were glimpsed, though no more crashed or even came near the town. The mood of the townspeople was not great, as the pollution bursting into the air had blackened the sun, leaving only a dull light to filter through.
Around ten, everyone got quite a shock; the contingent of men who had gone to inspect the catastrophe at Brendan’s Ferry returned to Silvertown with a survivor—not someone from the town, many of whom had escaped injury—but an actual passenger of the plane that had crashed.
He was bundled in blankets and pressure cuffs to keep his temperature and blood pressure up, and Lloyd Willis, who was one of the volunteer paramedics, had inserted a heparin lock to the man’s wrist to administer painkillers and saline.
The hapless fellow, whose name was Stephen Moore, had been on his way to Chicago to sign a deal to distribute three thousand pinball machines to mom-and-pop restaurants in the Philippines. Apparently, about twenty minutes into the flight the oxygen masks dropped down for no reason. Then, about fifteen minutes after that, the windows all filmed over with some sort of viscous, oily substance, which first became opaque, then hardened. And then …
… The windows blinked .
After that, there was a lot of screaming, and running around; prayers were said. No one got food service. The pilots were in a lather just trying to manage some sort of controlled descent—difficult, particularly when the windshield dissolved, and the cockpit became what was, for all practical purposes, nostrils.
Moore, for his part, was a passenger of the slightly paranoid variety, and so had at the first sign of weirdness locked himself in the restroom at the rear of the plane (having once read in a comic book that that was the safest place to be in an air catastrophe); as it turned out, this was a good call—as the transformations continued, he became securely (if unwillingly) encased in what could charitably be described as a rectum, but not before catching a glimpse of the only thing odder than a jetliner-turned-dragon at thirty-thousand feet—a second jetliner-turned-dragon, with better developed lungs and an attitude.
The rest was flames, and falling, and oblivion.
“Man,” said Hjerald. “I hope you ask for a refund.”
Moore looked up and sighed. “I can’t,” he said, sighing again. “Nonrefundable tickets.”
“Aw, dude,” said Hjerald.
O O O
It was at about the same time that the men brought back the news from Brendan’s Ferry that Blaine and Helen McMillan quit canvassing the neighborhood searching for Kevin. They had begun by asking door to door (an uncomfortable situation, particularly when Helen asked Meredith to let them know if she saw any sign of him—truth to tell, there were signs of him all over her house, but they were all either being used, or were being saved for later, and so she had to nod in sympathy and turn them away); that was two days ago. After the events of yesterday, everyone else had been distracted, and the only people who could or would relate to their particular dilemma and fears were the Jensens, the Howards, and the Burtons, who were all out searching for missing children of their own.
Meredith decided Blaine gave up searching because he snapped; it had already been a red-letter week, and they were only on Wednesday. Helen stopped looking because the rusty Model A Ford Blaine and Kevin had been restoring turned into a griffin and ate her.
You know, thinking on it, Meredith considered, it might have been the sight of his wife’s eviscerated remains strewn across the lawn and roof of the house that did Blaine in. It certainly wouldn’t have helped. But then, these are the sort of things you risk when you buy an American car .
O O O
As much literally as figuratively, Soame’s had become the most conspicuous gathering place in town; outside of the school which, oddly enough, had been colonized overnight by bats (at least, everyone in town fervently hoped they were bats),
Around ten, everyone got quite a shock; the contingent of men who had gone to inspect the catastrophe at Brendan’s Ferry returned to Silvertown with a survivor—not someone from the town, many of whom had escaped injury—but an actual passenger of the plane that had crashed.
He was bundled in blankets and pressure cuffs to keep his temperature and blood pressure up, and Lloyd Willis, who was one of the volunteer paramedics, had inserted a heparin lock to the man’s wrist to administer painkillers and saline.
The hapless fellow, whose name was Stephen Moore, had been on his way to Chicago to sign a deal to distribute three thousand pinball machines to mom-and-pop restaurants in the Philippines. Apparently, about twenty minutes into the flight the oxygen masks dropped down for no reason. Then, about fifteen minutes after that, the windows all filmed over with some sort of viscous, oily substance, which first became opaque, then hardened. And then …
… The windows blinked .
After that, there was a lot of screaming, and running around; prayers were said. No one got food service. The pilots were in a lather just trying to manage some sort of controlled descent—difficult, particularly when the windshield dissolved, and the cockpit became what was, for all practical purposes, nostrils.
Moore, for his part, was a passenger of the slightly paranoid variety, and so had at the first sign of weirdness locked himself in the restroom at the rear of the plane (having once read in a comic book that that was the safest place to be in an air catastrophe); as it turned out, this was a good call—as the transformations continued, he became securely (if unwillingly) encased in what could charitably be described as a rectum, but not before catching a glimpse of the only thing odder than a jetliner-turned-dragon at thirty-thousand feet—a second jetliner-turned-dragon, with better developed lungs and an attitude.
The rest was flames, and falling, and oblivion.
“Man,” said Hjerald. “I hope you ask for a refund.”
Moore looked up and sighed. “I can’t,” he said, sighing again. “Nonrefundable tickets.”
“Aw, dude,” said Hjerald.
O O O
It was at about the same time that the men brought back the news from Brendan’s Ferry that Blaine and Helen McMillan quit canvassing the neighborhood searching for Kevin. They had begun by asking door to door (an uncomfortable situation, particularly when Helen asked Meredith to let them know if she saw any sign of him—truth to tell, there were signs of him all over her house, but they were all either being used, or were being saved for later, and so she had to nod in sympathy and turn them away); that was two days ago. After the events of yesterday, everyone else had been distracted, and the only people who could or would relate to their particular dilemma and fears were the Jensens, the Howards, and the Burtons, who were all out searching for missing children of their own.
Meredith decided Blaine gave up searching because he snapped; it had already been a red-letter week, and they were only on Wednesday. Helen stopped looking because the rusty Model A Ford Blaine and Kevin had been restoring turned into a griffin and ate her.
You know, thinking on it, Meredith considered, it might have been the sight of his wife’s eviscerated remains strewn across the lawn and roof of the house that did Blaine in. It certainly wouldn’t have helped. But then, these are the sort of things you risk when you buy an American car .
O O O
As much literally as figuratively, Soame’s had become the most conspicuous gathering place in town; outside of the school which, oddly enough, had been colonized overnight by bats (at least, everyone in town fervently hoped they were bats),
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