Flaming Zeppelins by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

ship rise, propel it forward with full throttle.
    â€œGib eet more steam,” he called through the command tube, trying to shape his words carefully, so his heavy German accent would not be misunderstood. “Gib eet more steam. Power ees dying. Ve are losing altitude.”
    In the steam room the workers struggled valiantly with coal scoops and chunks of wood, tossed them into the great oven. The heat was unbearable. Steam hissed. Motors hummed. Men groaned. The ship moved slightly faster, rose gradually.
    A biplane buzzed the bridge. William saw it as it passed. A moment later it turned in the darkness, came back. It fired a shot that blew out a fragment of the glass. Cold air embraced William, the blast nearly knocked him down. He turned, could see the plane’s shape, flying fast toward him.
    In that moment he knew there was no time to do anything, knew what was about to occur. His last thought was not of God, but of his wife Elizabeth, and his children, especially his favorite child, his little boy Eddie.
    Then a bullet spat from the biplane, zipped through the already destroyed window, caught Rickenbacher in the throat, opening a wound that looked like two rose petals falling apart. He fell face forward against the control console, blood rushing over the gears and dials.
    Before William’s corpse fell against the panel, the biplane’s pilot realized he was in trouble. In getting close to the zeppelin’s bridge, he had not allowed himself enough time to turn. He didn’t even pretend to work the control stick. The pilot threw his hands over his eyes as the plane struck the command deck, knocked off the propeller, and was driven into the side of the zeppelin like a dart. The front of the plane rubbed William’s body into a red smear. Fuel dripped from the damaged plane, trailed into the night air. Some of it dripped along the floor of the command deck, ran toward the door, slipped under the crack, fled along the corridor, was absorbed by the carpet.
    When the plane struck the zeppelin, there was such a jerk, on the promenade, Captain Jack was tossed forward. He caught the rail, and just when it looked as if he would regain his balance, the zeppelin lurched once more, and Captain Jack went over the side and was silently swallowed by darkness.
    Hickok tried to grab him as he went, but it was too late. The zeppelin tilted dramatically. All the defenders were tossed about. They struggled valiantly to hang on, grabbing at the rail, scratching at the promenade deck with their nails.
    Buntline felt himself flying forward, toward the broken window on the main deck. He knew he was a goner. Through the gap in the glass he went, out into blackness. But just when he was trying to remember the Lord’s prayer and decide if there was time to say it before he was splattered all over the Pacific, his jacket collar was snagged, and he was jerked inside, tossed on the floor.
    Buntline looked up to see the creature looking down on him with a solemn expression.
    â€œThanks, old boy,” Buntline said. “You’re peachy by me.”
    Frankenstein’s creation did not reply.
    In Cody’s cabin, the collision of the plane hurled his head off its perch on the dresser. Had it not hit Goober in the side of the head, knocking him down, it might have smashed against the wall.
    The jar lay on its side, the liquid in it sloshing. Cody yelled through the tube. “Get me up. Get me out in the open where I can die like a man.”
    Goober, a knot forming on his head, put one hand to his wound, got his feet under him. He picked up Cody’s head, tucked it under his arm, darted out into the slanting hallway.
    â€œCheck the bridge,” Cody said.
    Goober rushed forward, his head feeling as if it were giving birth to a child. When he reached the hallway that led to the bridge, he could smell the fuel from the Japanese plane. He hustled along, feeling colder as he went.
    When he reached the bridge, he