Allah willing, these people are all insane! The man known as Clayton is a paranoid wreck, and I fear for the safety of the younger boy whom shares my name, though the woman seems to care for him enough to protect him. The smuggler in bandages, dark of skin and darker of eye, does not speak much, and I have no confidence in the German or his French comrade. After all, they have kidnapped a British soldier! What on earth will I do in Shanghai? I do not belong with these people! I am not affiliated with their insane schemes, nor do I believe for a second that they have seen what they have said they have seen. It is no more than a ruse, a ruse to destroy my careful guard, and perhaps to force my hand. It certainly would not be past these lunatics!
At the least, that is what I once believed. Now, I am not entirely sure, however I have been rather withdrawn from my medication - my supply of morphine from the pain of various wounds received in battle. I am growing weary and ill of stomach, and have spent the vast majority of my time in the small enclosed space that serves as this contraption's private facilities. The German, who I am told is a doctor, seems concerned, but I am certain he as with the others is plotting to slash my throat with a broken, illegal rum bottle at any moment. There is absolutely no telling what these people will do to me, and I cannot trust my own eyes any longer - or my own dreams.
Merciful fates, these dreams! They always haunt me, like a screeching iffrit of the desert come to tear me to shreds, when I am suffering withdrawal. This dream was far more horrific and vivid than normal, however, for I did not even realize I had fallen into slumber when it struck. It was night, and the interior of the aeroplane was full of black shadow, when I heard the glass in the cockpit break and then the pilot and his cohort shrieking in fear. It happened far too quickly to comprehend, the sensation of the vehicle shifting into a nosedive, the sound of some screeching, whispering thing from hell coming from the control panel, the cold whipping of air as the cabin depressurized... and I saw it! Allah's Will, I saw it! Like a great black draconic bat with six chilling red eyes, writhing and flapping its way madly towards us before disappearing through the hull as if a snake into the sand...
My soldier's instincts took control, and my eyes turned to the five parachutes lying in a crate nearby. I recall yelling - in my own tongue or English I do not remember - at the others, who were panicking, to put them on and jump. There was no time, the door had to be opened, it must have been opened. The next thing I recall, all of us were tumbling from the aeroplane, down, down into that inky blackness of the ocean beneath. The parachutes, one by one, deployed, leaving us to the mercy of the winds. All, that is, save for the Frenchman's - his did not deploy, and he plummeted helplessly into the waves below. Then the whispering caught up again, playing about my ears, chasing us down from above, striking from the skies as a bolt of lightning from a storm... and then the true horror began.
It attacked the one called Sarah first. She clung to the poor boy as if for dear life, but it was for naught. The draconic beast swooped from nowhere, and shredded her parachute like tissue paper. Down she and the boy fell, screaming, or perhaps that was only my anguished screaming I heard. The German was next, he was snatched by the beast's slavering jaws from his parachute, and his arms remained entangled in the line like a morbid trophy. I took up my rifle then, and tried to shoot at the thing as it swooped to attack Clayton, but it was for naught - my shot missed the beast, and hit Clayton, killing him. It was all I could do not to break into horrified tears, but I had no time to react. The thing's slavering jaws were near upon me, and as it came up from below to consume me, I swore I heard it whisper to me, in my mother tongue.
You are His Chosen Pawn, Mahmoud...
I awoke shrieking as a man who had seen death would, and have not been able to sleep since. That is far from the only horrific nightmare I have had when under withdrawal, but it is the most vivid... as all the nightmares I have had since meeting these lunatics have been. I dream of ancient Pharaohs and darkened tombs where nameless atrocities are committed. I dream of strange women from the Orient, ash-blackened fans hiding all save their green eyes. I dream of burning red eyes split in threes and glaring from shadows, and of howling creatures with red tongues that walk in the form of men and mock. In each, they call my name, and in each, they taunt me.
I do not understand what these dreams mean, but I am certain they are from the withdrawal. It is the only rational explanation. It simply must be, for the only other conclusion is that the madness of my captors is transferring to me like some insidious disease. And that, Allah forbid, is a possibility I cannot and will not dare to contemplate.
-- Mahmoud Sabri, British Soldier (12 May, 1928)
The Arab man, Mahmoud, is clearly suffering a textbook case of morphine withdrawal. I believe he is too proud to admit his problem, however, or perhaps too shaken. I had elected not to speak to him about this until we were safely in Shanghai, however for reasons that shall become abundantly clear soon, this was simply not a possibility for any of us. You see, we were attacked. Someone had snuck aboard McCloud's airplane, someone wishing all of us ill. Someone, we suspect, who must have been working with the Brotherhood of the Black Pharaoh, if not a member of the cult themselves.
