Page 8 of Unnatural Death

“I guess the day I’m not spry enough to do this anymore is when I retire on a nice beach somewhere,” I comment.

“That will be when hell freezes over.” Lucy settles into the right seat.

“With climate change it might.”

CHAPTER 4

PUTTING ON FOUR-POINT harnesses, Lucy and I leave our doors open for now. The sun is hot through plexiglass, the breeze almost chilly, and it’s my favorite weather. I was looking forward to a bike ride with Benton at the end of the day. While getting dressed early this morning, we fantasized about coming home at a decent hour for once.

We talked about getting in a ten-mile round trip along the Potomac River. Maybe afterward we’d have drinks and cook out on the grill, inviting Lucy, Marino, my sister, Dorothy. But I already know none of that’s going to happen. Benton and I have lived a lifetime of interrupted plans and broken promises. We’re used to it, as much as that’s possible.

“… Seat belts on, flight controls A-okay …” Lucy is going through the Doomsday Bird’s extensive preflight checklist as Fabian emerges from the bay. He casts longing glances in this direction, headed to the refrigerated semi-trailer, big and shiny white in the sun.

Our Biosafety Level 4 REMOTE autopsy facility is parked out of the way against the back fence. He’ll check that the generator’s working fine and full of propane. He’ll wash down and disinfect the interior before anything else happens. He’ll make sure that all necessary supplies are there.

“… Throttles are closed. The altimeter is set …”

I send a text to Wyatt. He’s watching the crowd, and I let him know we’re about to start the engines. His response is to hold out his hand palm-first like a traffic cop, shouting something I can’t hear. He’s making sure everyone stands back even though no one seems to have the slightest intention of getting closer.

“… Battery going on …”

Lucy continues the start-up, silencing the low rotor horn inside a glass cockpit that reminds me of a spaceship. Blinking on around us are dazzling displays of weather and terrain in moving shapes and vivid shades. The artificial sight picture painted on video screens mirrors the real one out the windshield.

“… Volts are good … We’ve got the expected caution lights …” Testing the foot pedals, she pushes them one at a time, the actuators making loud metallic clicks.

“… Throttles are good …” She rolls them open and shut. “… We got plenty of fuel, one thousand pounds …”

In the bright sun I can make out the fine lines that show her age, and the jagged pink scar peeking out of her collar. An eighth of an inch closer, and the shrapnel would have sliced through her carotid. I’m reminded that my niece isn’t a child anymore. She’s not immortal.

“… We’re clear to the right,” she says.

“Clear to the left.” I look out my side window.

“Throttle for engine one in idle. Hitting the start switch.”

The first engine fires with a rush and a roar, the rotor blades beginning to turn … Thud … Thud … Thud … faster and faster.

“Throttle in idle for engine two …,” she says to another roar, the powerful torque thrumming in my every cell.

Lucy goes through elaborate tests and procedures, menu pages brightly suspended in the ether of the heads-up display (HUD). Checking computers, the hydraulics and other systems, she works switches on and off while moving the controls. She turns on the generator, the avionics. Headsets cover our ears, the mic booms touching our lips, and we’re talking over the intercom now. Shutting our doors, we make sure they’re latched.

“You all set? Speak now or forever hold yourpieces, as the king’s horsemen said to Humpty Dumpty.” Lucy’s quirky dark humor can border on corny. “Seriously, Aunt Kay.” She calls me that only when it’s just the two of us. “I’ll be doing some wicked maneuvering in really tight places that even you aren’t used to.”

“It can’t get much worse than where we are.” I look around at an obstacle course of fencing, tall light standards and flagpoles, and vehicles parked all over.

“Trust me, it can get worse, as you’re about to find out.” She twists the throttles open to the Fly position, the rotor blades beating faster. “If it wasn’t for this thing’s capabilities you can forget it.”

“What’s our ETA?” I unlock my phone. “And I’ll let Marino know.”

“About twenty minutes from when I pull pitch. Could be more depending on the interference I get.” Lucy turns on the blower and we adjust our vents. “You know how bad traffic is around here anyway. But it’s backed up more than usual because of all the flight cancellations before the rain and fog cleared out. And there may be other nuisances we have to deal with.”

While she listens to the latest automated weather update, I text Marino that we’re about to take off. I remind him to make sure the landing zone inside Buckingham Run is clear.Hopefully nothing is there that wasn’t earlier, Lucy has me pass along to him.

Just checked and it was 10-4. Will check again, he writes back.

“… Anti-collision light should be on already, and it is. Position lights, landing light on.” Lucy flips those switches. “Want to make sure everyone knows we’re here.”

“I think everyone knows,” I reply. “Outer space probably does.”

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