Free Moon Mask by James Richardson

Tepui,
    Venezuela,
     
     
     
    The camp was silent, save for the hum of the generators which kept essential equipment running throughout the night.
    The impromptu party had, unsurprisingly, come to an equally impromptu end following King’s fiery display. All the attendees had soon retired to their tents, the distant whispers of conversation slowly dropping away as lamps were extinguished one by one. Now, the only light came from the bright display of speckled stars and the silvery haze of the moon as it hung low above the canopy of trees.
    Benjamin King sat alone in the darkness. As he often did, late at night when Sid was sleeping and he was haunted by nightmares, he had ducked under both the safety cordons and sat on a ledge which he had picked out not long after arriving on the dig.
    This night was different, however, in that instead of sneaking out of the tent which he and Sid shared, he had not retired to it at all. Instead, he sat alone, legs dangling over the edge, thousands of feet above the ocean of tree tops below. Over the artificial whine of the generator, he could hear the natural backdrop of noise- the buzzing and twitching of insects, the distant cry of prey falling to nocturnal predators, the occasional flourish of activity on the forest floor or the rapid beating of a bat’s wing. He realised sombrely that he was going to miss each and every one of those noises.
    “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” a voice said quietly from behind. King glanced around to see the last person he had expected to see.
    Nathan Raine ducked beneath the perimeter cordon, a bottle in hand. “May I?” he indicated a spot beside King on the ledge.
    King shrugged. “Sure you want to?”
    “Well, I thought that sharing a bottle of whisky might restrain you from taking another shot at my nose,” Raine half joked, shuffling into a position beside King and, like him, dangling his feet casually over the vertical cliff face.
    King glanced at the bottle. “That’s not whisky.”
    “It is bourbon,” Raine said, double checking he had brought the correct bottle.
    “Precisely. You want whisky- you need to get your taste buds around a single malt Scotch. Not some Yankee swill.”
    Raine pulled the cap off with his teeth. “Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” He offered King the bottle and he greedily took a long swig, feeling the liquid burn his throat. Then he smiled hollowly.
    “How’s the nose?”
    “The nose?” Raine repeated casually. “Ah, fine,” he waved it away. “You punch like a girl.”
    King shot him an angry look but when he saw the subtle hint of mischief in the American’s ice-blue eyes he couldn’t help but laugh. They both looked back out over the rainforest, settling into an uncomfortable silence.
    “So, McKinney tells me I’ll be having a passenger with me on the way back tomorrow,” Raine broke it.
    King nodded slowly. “Guess so,” he said.
    “Not gonna try and practice your punches while I’m flying are you?”
    “Doesn’t sound like the brightest idea.”
    “Seems to me you’ve not been too bright lately anyway.”
    King sighed. “Guess not,” he admitted. He looked at Raine and offered the whisky bottle as he said, “I’m sorry.”
    Raine laughed. “You know what, I like you Benny,” he said. “In fact, you’re probably the only schmuck in this place that I do like, except for your good lady of course.”
    “For someone who doesn’t like these ‘schmucks’, you certainly made a good impression on them.”
    The pilot took a swig, handed back the bottle, put his hands behind his head and leaned back, seemingly oblivious to the sheer drop below. “They’re my employers. Regardless of what you really think of them, you’ve gotta put on your smiling face and make ‘em happy if you want that pay cheque at the end of every month.” He tilted his head in the direction of the sleeping camp. “And what hot blooded male who spends most of his time flying a Huey over