DEAD BODIES

It was a perfect night except for the dead bodies they were flying. Daryl and his older brother, Mike, preflighted the small, twin-engine Piper by flashlight while the ramp guys loaded the plane. Mike flew freight around Oregon, and sometimes, if Daryl didn’t have much homework, he would go along.

Once the ramp guys gave the all clear, Daryl taxied the plane onto the runway. Turning into the slight headwind, he pushed the throttles forward and, after a short run, lifted off.

Bodies. Dead bodies. Daryl hated flying corpses. It would be okay if they were in coffins, but coffins were too heavy and bulky for a small plane. So the dead people were zipped into body bags and piled right behind the pilots. Usually Daryl and his brother flew boxes and mail, but when people died away from home, they had to fly them back to be buried.

Mike closed his eyes and leaned back. There was a moan from one of the bags. This was what Daryl hated most about the bodies. He knew they were dead, but they were always releasing their gases. Mike said it was normal, but on a dark night like this, when there was no moon, it gave Daryl the willies.

It wouldn’t be so scary during the daytime. No, scratch that, it would still be scary, just not as bad. At night it was just plain creepy. Shaking uncontrollably, Daryl leveled out and put the plane on autopilot.  Just then there was a noise behind him like a loud, locker room fart. Daryl looked at his brother and gave an uncomfortable snicker. But Mike was already asleep, a curious smile on his face.

Next month, when Daryl turned sixteen, he would be able to solo. If he didn’t die from a heart attack tonight. Chalk me up as one more dead body on this flight, he thought morbidly.

Daryl swallowed to hold back his fear and nausea. He already had hundreds of hours of flying time, thanks to his brother. Besides, this was usually the best part of the flight. He loved the soft, red glow of the dark cockpit. The radio was quiet, and Daryl listened to the rhythmic ticking of the flight instruments. And farting. Small towns passed underneath them, lit up like Christmas.

There was a soft moan, more like a shriek. Daryl turned around, peering into the dark cargo hold. He could have sworn one of the bags moved. Had it shifted? Flying on, shaking with fear, he willed himself to face forward. Daryl wanted to wake Mike, but he didn’t want to be a sissy. He wasn’t afraid of no ghosts.

Another moan. Another fart. Daryl didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He had to stop freaking himself out. Rrriiipp. Daryl’s eyes widened. It sounded like a zipper, slowly, ever so slowly unzipping. Or a body ripping out of its clothes. Daryl started whistling to himself, just to break the silence. His whistle sounded more like a dying bird on its last peep.

Daryl’s chair moved, rocking on its frame. It was like an unseen hand was shaking it. But there was no turbulence – the flight was smooth. Wasn’t it?  The chair shook again, shuddering, as if something or someone was trying to rip it out of the brackets. Daryl held his breath.

Reading the map, tuning the radio, Daryl willed himself to concentrate on flying the airplane. Breathe. Just. Breathe. But the map was quivering in his hand and he couldn’t make out the frequencies he needed. Turning the light on would wreck his night vision, but it was so tempting.

Mike slept on, blissfully unaware that they were on the cargo flight from hell. Daryl was sweating profusely. Oh, God, did something just stroke his hair ever so lightly? Aaagh. It did, it felt like something just stroked his hair. Daryl swatted at his head.

Looking up, reflected in the cockpit window, a ghostly hand hovered above him. Daryl closed his eyes tightly, moaning like the bodies. He shook his head hard, and tried to make the image in the window go away. He was hallucinating. That was it. His breath was coming in short gasps. He needed to wake Mike up.

Cracking one eye, he looked into the window. The hand was gone. His breath came out in a loud whoosh and he rocked back and forth in his chair like a crazy person. Soaked with sweat, Daryl forced himself to calm down. Big, deep breaths. There. That was better. They flew on into the night.

Something tapped him on the shoulder. Daryl squealed and jumped so hard he hit his head on the roof and knocked the plane off autopilot. The plane hurtled toward the earth as a girl’s screams reverberated in his ears. There was no way out; there was no place to run.

Startled, Mike woke up and grabbed the yoke as the plane nose-dived toward the ground. The girl was still screaming. His brother Mike was smiling. No, Mike was laughing. And the screaming just got louder. Now a body was coming out of the top bag. Daryl’s gasped in mid-scream. He grabbed his chest. The body looked just like Mike’s friend Ray.

Daryl’s eyes bulged. His mouth hung open. What? Ray was dead? But Daryl had just seen him last week, loading cargo. Ray couldn’t be dead.

Then Mike and Ray were both laughing. Ray stroked Daryl’s hair and shook his chair. And moaned, and farted. Loudly.

It was a joke. A stupid prank. Mike’s buddies must have zipped Ray into a clean body bag and piled him on top. Daryl pummeled Mike and Ray as hard as he could, and they laughed even harder.

Daryl finally smiled. Just wait, he thought, I will get even.