Date: Sun, 4 Sep 1994 23:23:56 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 49-54) This is the continuation of Aloha, which is in the archives. Any comments can be sent to Nancy SSCH@AOL.COM. Thanks..... "Hey, watch it. That pressure gauge is sensitive." The driver sounded large, and angry. Jonathan heard and felt the man's weight shift in the cab above, while the feet next to him stepped back and stood, belligerence radiating from the stance, toes apart, weight balanced forward. "You're fueling too fast. Cut the speed, or I'll cite you to the shift supervisor. You know its dangerous." The ground crew was a woman. She sounded mad, too. Her boots rocked back and forth, toes to heels, to toes, as Jonathan watched. "And get rid of that cigarette. Or do you want me to write you up twice?" The loud creak of an unoiled door swinging open, then the truck lifted a good half foot as the driver's boots thumped to the ground next to the cab. A cigarette stub hit the ground, beside him, still smoldering. The smoke tickled Jonathan's nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze. The driver's boots were black, combat style, with metal rims. A chain decorated the instep of one, and a metal studded leather strap adorned the other. He wore black jeans. His boots stepped up to the others, toe to toe, shoving the woman's feet back. "Listen, bitch, I've had it with this safety crap." His voice was rumbling, furious. "You know I have to get this bird filled in 30 minutes. 30 minutes or I lose my bonus. 30 minutes doesn't allow time to follow the rules. Now lay off, or you're gonna lose some teeth." The yellow boots dug in, leaned forward against the black. She didn't give an inch. Jonathan wondered what she looked like. He eased slightly closer to the edge of the truck, curiosity impelling him, against his better judgment. She clearly didn't believe in backing down. "Mulligan, you've had it, all right. I let you slide the first time. That's it. I'm sending in that report. No one is supposed to make the bonus, you stupid idiot. Its a trick. And turn that damn pressure down, now." Her voice snapped out the orders, each word clipped and precise. The black boots turned, abruptly, and stepped away. The driver had backed down, it seemed. Jonathan let out his breath. He'd been cheering for the woman, instinctively. He was glad she'd won. That she'd not been hurt. She had guts, for sure. He had sensed real menace in the man's voice. The tan boots relaxed from their toes forward position, and half turned towards the truck again, as the woman watched the gauge. "Damn." Her voice was quiet, but a thrill of fear vibrated in it. The smell of gasoline intensified, sharp and fresh, and a trickle of liquid slid down the side of the tire shielding Jonathan. "Shut it off, Mulligan. Shut it off, now!" Her voice was ragged, terror cracking through her attempt at an even tone. The black boots stopped. Turned. Jonathan saw one foot lift, the other flex, and knew with a sudden sick certainly that the driver had not backed down. He heard, or sensed, the swift rush of air as the man kicked the woman in the back, heard the explosive grunt as she exhaled, the blow knocking the wind from her lungs, lifting her feet off the tarmac and laying her flat on the ground, on her back, her legs splayed, motionless, her torso and head hidden from Jonathan's eyes behind the middle set of tires. The liquid drip had increased to a flow, soft shiny oil sliding in a small waterfall down the rutted tire, pooling on the ground in the shadow under the truck, and growing, moving, deepening, extruding new arms and legs, like a blind amoeba, seeking a way out, a way down. Beyond the shadow, small and inconspicuous in the sunlight, the crumpled cigarette butt still smoldered, a tiny thread of smoke spiraling up into the air, a tiny glow, deep in the crushed tobacco, still burned, still alive. Jonathan saw every detail, the oil, spreading silently across the blacktop, the man, kneeling, unaware, facing away. The thread of smoke, the certain catastrophe it promised. It was a still life, frozen in time. A crossroads. A choice. There was no real choice, of course. Jonathan moved without conscious thought, knowing it was the only thing, the right thing, to do. He grabbed the edge of the truck, and swung himself out from under it, emerging behind the black booted man, who had moved after the fallen woman and was kneeling over her, his hands ripping at the fabric of her coverall, exposing her bare breasts, her stomach... Jonathan glimpsed a flash of tanned skin, of blonde hair, then focused on the man, who had whirled almost instantaneously, as Jonathan scuffed the ground, his legs and arms still weak, the muscles still trembling, his steps uncertain, as he approached the man. The trucker's hands cradled a switchblade, his eyes glared, full of frustrated lust, that swiftly changed to anger, at the intruder. "Who the hell are you?" "Let her go. The tanker...." The trucker's fist stifled the warning Jonathan had been about to give, his punch knocking Jonathan back