Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path Page 22

  Unable to stop himself, the bear was plucked from the desk and sent spinning through the air.

  ‘Whoa!’ Angelo cried, rushing forward.

  But the gale was too fierce, Ted slipped through the American's fingers and was hurled out of the plane.

  ‘Hell!’ Angelo yelled, peering out of the yawning hole.

  ‘Hey, how ‘bout that?’

  Clutching hold of a sharp piece of ripped metal, just outside the rent, Ted had managed to save himself. But the blistering, flak-filled air tore at him and, as his paws gradually lost their grip, he knew he would soon be ripped to shreds in the bomber's propellers when he fell.

  Oily black smoke stung Angelo's eyes as he leaned recklessly out of the fissure and dragged Ted back inside the aircraft.

  This guy must have some luck,’ he yelled to the waist gunners, waving the bear at them, ‘he snagged on the fuselage.’

  Wedging Ted into the gap between the radio and the inside of the plane, he tweaked his furry cheek, saying, ‘You stay put from here on in.’

  When the man's eyes left him, the bear shook his head and let out a yelping groan. 'That was too close,’ he gulped.

  The heavens were black as ink now. Five more Fortresses succumbed to the anti-aircraft guns, their raging fires bursting briefly through the smoky darkness as they plunged downward.

  ‘I never been on no mission like this,’ Angelo muttered. ‘What gives here, Captain?’

  The B-17 lurched as another shell exploded close by and the wings were peppered with holes. A pall of smoke blew through the gun ports and, for a hideously long time, no one in the bomb bay could open their eyes.

  Somewhere ahead another bomber caught fire and, when its fuel tank ignited, the flash of its demise lit up the whole fume-choked sky.

  Flaming rags of metal spat towards The Kismet, and as Frank dared to brave the ghastly spectacle, he saw a piece of the aircraft's tail go rocketing past his window, with its gunner still screaming inside.

  The clamour of two more B-17s spiralling out of control resounded through Frank's head and he curled into a ball, unable to move a muscle.

  As The Kismet ploughed through the dense, violent bursts, Angelo held grimly to the desk, rocking with the turbulent motion of the aircraft.

  Above the din of the rupturing shells, the sky was filled with the uproar of dying engines as yet more fortresses flared with ghastly brilliance. Flying blind through the blanketing smoke, two bombers collided with one another and The Kismet pitched alarmingly as she flew straight through the outskirts of the ensuing holocaust.

  Ravaging flames scorched the olive livery and the picture of the woman painted on the nose bubbled and blistered.

  Within the aircraft, a fireball came blasting through the gun ports and roared the length of the bomb bay as the crew buried their faces in their gloved hands until it rumbled past, thundering towards the tail.

  Hearing the noise, Frank turned and his vision was filled by the inferno blasting straight for him.

  ‘Cover your face!’ Angelo bawled.

  But all Frank could do was stare. The tremendous heat burned his skin and his eyebrows smouldered but he was too petrified to save himself.

  And then it was over, with only a foot to spare before the furnace enveloped him, it was gone, dissipating into the oxygen-starved air and leaving only a reek of burning fuel and smoke in its wake.

  Frank slumped against the window, too frightened to be relieved.

  ‘No way can we survive this,’ the captain murmured, the view from the flight deck a swirling chaos of black fog. ‘If the flak don't get us, one of our own Forts will.’

  Pressing his throat-mike he barked to Angelo, ‘What does the lead plane say? This is a coffin trip.’

  ‘Don't know which is the lead plane!’ the radio operator called back. ‘Sweet Sue was torched ten minutes ago, then Naughty Katy was grilled. All I'm gettin’ is static and lotsa screamin’.’

  Angelo adjusted the dials, searching for a voice in the tortured ether, but his ears heard nothing. Glancing up at Daniel's bear, he was suddenly horrified to discover that the toy had been sliced to ribbons by a piece of flying shrapnel. Only a scrap of grey fur and a quantity of tattered stuffing was left on the hook and the lieutenant trembled at what this omen portended.

  ‘Knew it would be today,’ he whispered, fatally.

  Holding his head in his hands, Angelo waited for the end to come. Then, very faintly a warbling voice spoke in his ear and the airman sprang up hopefully.

