieces. As much as he hated to admit it, he would have to put the plane down anywhere he could.

  He re-tuned the RT to the emergency frequency. Anybody who was anybody would hear him and give him first clearance and any assistance they could.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is November two three seven six two, requesting emergency assistance. Engine failure. One person on board. On a northerly heading for Davis. Approximately, forty miles south.” He released his thumb off the transmit switch on the column.

  And waited for his knight in shining armor.

  Angry clouds grumbled ahead, less than ten miles by Neal’s estimations. For a plane of his size he was too close to a possible lightning strike.

  It was senseless to continue with his current heading. Light had been muscled out of the way and only blackness lie ahead. He checked out the rear screen. It was marginally better. But even if he did turn around, where would he go?

  “November two three seven six two, this is Stanton.”

  “Good to hear from you, Stanton.” Neal’s relief was apparent. “Where are you?”

  “About ten miles away, from your information. Can you give me a fix on any landmarks?”

  Neal checked. He banked the plane twenty degrees to the left then twenty degrees to the right, to get a better look-see. Usually, the most obvious landmarks were directly beneath. He spotted a large industrial works. He referred to his northern California chart on the seat next to him.

  “Willard Oil is directly beneath me.”

  Stanton didn’t reply for a moment. Too long a moment for Neal. “November two three seven six two, change to a heading of zero-three-zero. You are cleared for a straight in approach on Runway three-seven, left.”

  Neal didn’t understand.

  “Stanton, confirm runway?”

  “Runway three-seven, left.”

  It had to be a joke. Runway three-seven didn’t exist. Runways ran from zero-one through three-six. They were numbered after the degrees on a circle. North was three hundred and sixty degrees, hence runway three-six. There wasn’t anything after three-six. It became zero-one. He hoped to Christ that it wasn’t some asshole with an RT on a power trip.

  Whether it was some joker or not, he turned onto heading zero-three-zero. With his choices limited, it didn’t matter where he came down now as long as he did in one piece. Any place was as good as another. Northern California was full of empty fields, he would settle for any if it came to it.

  He whisked out his chart again. He scanned for Stanton. It wasn’t there. Davis, Sacramento and Stockton were there and a number of others, but no Stanton. His mouth soured. What kind of psycho hands out bogus information to desperate pilots?

  “November two three seven six two, confirm you are on a heading of zero-three-zero.”

  “Zero-three-zero, Stanton.”

  “Thought we lost you for a moment.”

  “No such luck,” Neal said with a hollow laugh. “Couldn’t find you on my charts.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  The frank honesty frightened him. He wanted to ask why, but his vocal chords betrayed him. However, the air traffic controller supplied the answer.

  “We’re not licensed yet. But I didn’t think you would care.”

  “Not at all, Stanton.”

  “We’ll chat when you arrive.”

  “And it’s runway three-seven, correct?”

  “Correct. You can’t miss us. We’ll have the Christmas lights on for ya. Can you make it?”

  “With bells on.”

  Neal should have been rejoicing but sweat continued to form on his forehead and under his arms. He didn’t have that warm fuzzy feeling telling him everything was going to be A-okay. Runway three-seven did that. Stanton might not have been on his chart because they were seeking a FAA license but runway three-seven gave them credentials built on foundations of bullshit.

  Now rain was splatting off the cockpit. Each strike made a rat-a-tat-tat like bullets strafing the fuselage. More throttle had to be applied to maintain engine revs. The engine only had to last another ten minutes and he would discover the truth about Stanton.

  ***

  Neal estimated he would be overhead Stanton in seven minutes but the wind had other ideas. It tossed him like a salad. He could feel the wind lean on the plane, slowing its speed then releasing its grip only to slap him down again. The clouds got in on the act and bore down, buffeting the Cessna further. Neal had to drop three hundred feet to gain some control and let his aircraft know who was boss.

  To Stanton’s credit, they kept in touch, which was comforting. He had a friend with him every step of the way. The only problem was finding Stanton. The storm had taken all light and when Neal stared out for a visual fix, all he got was gray-washed fields.

  “How are we doing, November two three seven six two?”

  “Looking for a visual on the runway.”

  “We have the lights on. Descend to one thousand feet. We should be able to see you. Maintain your heading.”

  “Willco.” Neal did as he was told.

