itself was down an overgrown road, one that had long ago lost its paved surface; it forlornly snaked away into the undergrowth. The recent rains had left shallow streams here and there, small rivers that crossed the road at low points and a couple of times made the rear tires of my car spin in an uncertain manner.
It would be a lonely place to get stuck, I decided. At long last the airfield itself came into view. It was quite dark now, but there were streetlights on out on the empty stretch of parking lot. From a distance, and in the poor illumination, it looked remarkably like one would expect an intact airfield to look. There were hangers and a wide expanse of tarmac stretching into the distance, all dominated by a large central building with an observation tower. The odd thing was, the place could have leaped to life from a brochure printed about 45 years or so before. The architecture was probably cutting edge in 1962; now it was a quaint relic.
The illusion of timelessness fell apart as I drew closer, and I began to see the signs of disuse everywhere. Thick clumps of weed stuck up through the cracked tarmac where nature had patiently worn holes in the thick landing surface. There were gaps in the sides of some of the hangers where the wind had carried away pieces of the tin sheeting. Still there were other tracks through the grass leading up to the place. The ground was littered with empty fast food containers and soda cans—signs that people had been here recently.
I pulled up near what had once been the baggage claim area, and got out of the car. The main building was a smaller version of the all-in-one terminal I had visited earlier at the present-day Bessemer Airport. Double doors greeted me. They yawned open to the area where people would have, long ago, awaited departures and arrivals. The control tower was built right on top of the structure.
Twin arcs in the thick dust showed that the double doors had been forced open quite recently. The doors had once been locked securely; a chain looped between the double door handles was still shiny at the point where it had been pinched in half with bolt cutters. I wasn’t alone out here, I realized, and in all likelihood, whoever was in the building had observed my approach from the tower. I pulled my .45 and backed away slowly.
I heard a stealthy footstep on some stairs somewhere in the dark interior. I ducked back around the side of the building and waited for them to come out. Then, something I didn’t expect happened. I heard the creak of a door on the other side of the building. Cursing the fluke of biology that gives a man a back and no eyes back there to keep tabs on things, I spun and brought my gun up. I faintly heard quick footfalls receding. Whoever had been inside the building was running away over the tarmac.
Why would they wait until I made it all the way up here to run away, I wondered. And why run across the tarmac, where they would be the most visible? I stepped out to the corner and watched the figure recede. I had known from the footfalls it wasn’t Mary. I saw the back of a man in a running suit, veering towards the woods alongside the landing strip. Then I heard gunfire.
Pop, pop, pop. The sound of a pistol, back off to the other side of the building. Surely no one was firing at the running man. With a pistol, it would have been an impossible shot. Maybe there’s more than one person, and they’re shooting at each other. As if to confirm my thoughts, there was immediately a more sullen report; The low slap, slap of someone double-tapping a bigger gun, maybe a .45 like my own.
I worked my way around to the other side of the building and was greeted by the stutter of automatic weapons fire. I had heard that sound before, in the military. The grating rip of an MP5 sounded, and this time metal on a building nearby rang when a rapid burst of bullets tore into it. I hit the ground. It was getting hot out there, and it might get a lot hotter.
It would be a lonely place to get stuck, I decided. At long last the airfield itself came into view. It was quite dark now, but there were streetlights on out on the empty stretch of parking lot. From a distance, and in the poor illumination, it looked remarkably like one would expect an intact airfield to look. There were hangers and a wide expanse of tarmac stretching into the distance, all dominated by a large central building with an observation tower. The odd thing was, the place could have leaped to life from a brochure printed about 45 years or so before. The architecture was probably cutting edge in 1962; now it was a quaint relic.
The illusion of timelessness fell apart as I drew closer, and I began to see the signs of disuse everywhere. Thick clumps of weed stuck up through the cracked tarmac where nature had patiently worn holes in the thick landing surface. There were gaps in the sides of some of the hangers where the wind had carried away pieces of the tin sheeting. Still there were other tracks through the grass leading up to the place. The ground was littered with empty fast food containers and soda cans—signs that people had been here recently.
I pulled up near what had once been the baggage claim area, and got out of the car. The main building was a smaller version of the all-in-one terminal I had visited earlier at the present-day Bessemer Airport. Double doors greeted me. They yawned open to the area where people would have, long ago, awaited departures and arrivals. The control tower was built right on top of the structure.
Twin arcs in the thick dust showed that the double doors had been forced open quite recently. The doors had once been locked securely; a chain looped between the double door handles was still shiny at the point where it had been pinched in half with bolt cutters. I wasn’t alone out here, I realized, and in all likelihood, whoever was in the building had observed my approach from the tower. I pulled my .45 and backed away slowly.
I heard a stealthy footstep on some stairs somewhere in the dark interior. I ducked back around the side of the building and waited for them to come out. Then, something I didn’t expect happened. I heard the creak of a door on the other side of the building. Cursing the fluke of biology that gives a man a back and no eyes back there to keep tabs on things, I spun and brought my gun up. I faintly heard quick footfalls receding. Whoever had been inside the building was running away over the tarmac.
Why would they wait until I made it all the way up here to run away, I wondered. And why run across the tarmac, where they would be the most visible? I stepped out to the corner and watched the figure recede. I had known from the footfalls it wasn’t Mary. I saw the back of a man in a running suit, veering towards the woods alongside the landing strip. Then I heard gunfire.
Pop, pop, pop. The sound of a pistol, back off to the other side of the building. Surely no one was firing at the running man. With a pistol, it would have been an impossible shot. Maybe there’s more than one person, and they’re shooting at each other. As if to confirm my thoughts, there was immediately a more sullen report; The low slap, slap of someone double-tapping a bigger gun, maybe a .45 like my own.
I worked my way around to the other side of the building and was greeted by the stutter of automatic weapons fire. I had heard that sound before, in the military. The grating rip of an MP5 sounded, and this time metal on a building nearby rang when a rapid burst of bullets tore into it. I hit the ground. It was getting hot out there, and it might get a lot hotter.
Similar Books