  ‘Mission aborted!’ he hollered into the mike. The Helldragon's in charge now—she's tellin’ everyone to turn about. Get this crate outta here!’

  Slowly, the formation veered around, suffering four more casualties as they blindly made the manoeuvre within the impenetrable fumes.

  Presently, glimmers of daylight began to appear ahead as the shells fell behind them and, with grateful sighs from all her crew, The Kismet sailed out of the infernal, fiery clouds and into clear skies.

  ‘How many did we lose?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Reports just coming in,’ Angelo replied, ‘thirty-seven B-17s missing.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Let's just hope them Nazi bandits don't fancy us as dessert,’ the bombardier said grimly.

  Crouching in the tail section, Frank rocked backwards and forwards, tears streaming down his face and freezing before they splashed on to the floor. Never in his entire life had he been so terrified and he knew nothing would ever compel him to board another aircraft. They could court martial him or throw him in the slammer—he didn't care. The horrific memories of this raid would plague him for the rest of his life. No, he was going to make sure that he would never fly on another mission again.

  ‘Don't feel right goin’ home with all these bombs still in place,’ Angelo declared, ‘we really fouled up this time.’

  ‘Least we didn't buy the farm,’ Jimmy Resnick answered. ‘Anyone interested to know how cold it is out there? It's reading sixty-five below.’

  'That dial only goes down to sixty-five!’ Angelo shouted back.

  ‘What do you expect at twenty-eight thousand feet?’

  Jammed beside the radio, Ted looked up at Angelo and a faint smile appeared on the bear's face. They might be returning with their tails between their legs but at least the crew were still alive.

  ‘Enjoy this moment while you can, Voodini,’ the bear thought to himself, ‘you got a big day ahead of you tomorrow, that's when the real trial begins. Don't you worry none, you got me with you this time.’

  Ted's musings were cut short as he noticed a startling change come over the radio operator's face.

  Angelo coughed into the air mask and his breathing became increasingly laboured.

  ‘Goddamn sup—supply,’ he gagged, reaching for the auxiliary oxygen bottle. But before he could make the switch, Angelo's eyes bulged and he collapsed, senseless, against the table.

  In bewildered distress, Ted saw the other airmen fighting for breath and one by one they blacked out, dropping to the floor of the bomber.

  ‘Jeezus!’ the bear cried, feverishly trying to dislodge himself from beside the radio. What in sam hell's goin’ on? This ain't right—it didn't happen—I was there!’

  Hopping over the desk, he knelt beside Angelo's head and wrenched the air mask from his face.

  ‘Line's damaged,’ he said, ‘they been suckin’ in lungfuls of fumes. He'll never be able to breathe without an air line this high up, none of them will.’

  Slapping the airman's cheek, Ted yelled, ‘Don't flake out on me, pal! Hang in there. Wake up, Signorelli! Wake up!’

  But Angelo did not move and at that moment the bear was thrown from the table as the bomber dipped and the drone of the engines became a dreadful whine.

  The captain, too?’ Ted shrieked, scrambling to his stumpy feet and hurrying to the flight deck. ‘Oh Lord! This ain't happenin’! Tell me it ain't!’

  Over the radio, the anxious voice of the lead p
lane called to The Kismet as it nose-dived from the rest of the group, but the Helldragon received no answer.

  In the cockpit, Ted leaped over the slumped body of the flight engineer and jumped on to the pilot's lap, ripping their masks from them as he went.

  The Flying Fortress was plunging downwards now, screaming through the clouds as it hurled headlong to destruction.

  ‘Come on, Resnick!’ Ted screeched. ‘You gotta pull her outta this dive!’

  Leaping across the co-pilot, the bear tried to rouse him too, but it was no use. The whine of the engines was unbearable and the bomber shuddered perilously. White rushing cloud smothered the windows and, staring helplessly at the altimeter as it jerked ever downwards, Ted reached for the steering column.

  Growling in anguish, the bear pulled as hard as his paws could manage, but his puny strength was no match for the colossal forces which now controlled the aircraft.

  ‘It didn't end this way!’ he raged. These men survived this mission. I oughta know!’

  The gauge was reading fourteen thousand feet and the bear's impotent shrieks were drowned by the blaring noise of the plane's breakneck descent.

