Free Snake Typhoon! by Billie Jones Page B

Really, we don’t have time for this.
    “I’ll take you, but if I see anything resembling a typhoon, I’m turning back,” he says in a very surly way.
    The weather is unseasonably wintery for summer, I admit. But I think someone’s a tad on the delusional side. I know full well we don’t get typhoons in Australia, and feel confident that if he keeps fingering his moustache so lovingly he might fall asleep and I’ll get a chance to fly a chopper without the hassle of having to pay for the privilege. With an almighty grunt I pull the door down and lock it into place.
    The chopper rotor blades start, the drum beat whooshing sound excites me as we make our way into the drizzly silver sky. Drops of rain suicide on the windscreen with a splat, and the throb of the engine sounds almost like a backing riff of a theme song, something to galvanise me for the battle ahead.
    I stoop low in the small cabin and rush to the passenger seat. “Right, it’s go time.”

Chapter Two
    The pilot nods, and we ascend quickly through thick clouds which scatter like smoke from the force of the blades. Below me, the airport shrinks as we rise, trucks and cars buzzing along like a trail of ants. The metropolitan area looks like a map, the colours melding as one into a great big brown and green canvas with tiny white dots: houses and industrial buildings the only sign of civilisation. To my right, the deep-blue of the Tasman Sea looks like a ruffled blanket.
    Dragging my gaze back, I scan the control panel, wondering what all the buttons are for. There’s something seriously sexy about helicopters. Goosebumps break out over my body, but it takes a moment for me to realise it’s because it’s suddenly arctic inside the small space, and not the thought of chopper sex that’s viscerally affecting me. I’m just about to ask the pilot if he feels it too, when he yells, “Oh my God!” His eyes have widened so far they look like golf balls, as he lifts a shaky finger and points to something in the distance. “They were right!” he cries before I’m able to focus on what he’s seeing. I curse my short-sightedness as I fumble in my backpack for my glasses.
    “Don’t panic,” I say in a steady voice, following step one of the guidebook: How to soothe people in times of crisis.
    Glasses found, I plonk them on and turn towards the pilot, who is trembling uncontrollably. I need his expertise, so my first priority is his health. His face is a shade whiter than ivory and his neck has broken out in angry red spots, which he itches with a maniacal gleam in his eye. He stops scratching once he draws blood and hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, muttering, “We’re going to die!”
    I try to dampen my excitement that I’m about to get my chance to fly the helicopter, remembering that I’m on duty. I search my memory for what the manual would say to do in this situation. First, I press the big white button that says AUTO PILOT and turn it, glumly. It’s sort of not fair a button gets to man the chopper before me, but I am a professional and work comes first.
    Surveying the pilot, I diagnose that he’s in shock. I fling open the hatch that has a big red cross on it and look around for something to quell his nerves. Nothing is marked as such, so I take a punt and pick up the red vial. The first thing we were taught in first aid training was Red Stops Dead. I attach the syringe and then push the pilot over. Difficult because he’s as stiff as a taxidermist’s pet tiger, and there’s no room in the cockpit. I raise my arms above my head, holding the syringe, and keep my thumb on the plunger. I aim for his heart, and count.
    “One, two…three!” I say, piercing his thick skin with the shiny needle, pushing the crimson liquid straight into what I hope is his bloodstream. He lets out a spine-chilling scream, and I expel a breath I don’t realise I’ve been holding.
    He convulses, and froths at the mouth just as the manual