Island Of The Cryptids

10

Philip sat in the pilot's chair, feet propped up on the dashboard, watching the scanners of the rain clouds. He rolled his ankles, careful not to accidentally activate any switches. The plane was off, but the only thing online was the cockpit dashboard and the cabin lights. Both ramps still hung open, but the back door to the cargo bay from the inside was locked.

He was tempted to reach into his overnight bag, pull out a small, embroidered wooden box, open it, and light up a fancy Cuban cigar and smoke it until just a stub was left. He didn't dare though, for two reasons, the first being that the cigars were too expensive to waste on an occasion like this. The second one was how Tucker was such an uptight stickler for rules. Having only flown with the much younger pilot for two months, Philip had discovered that the kid was fickle upon codes and conduct when it came to flying. Of course, he wasn't a complete no-fun guy, but anything to do with flying and customer service, he put the hammer down hard.

Philip liked the kid. He was enthusiastic, very energetic, and overall a happy guy. He helped a whole lot with everything.

When Philip grew up in Bermuda, he was told to work very hard throughout his whole life, and as he grew older, that prospect faded and he became more lazy than anything.

For some fun, he decided to switch the radar to its motion tracker setting. The red and green blotches vanished and the panning green beam appeared again, sweeping across the screen.

A red dot appeared with a bloop. Philip leaned forward, having not expected to see anything on the radar. He looked out the window, awaiting the bright headlights of the Explorer to shine out. The radar pinged again. The dot was closer. It was evident now that whatever it had picked up was not the car. Philip chewed his mustache.

Could it be one of the passengers returning to get back on? he thought as the radar pinged yet again. The dot was inching closer, creeping up on him. No, he told himself. The radar never picked up small objects or animals. It had to be at least bigger than a small horse to get registered. A firm knot formed in Philip's stomach.

He was tempted to scramble towards the hatch door, pull it shut, and lock it, then wait inside for someone to show up. But he couldn't do that. There was nothing out to get him. The dot was closer now. According to the scale on the side of the screen, it was about fifty feet away. That far was barely visible from the cockpit window. Philip looked out. There was nothing.

His panic was getting to him. He knew that it may just be a glitch, or some laughable misunderstanding. Nevertheless, he knelt down and fumbled with a small compartment behind his seat. He pulled out a small carrying case, which he opened, revealing two .40 caliber handguns, firmly implanted into a bed of foam. He eased one out, then grabbed a fully loaded magazine and slid it in. It contained 13 shots.

Upon cocking the slide back, he heard the radar ping again. Thirty feet. Whatever it was, it was taking its time. It wasn't in a rush. It moved slowly, almost like a lion stalking its prey. The green beam spun again, this time emitting two bloops. Twenty feet. Philip moved out into the aisle of the plane, next to the door. He stared down the stairs onto the pitch black runway. The rain thundered down. The thunder had seemed to cease at this point. He aimed the gun down the stairway.

What was he scared of? There was nothing. But he had to be sure. Just in case something horrifying crept around the frame and crawled into the plane. He felt a terror that he had not felt since he was a child, hearing the ghost stories of pilots gone missing in the Bermuda Triangle, a world renowned local legend. He listened to the radar from the cockpit. The bleeps would get louder and more frequent as the thing grew closer. He heard it sound twice more, high pitched electronic jabs. He inched closer to the stairway.

Another two. This time, they were fast, and urgent, almost as if trying to tell him to get out of there. To steer the plane away from danger. But he wasn't in the air, he was on the ground, and couldn't move. He took a few steps down the stairs, panning his gun around.

Rapid bleeps started emitting from the radar. That meant it was very close. Ten feet or less, he presumed. A moment passed and he stepped onto the runway, his feet feeling jittery in the saturated gravel.

The radar blared rapid, successive bleeps. That meant that whatever it was, was directly on top of them. That was impossible. Nothing was there.

Philip Bodecker barely had the time to fire off one shot before the thing from behind him lunged out of the darkness. He screamed.