  ‘Help me!’ Ted howled, throwing his head back and screaming until the fur stretched around his mouth. ‘It can't finish like this! Help me! Pleeeaaaase!’

  ‘Don't grovel, Edward,’ a stern female voice suddenly commanded, ‘it's quite out of character and doesn't sit well.’

  Goggling in disbelief, the bear whipped around and let out a mad, joyous laugh.

  Sitting, where only a moment ago the unconscious body of Captain Resnick had sat, and looking exceedingly bizarre dressed in his flying suit, flak jacket, Mae West and parachute—was Miss Ursula Webster.

  Before Ted could say anything, he jumped in surprise as the co-pilot's knee gave an unexpected jerk and, gazing upwards, he found that he was staring into the white-powdered visage of Miss Veronica, whose charcoal eyebrows had been drawn higher than ever.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she giggled.

  ‘Coooeee!’ called a third voice. ‘Isn't it a lovely day for March—most bracing? I do hope there won't be any rain later.’

  Ted stared past the chalk-faced co-pilot to where the flight engineer was clicking a pair of knitting needles.

  ‘Do excuse me’ Miss Celandine whistled through her buck teeth, ‘I know I should offer you my hand in greeting but I'm afraid I simply cannot put this down. Too important, Ursula says. Isn't that lovely—to do something important again? Fancy!’

  The walnut-faced woman gave a merry chortle as she diverted her attention back to her knitting and the bemused bear stared at Miss Ursula incredulously.

  ‘Get that ridiculous look off your face,’ she told him, You do want our help, I trust?’

  ‘B... bbb... sure,’ he gabbled.

  ‘Oh, Ursula!’ her co-pilot twittered, gazing with pure delight at the instruments and looking even more absurd in the flying outfit than she did. ‘Isn't it splendid? Let me press a button, oh do! Just a teeny one.’

  ‘Veronica!’ the other sharply rapped. ‘Stop that foolishness at once. I need your assistance to pull us out of this hazard. Now, copy my actions exactly.’

  Taking hold of the steering column, Miss Ursula began to drag it back and obeying her sister, Miss Veronica did the same.

  ‘If you want to make yourself useful,’ the white-haired lady told Ted, ‘I think you had better remove all the masks from the rest of the crew. If it's your intention that they should live, that is—we can't do everything for you, Edward.’

  Not waiting to answer, the bear leaped from Miss Veronica's lap, tripped over Miss Celandine's ball of dark green and silver wool, much to her tittering amusement, and obediently bounded through the bomb bay, hauling the air masks from his comrades.

  Back in the flight deck, the two elderly lady pilots gradually hauled the Flying Fortress out of its momentous dive and the plane gently levelled out.

  'A fraction over a thousand feet,’ Miss Ursula primly observed, ‘they shall be able to breathe quite normally when they come round.’

  ‘Oh, Ursula!’ her raven-haired sister beamed, her eyes shining. That was fun, may we do it again? Just once? I did enjoy it so.’

  ‘Patience, Veronica,’ came the instant rebuke, ‘must I send you back?’

  The co-pilot wriggled in her seat and folded her arms sulkily as she stuck out her garishly-daubed bottom lip.

  Glancing up from her knitting, Miss Celandine cooed with relish. ‘Is the deadly, awful danger over?’ she asked salaciously.

  ‘For the moment,’ her sister replied, ‘but now I would speak with Edward. Where is he? Has he not finished that simplest of tasks?’

  Puffing, the bear returned to the flight deck, nimbly avoiding the length of wool that the peculiar flight engineer had negligently allowed to stretch across his path.

  Miss Celandine pulled a disappointed face, then scratched her straw-coloured hair with one of the needles.

  ‘I gotta hand it to ya!’ Ted thanked the Webster sisters. ‘You dames really know how to get a guy out of a jam!’

  Miss Ursula turned an imperious, oddly daunting face on him. Half closing her near translucent eyelids, she contemplated the small, grubby bear, then her thin mouth curled into a ghostly smile.

  ‘Well, Edward,’ she uttered in a crisp, businesslike tone, ‘I imagine that, for you, these years of waiting have been all too long.’

  Ted scrabbled up on to the instrument panel and sat down before answering. There were times when I thought I was gonna go nuts cooped up in that glass box,’ he agreed. ‘It ain't no picnic down in that room you know—you got a lot o’ kooky stuff in there. You listen to what I'm sayin’ and chuck it out.’