&
nbsp; He started to fear that he had overshot Stanton for uncharted territory. But he had other problems to worry about. His direction indicator and artificial horizon whirled like spinning tops. With the weather so bad, he had to rely on instruments. With his instruments gone, what could he rely on now?

  “November two three seven six two, we see you. It’s good to see you my friend,” the air traffic controller said.

  The warm reception gave a welcome respite from Neal’s fear, but only briefly. He looked out below and saw no runway, no lights, no nothing. He was flying blind in every sense of the word.

  “I don’t see a thing, Stanton. And I’ve lost instruments.” His voice showed renewed panic.

  “You’re directly above. We’ll talk you down. Get on a heading of zero-nine-zero.”

  Easier said than done, Neal thought, haven’t you been listening? With no instruments, he didn’t know what was ninety degrees or one hundred and ninety degrees.

  Suddenly, he remembered. He dived into his flight bag behind his seat. His hand found what he was looking for and pulled it out. He switched on the small Global Positioning Unit his wife had bought him. It was a daft little gadget she had gotten him for Christmas. One of those useless things that morons with more money than sense bought from The Sharper Image. It told you your position on the planet and the direction you were going.

  He always insisted on flying using the navigation skills taught to him. Gadgets could fail but his skills couldn’t. But Jean always insisted he took it.

  “You never know. You might need it one day,” she said.

  Well, Neal would eat his words when he got home. It wasn’t useless. He turned onto the zero-nine-zero heading.

  After what seemed an age but in actual fact was only a minute, Neal’s angel on the ground spoke. “Turn onto one-eight-zero. Cut your engine back to idle. I’ve got you on a tight circuit.”

  The Cessna took the decision out of Neal’s hands. The engine died. No second bite at the cherry, he thought. He had to make this landing count.

  Simultaneously, he turned onto his new heading, put the plane into glide descent, pulled the throttle out, leaned the engine off, and switched off the fuel pump but left the electrics on. He still needed those. He carried out his emergency procedures as per his training.

  The aircraft descended swiftly. The oppressive weather did its best to knock Neal to the ground even quicker.

  The only problem was where was he descending? He had to be only five hundred feet from the ground but he still didn’t have visual contact.

  “On my mark, I want you to turn onto a heading of two-seven-zero.” The air traffic controller paused. “Now.”

  Neal turned.

  The plane descended nicely. But still no visual contact. He peered out of his passenger window. The runway should be there. Blackness showed itself to be the only feature.

  “We’re nearly home, November two three seven six two. Turn onto heading three-seven-zero.”

  Oh, this had to be joke. There were no three hundred and seventy-degree circles. “Stanton, confirm heading?”

  “November two three seven six two, you’d better turn or you’ll miss us.”

  “But three-seven-zero? Don’t you mean zero-one-zero?”

  “Not if you want to land on runway three-seven,” the controller said agitatedly. “Now, TURN!”

  Was he an idiot? Had everything he learned been a crock? This wasn’t the time to argue. He was less than two hundred feet from the ground and without power. He could argue geometry later. He banked the aircraft.

  Neal maintained visual contact with the ground but kept glancing at his GPS for confirmation. The red, three-digit display fed back his direction.

  Three-two-zero, three-three-zero. No runway was in sight.

  Three-four-zero, three-five-zero. The gap between his ass and the ground was frighteningly close.

  Three-six-zero.

  Nothing.

  Three-seven-zero.

  Neal couldn’t believe it. His GPS flashed up the impossible direction. But as if to compound his disbelief, Stanton appeared. Three sets of runway lights sparkled before him with a huge ‘37’ constructed from hundreds of bulbs. Stanton existed. Runway three-seven existed.

  In the confusion, Neal let the impossible heading pass and his GPS indicated zero-one-zero. He dropped the handheld unit as Stanton’s runway disappeared from view. He immediately corrected his error and runway three-seven showed him the way home.

  “The runway should be right in front of you,” the controller advised.

  Neal couldn’t believe it. One second the airstrip was there, the next it was gone. It was like he peeked through a crack in a doorway. If he wasn’t positioned perfectly then he couldn’t see a thing.

  He let his questions go and guided the Cessna down. He set the flaps and made the most perfect landing of his flying career. The undercarriage kissed the asphalt and the aircraft rolled to a gentle halt.