against the side of the truck, his head hitting the metal hard, making a sharp loud echo at the impact. His ears ringing and vision clouded, Jonathan staggered forward. He spat blood from his mouth, wiped the sticky goo away with the back of his hand, and concentrated. Reached inside. Found his strength, his will, his purpose. Pulled them out and used them. Focused. The trucker moved in closer, punching at Jonathan's head, his face, his chest, his gut. Jonathan blocked the blows, taking the punishing hits on his arms and his shoulders, instead. He was getting it back, getting his legs, his balance. He turned and kicked the trucker in the chest, the whirling momentum of the kick actually lifting the man onto his toes, and sending him staggering back into the truck, this time. Jonathan snuck a quick glance over his shoulder. The oil was creeping closer to the burning cigarette. No time to waste, now. He swung back on the trucker, feinted a punch with his right hand, then used his left to drive a straight fingered blow directly into the man's sternum, knocking him down, and out, with the force of the impact. He dove towards the smoldering cigarette, rolling across the black top, scooping it up with his hands an instant before the creeping oil touched the spot it had been sitting. He crushed the flame, extinguishing it between his fingers, then lay on the ground a moment, savoring the victory. The relief. Oil soaked his clothing, his hair, covered his skin, glistening in the sunlight. MacLeod's words came back to him....Not even an Immortal could survive being blown to bits, incinerated. It could still happen, any second. Time to go. Jonathan gathered his feet under him, rose to a crouch. Stood. Dripping. "Hold it right there, mister." The woman. He'd forgotten about her, discounted her. He turned, slowly. She leaned against the truck, her golden hair forming a disheveled halo around her shadowed face, in the early morning light. Her clipboard lay on the ground, beside her. In her hand... was that a gun? No, her hands were empty. She stepped towards Jonathan, her face emerging into the light, Dirt smudged across her nose, her cheek. Her lower lip was swollen, cut and bloody. A crust of dried blood ran down the side of her chin. She had a black eye, and a purpling bruise above it, on her forehead. She looked dazed. Furious. Lovely. She held her coveralls together with one hand, and looked like she was ready to kill the first man who made a comment about them, the long ragged rip in the cloth revealing the outline of her ribs, a gentle curve of skin beneath.....Jonathan pulled his eyes back up, looked her in the face again. She stared back, blushing, not letting her gaze drop away from his for an instant. "Who are you?" She leaned on the truck, using it to support some of her weight. She was limping, too, he noticed, favoring her right foot. "Did you hit me?" Her tone was flat, brisk. "No. The driver did. I stopped him." Jonathan stepped aside, let her see the unconscious form of the big man, sagging on the ground behind him. She looked past him, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, anger, then suddenly her eyes widened...shock, horror, fear, written bold across her face. She backed up, raising an arm as if to shield herself, letting the coveralls fall, unheeding. He tore his gaze away from her body, turned, followed her horrified glance. The leak. The oil. The rich fresh smell had deadened to his senses, he no longer noticed it, but the tanker had kept on pumping, humming mindlessly to itself. The liquid had spread even further, a smooth glossy satin pool, spreading beyond the truck, its edges lapping at the tires of the plane. Something flickered. Something bright. He looked closer. At the driver. At his pocket. A small plastic butane lighter was half wedged, half in and half out of his pants pocket. A tiny flame nibbled at the tip of the lighter, as it trembled and dipped, only inches above the oil's surface. It must have lit when he fell, been burning all this time.... The driver stirred, the first glimmerings of consciousness returning. The lighter wobbled, then gently slipped from his pocket as Jonathan watched, vaguely aware of the oil sloshing around his ankles. The lighter slipped and fell, silently, into the soft liquid, disappearing without a plop, without a ripple or a bubble, into the shadowed pool. A translucent shimmer of blue flame floated across the surface of the oil, almost invisible in the sunlight. A baby flame, small, delicate....reaching out.... almost extinguished by the wealth, the utter luxuriance of resources around it....reaching out..... Jonathan stopped breathing, stopped existing in time. He scrambled backwards, watching the pale blue flame turn to yellow, transforming itself almost instantaneously into a huge billowing wall of light and heat that roared down at him as he turned and ran, grabbing the woman and pulling her with him in his flight. She tried to push him off, her struggles slowing them. He reached up and squeezed her neck, fiercely, blocking the flow of blood