  ‘Oh, it wouldn't be safe to throw anything away,’ Miss Veronica piped up, “would it, Ursula?’

  Her sister shot her a warning glance, then let go of the controls and spoke earnestly to the bear.

  ‘A wearisome wait you have had since first our bargain was made,’ she said.

  'Too long,’ Ted replied, ‘When you made that promise I never figured it would take for ever.’

  ‘You were grateful enough at the time, as I recall, only too eager to comply. I stated from the beginning that it would not be accomplished overnight, an endeavour such as ours cannot be rushed into.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ the bear muttered, ‘just hated kickin’ my heels fer fifty years that's all. Oh yeah, what's the idea putting me back too early? I never said anything ‘bout that—it hasn't been no barrel of jollies.’

  Lifting her wrinkled face from her knitting, Miss Celandine looked at him in astonishment. ‘But you had to go that far,’ she cried indignantly, ‘didn't he, Ursula? How else could it have worked? You really are an awful silly sometimes, Mr Edward.’

  ‘What's the pickled munchkin squawking about now?’ Ted asked.

  Miss Ursula's smile widened and her mottled teeth appeared below her thin lips.

  ‘For once Celandine is speaking perfect sense,’ she blithely told him. 'Tut, tut, Edward, can't you see? We knew all the time that you were going to go back early, it wouldn't have done at all for you to return at the point just before you died, now would it?’

  Ted's forehead puckered into a frown. ‘Run that by me again,’ he said, beginning to feel uneasy.

  Putting her knitting down for the briefest of moments, Miss Celandine leaned forward until her plaited hair dragged over the floor and gave a childishly smug snigger.

  'This is where you were meant to perish,’ she clucked, ‘you were supposed to die in the crash along with all the others.’

  Miss Ursula nodded briskly. 'That was the original design of your destiny, but because of the honour you paid us with the dedication of this vessel and the libations you gave us, we decided to intervene—just once more. So, we permitted you, in your present form, to return to this hazard and save yourself and the rest of the crew. You were here to accomplish it then, and now you have done it again.’


  Ted reeled backwards. ‘I never knew,’ he whispered, ‘I always thought we came outta this mission on our own. Why'd you never tell me this before?’

  ‘Personally,’ Miss Celandine chirruped, harking back to the libations, ‘I was the only one who liked the beer, Ursula and Veronica had no taste for it, did you, dears?’

  ‘And so,’ Miss Ursula said firmly, ‘our part of the bargain has been kept, has it not?’

  “Wh... what do you mean?’

  ‘We promised that you could save yourself, Edward—this you have just done. We have given you all the assistance we are willing to give, one chance was all you asked for and that is what you have had. Don't be greedy and ask for more.’

  ‘Refusal might cause offence,’ gurgled Miss Veronica, who was busily trying to glimpse her reflection in the window.

  His head still spinning from what he had learned, Ted quickly grew angry.

  ‘Hold on!’ he cried. That ain't fair, you tricked me!’

  ‘Go on!’ Miss Celandine urged excitedly. ‘Say it! How fickle we are—everyone does!’

  ‘Can't you muzzle that one?’ he snarled. ‘You're nothin’ but a pack of lyin’, cheatin’, chisellin’ weasels.’

  ‘Have a care,’ Miss Ursula cautioned, ‘if you do not curb your tongue then we will see to it that the ones you really want to save are killed again.’

  Ted looked at her hopefully. ‘D’you mean there's still a chance?’ he cried. ‘I thought you was welchin’.’

  ‘Oh, there's always a slight possibility for threads to slip from the tapestry,’ she replied, ‘it would never be entertaining if there was no prospect of that.’

  ‘I adore it when a stitch always goes astray,’ Miss Celandine broke in, ‘sometimes I drop them just to see what’ll happen.’

  ‘She is talking about stitches?’ Ted asked wryly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Miss Ursula concurred, ‘that really is the correct description of you, Edward, a dropped stitch in the fabric of our weaving. You are a stitch in time, and you know what they can do. But you may not count on our help again, the ordeals that lie before you must be resolved on your own merit. The lives of those you hold dear depend solely on how sharp your wits are.’