Free Impact by Adam Baker

absorbed by the ionosphere at night. Doesn’t seem to have made much difference, though. Haven’t reached a soul.
    ‘The plane itself has several communications systems, but none of them are operational. The power is out. Reckon that’s my next job, once I’ve grabbed a little rest. See if there’s life in the aft batteries. Coax a little juice to the flight deck, fire up the UHF and TACAN.
    ‘Truth be told, I’m scared to try. What if I can’t re-route the power? What if the batteries are dead?
    ‘Worse still: what if I restore current to the deck systems, broadcast on every channel, and get no reply? Thing of it is, Guthrie was infected. Must have been sick before he got on the plane. Can’t blame the guy for covering his illness. He was scared. If he’d sought help, told anyone at Vegas he was infected, they would have shot him in the head where he stood. But when did he get bit? The virus must have breached the wire. Someone brought it inside the airport compound. Maybe one of Trenchman’s boys got tagged during a supply run. Brought it home and spread infection across the base. Bunch of guys convinced searchlights and perimeter guns were keeping them safe. But the virus was already inside the garrison, picking them off one by one. Maybe we got out just in time. Maybe they are all dead.
    ‘That’s what I have to face. There’s a very real possibility that the last military installation in this time zone has been wiped out.
    ‘So what if I’m marooned in this god-forsaken place? That’s the question I’ve been trying to avoid. I’ll send out regular distress calls. But what if help doesn’t come?’



11
    Frost lay in the sand and looked up at the stars. Constellations emerged from the darkening sky. Cassiopeia. Pegasus. Andromeda.
    She enjoyed the evening cool. A sensual, skin-prickle chill.
    She switched on her flashlight a while and let the beam shine upwards into the sky. No moths or mosquitoes dancing in the beam, batting the lamp. No insects of any kind. Implication: no water for miles.
    A distant shout.
    ‘Hey.’
    Frost struggled to sit upright.
    A silhouette at the top of a high dune. A guy in a flight suit.
    He fell. He tumbled in a cascade of dust.
    Frost scrambled to her feet and limped towards the prone figure.
    Hancock. Head bandaged with blood-blackened chute fabric.
    She knelt beside him.
    He fumbled at a pocket of his survival vest. She gently pushed his hands away, extracted a water sachet and tore the corner tab. She lifted his head and held the pouch to his lips.
    He sucked the pouch dry. Feverish thirst.
    ‘Another?’
    He nodded.
    She tore the tab and watched him gulp a second pouch.
    He lay back, panting.
    ‘More water on the plane, right?’ he asked.
    ‘Some.’
    ‘Anyone else make it?’
    ‘Pinback and Guthrie are dead for sure. No sign of the others. Poor bastards must be out in the desert. I’ll start a fire at first light. Put up more smoke. Maybe they’ll see it.’
    Hancock held up his CSEL.
    ‘Couldn’t raise anyone. Not a living soul.’
    ‘The airwaves are stone dead.’
    ‘Thought my radio might be damaged.’
    Frost shook her head.
    ‘There’s no one to raise. It’s as if the whole hemisphere has gone dark.’
    ‘Still,’ he said. ‘Glad you made it, Frosty.’
    He held out a hand. They shook.
    Frost gestured to his injured head.
    ‘Want me to patch you up, sir?’
    ‘Been walking all day. I’m beyond tired. Let me rest a while.’
    ‘Looks like you took a substantial knock.’
    ‘Woke up minus an eye.’
    ‘Lost some blood, by the looks.’
    He nodded. He gestured to his scalp.
    ‘Itches like I-don’t-know-what. Hard to stop myself scratching the wound right open. Torment. How about you? You okay?’
    ‘Messed up my leg.’
    He checked out the splint.
    ‘You can walk. You can put a little weight on it. So I guess it can’t be bust.’
    ‘Morphine dulls the pain. Not sure if that’s good or bad. Might encourage me to exacerbate the