  Although mid-afternoon, it was pitch dark. The storm had seen to that. But it wasn’t raining. He hadn’t noticed before. Immediately after runway three-seven came into view the rain had stopped. But the darkness stayed and the storm raged—just not overhead.

  In the gloom, it was impossible to see the tower, hangers, service buildings and even other aircraft. Nobody had any lights on. He could make out silhouettes of objects. It was like everything was painted the same shade of darkness.

  Neal had switched off the electrics before landing. He didn’t see why he should provide an ignition source for a fire. He flicked the master switch back on and pressed transmit on the RT.

  “Stanton Tower, this is November two three seven six two, down safe and sound thanks to you.”

  “Good to hear, November two three seven six two.”

  “I’d just like to thank you, man, for your help.”

  “No need to thank anyone. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “Can someone come out to assist? This bird is dead.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you got a phone I can use?”

  “No, sorry. Doesn’t work.”

  “Oh.” Neal found it hard to believe. “I know this might sound ungrateful. Do you have anyone who can fix me up, so I can get out of here?”

  “Yeah, I think we can rustle something up.”

  Worry trickled through Neal’s veins. No rescue vehicles were on their way. He would have thought they would be jumping all over him. He was planted on an active runway after all.

  “Do you know how long it will take?”

  “It could take forever.” The controller’s tone didn’t sound like he was exaggerating. “Why don’t you stay awhile. We need good pilots to help out around here.”

  The recovery vehicles still weren’t coming and Neal knew they never would.

  THE SUNSEEKER

  It had started with the Whistler. He had changed Paul Thompson’s life irrevocably but it was Thompson’s life to do with as he pleased and he was doing just that. Thompson knelt on the beach waiting for the sun to rise, reflecting on the events of the last two days.

  He had been an award-winning architect. He had dazzled the world with his visions, made stunning by his use of natural light. He had been the creator of the Glacier casino, a glass iceberg jutting out of the Nevada desert. He had been a lot of things but that life was been behind him now.

  It all came down to one action. If he had not left his home Friday night to buy the champagne he would not be on the beach right now.

  Thompson had clinched the commission for his latest project. As a reward, he wanted to select the champagne for the celebration he was planning for his project team. Back from the presentation, he was glad to be home indulging himself in his favorite activity, watching the sunset. After four long days in a stuffy boardroom with its bleached complexion from too many fluorescent tubes, he was ready for the natural spectacle.

  His beachfront property north of San Francisco, the Conservatory, was aptly designed for watchi
ng the sun with its large expanses of glass. The bay window stretched from one side of the property to the other providing an unhindered panoramic view of the ocean and the sky. The roof to the room was also glass so he could track the sun’s progress from high in the sky until it melted into the horizon.

  Heat radiated down from the sun and he felt his flesh tingle from its touch. He watched the sun change colors as it dissolved into the blue waters. He drank slowly from his wineglass in time with the disappearing sun. He had one more chore before his day was over.

  ***

  Thompson entered Grapevine Wine Importers where he was a regular customer. He ordered two cases of Moet & Chandon for his team and bought a Californian Chardonnay and an Italian Merlot for himself. He left the store with his two bottles; the champagne would be delivered. He made his way back to his car, on a side street away from thieves and meter maids.

  The whistling was loud. The Whistler was talented; the music carried easily on the night air. This was not whistling that could be produced by just anyone. This was music and the whistle was an instrument no different from a flute or piano. What was startling about the music was that anyone could whistle that well.

  The architect recognized the music as either classical or an operatic aria. He had heard it before but he was unable to put a name to it. It was not that the sound failed to do justice to the score but that his musical knowledge was lacking. All those who heard the Whistler broke their conversations to listen to the crystal clear music.

  As beautiful as the music sounded, its menacing nature unnerved the architect. His every step was shadowed by it. Every time he changed streets on his journey he saw fewer and fewer people but the music continued to pursue, as did the Whistler. He looked to locate the Whistler but never found the source of the music. The music intensified in harmony and clarity with each street, ricocheting off the walls of the imposing buildings like a pinball. The proximity of the sound closed upon him with every step. He turned onto the deserted street a little way from the alley where his car stood. He increased the pace of his walk; the whistling matched it and exceeded it.