Free Hauntings by Ellen Datlow Page B

tried to say. We just imagined it. A noise from one coffin can’t bring a plane down , his face said. There are no such things as ghosts .
    â€œSir?”
    â€œWe need to see,” he said.
    Blood pooled in my stomach again. See , he had said. I didn’t want to see.
    â€œGet on the horn and tell the AC to avoid the chop,” he said. I knew at that moment he was going to help me. He didn’t want to, but he was going to do it anyway.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Pembry asked. She stood by as I removed the cargo netting from the row of caskets while the engineer undid the indi vidual straps around that one certain row. Hernandez slept head bowed, the downers having finally taken effect.
    â€œWe have to examine the cargo,” I stated matter-of-factly. “The flight may have caused the load to become unbalanced.”
    She grabbed my arm as I went by. “Was that all it was? A shifting load?”
    There was a touch of desperation in her question. Tell me I imagined it , the look on her face said. Tell me and I’ll believe you, and I’ll go get some sleep .
    â€œWe think so,” I nodded.
    Her shoulders dropped and her face peeled into a smile too broad to be real. “Thank God. I thought I was going crazy.”
    I patted her shoulder. “Strap in and get some rest,” I told her. She did.
    Finally, I was doing something. As Loadmaster, I could put an end to this nonsense. So I did the work. I unstrapped the straps, climbed the other caskets, shoved the top one out of place, carried it, secured it, removed the next one, carried it, secured it, and again. The joy of easy repetition.
    It wasn’t until we got to the bottom one, the noisy one, that Hadley stopped. He stood there watching me as I pulled it out of place enough to examine it. His stance was level, but even so it spoke of revulsion, something that, among swaggering Air Force veterans and over beers, he could conceal. Not now, not to me.
    I did a cursory examination of the deck where it had sat, of the caskets next to it, and saw no damage or obvious flaws.
    A noise sounded—a moist “thunk.” From inside. We flinched in uni son. The engineer’s cool loathing was impossible to conceal. I suppressed a tremble.
    â€œWe have to open it,” I said.
    The engineer didn’t disagree, but like me, his body was slow to move. He squatted down and, with one hand firmly planted on the casket lid, unlatched the clasps on his end. I undid mine, finding my fingers slick on the cold metal, and shaking a little as I pulled them away and braced my hand on the lid. Our eyes met in one moment that held the last of our resolve. Together, we opened the casket.

    First, the smell: a mash of rotten fruit, antiseptic, and formaldehyde, wrapped in plastic with dung and sulfur. It stung our nostrils as it filled the hold. The overhead lights illuminated two shiny black body bags, slick with condensation and waste. I knew these would be the bodies of chil dren, but it awed me, hurt me. One bag lay unevenly concealing the other, and I understood at once that there was more than one child in it. My eyes skimmed the juice-soaked plastic, picking out the contour of an arm, the trace of a profile. A shape coiled near the bottom seam, away from the rest. It was the size of a baby.
    Then the plane shivered like a frightened pony and the top bag slid away to reveal a young girl, eight or nine at the most, half in and half out of the bag. Wedged like a mad contortionist into the corner, her swollen belly, showing stab wounds from bayonets, had bloated again, and her twisted limbs were now as thick as tree limbs. The pigment-bearing skin had peeled away everywhere but her face, which was as pure and as innocent as any cherub in heaven.
    Her face was really what drove it home, what really hurt me. Her sweet face.
    My hand fixed itself to the casket edge in painful whiteness, but I dared not remove it. Something caught in my