to her brain for a moment, leaving her unconscious. He dragged her limp body with him. Incoherent shouts met his ears as the other ground crew saw the flames, the thick dark clouds of smoke, and scattered, racing for their lives. A luggage train, stacked high with suitcases, lay just beyond the curve of the tankers's tail. The driver was putting it into gear, looking frantically over his shoulder at the burning tanker as he gunned the engine, trying to coax more speed from the tiny motor. Jonathan dove for it, no time to run further, as the roaring sheet of flame enveloped the tanker, crawling up the umbilical hose linking it to the plane, and wrapping them both in its incendiary embrace. He was out of the oil, at least. One luggage bin was still empty, its reinforced sides and walls offering a semblance of security from the flaming inferno. If the tanker exploded.... There was no time to debate. He leaped, caught the moving edge with one hand , swung up and rolled into the open compartment, holding the woman close, while the roar of the flames intensified behind them, the heat singing his back, crisping his hair. He pulled the top flap shut, tried to brace it with his hands. The driver had finally found some speed and the train bumped and jounced across the blacktop. A huge roar of sound, light and heat. The baggage train buckled and tilted, and then the compartment they were in tore loose and rolled, side over side, crashing and tipping and shaking. Jonathan sheltered the woman's body with his own, as much as he could, while the compartment tumbled like a child's plaything, the metal sides buckling and shredding as it turned. It gave one particularly brutal bounce, torqueing end over end, and Jonathan felt a sickening crash as his head hit the top of the compartment, the extra weight of the woman he held doubling the impact. He couldn't see. His eyes were open. There was no light. Calm, now. Don't panic. His head ached. His body ached. Even his toes ached. Everything felt like one massive bruise. He raised his hands, and brushed at a flap of vinyl that had tented over his head. Brushed it away and saw in the sky the reflected light, the angry flickering glare from the still burning fire, saw the woman sitting next to him, staring at him, her faced more battered than he'd seen it before, her tattered coveralls showing him glimpses of smooth golden skin, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. In the massive flood of relief he felt, he smiled. She smiled back. She was still beautiful. More beautiful, if anything. Beauty unconquered, unbowed by adversity. He wondered if he'd just found a reason to live, a reason to drop his bloody plans of vengeance. He glanced around. They lay in a scattered pile of debris, hidden, shielded from the flames and the light and the running crowd of emergency personnel. Sirens wailed past them as the fire crews poured chemical foam on the blaze, a soft film of white dust settling over everything around them, tiny bubbles floating by among the hot ashes. "Are you o.k.?" She held out a hand to him, still smiling. A ring glittered in the light. Simple gold band. Third finger. Left hand. He felt his own tiny bubble of hope burst. His lips twisted, disappointment flashing across his face for a second, before he could think to hide it. She let her hand drop, looking at him uncertainly. The smile left her lips, her eyes. "I'm fine." He sat up. Groaned involuntarily, and leaned against the tattered suitcases piled at his side, dizzy. He could feel a wave of nausea roiling in his stomach, fighting up his throat, but he stopped it, forcing it back by sheer willpower. "I'll get an ambulance." The woman half rose, shifting the scattered luggage and shreds of metal as she moved. Rose, and winced, taking her weight abruptly off her right leg, and almost falling, as she overbalanced in the unsure footing of the debris. "No." Jonathan reached for her hand, clasping her wrist instead, steadying her, restraining her. Her skin was warm. He felt of rush of...what? Tingling. Pleasant. He ignored it, held her arm, kept her from rising. At his touch she'd stiffened, almost pulling her arm away, then let it rest in his grasp, looking steadily at him all the while. "Wait. I don't need help. Other people are in far more trouble, need them more than I. The people on the plane." He spoke levelly, calmly. Suspicion darkened her eyes. "On the plane? Why were you out here? You're not crew. Not maintenance. Who are you?" She shook her wrist loose from his grasp, lightly, establishing formal distance, drawing back into her official role. Guardian of the plane, of the airport. < Would that I had such a guardian, watching out for me...> A wistful dream, foolish hope...he knew it, now. What could he say, to lull her suspicions, to win her help? Try an oblique angle, a tangent on the truth.... "I was looking for some people. And now they're looking for me. I really can't tell you any more, I'm sorry. You'll just have to trust me." =========================================================================