It began when McCloud, the pilot, had to refuel. In midair, he assured us, for this was how he needed to do it to avoid being caught smuggling his cargo... well, his coworker Muuzaji's cargo, that is. Odd name. Perhaps he is Kenyan, but I could not tell for I was tipsy at the time and his clothing made it difficult to see details. He was left to man the controls of the airplane while McCloud removed his metal leg, and clambered up the ladder. All seemed normal, and I resumed my drinking of the excellent rum they were hauling, assuming none would notice. Surely, Muuzaji would not mind, even though he had sworn at me before for such transgressions...
It was not long before we heard commotion above in the engine area and, as the Americans say, all Hell broke loose. Imagine our utter shock as first the pilot, then a man in black robes tumbled down the ladder, the latter landing on top of and winding the former. Then the man stood, saw Clayton... and snarled. He had two things in hand. The first was a gun, which was deadly enough. But the second, that is what gave both I and Mahmoud pause, what made my blood run cold in my veins. It was a small greyish cylinder, a single valve on one side, compacted. It was unlabeled, but the horror of the War returned to me in full force when I saw it. For you see, I recognize a canister of phosgene when I see it, and I also recognize the look of a man intent on using it to kill an airplane filled with people, himself included.
Clayton took up arms, and the two exchanged angry words in Arabic which I could not translate. The interloper pointed angrily at the strange wooden idol Clayton had on his person, clearly desiring it, but Clayton would not relinquish the damn thing. Meanwhile, McCloud had crawled back to the cockpit, and Muuzaji, hearing the commotion, ran to see what the matter was. By the time he got there, the interloper was attempting to open the valve of the deadly container, except it had gotten stuck, buying Clayton enough time to tackle the man to the floor. Sarah was screaming and trying to keep the child out of the way, the Arab had peeked out of the commode room to aim his rifle weakly, and Laurent was scrambling to the cache of smuggled weapons to find a gun and shoot the interloper. Bullets flew, pinging through the hull of the airplane with abandon.
It all happened so fast, too fast for me to act, as my reflexes are not at all what they once were and I myself have never seen combat - only the aftereffects of such. I certainly did not want any more bloodshed and did not trust myself to handle a gun after drinking, so I did the craven thing and hid in one of the crates. I pray Muuzaji is wiling to forgive me for breaking a few liquor bottles, but something tells me he will be very displeased when he finds his cargo broken... I am unsure what happened next, but I heard the wind outside roar as the main door opened, and Clayton cry out as something was snatched from him.
"My idol!" He shrieked, and I peered out from hiding to see Clayton clinging for dear life and the interloper tumbling into the air below. Then... then I heard something, a vast croaking screech, that I will not forget for all my days on this earth. The shadow of something vast with leathery, scaly, feathered wings came from below the plane... and I saw the interloper land on the back of the thing. All of us saw it, it was as large as a house, easily! Sarah and Clayton panicked, Clayton flew into inconsolable rage, and the rest of us could do nothing else but take cover. Then, the interloper took control of the thing, like a great flying mount, and the unthinkable happened as the figure swept under the plane. All was quiet for a few seconds... and then we heard something heavily hit the underside of the plane with a sickening crack and a horrible shudder, and realized what was happening. The creature was ramming into the plane, trying to ram us from the sky!
"The Hell are you doing back there?!" McCloud cried, oblivious to our battle. "Keep it easy, I'm trying to fly here!"
Another awful crack, and Muuzaji took control and proceeded to start shooting it. We all did. Clayton was half mad, and it took a good amount of convincing to calm him enough to shoot the winged beast, not us. We took up arms and threw open windows, trying to aim for the creature, eyes peeled. Then I saw it in full, dear God, it was the size of the airplane and like a horrendous combination of tumor, bird, and dragon-like bat, winging at us and croaking hatefully, the interloper piloting it and grinning madly! I was in temporary shock, but jarred myself long enough to shoot at the beast. It was Muuzaji, however, who managed to shoot the interloper in the head, killing him. His body tumbled into the ocean below, and we had thought for a second that would end it... but we were wrong. The beast was furious at its pilot's death, and it proceeded to swing around for another attack, trying for one of the wing struts this time.
"McCloud!" Sarah cried, cocking the rifle for another shot. "Do something, it's coming for another attack!"
"Alright, I have an idea!" The pilot responded, and we all felt the airplane judder under the impact of the wing strut snapping. "Hold on, fellas, this is gonna be a hell of a ride!"
Then McCloud, the crazy bastard, he began to fly the plane straight up in a crazy loop... and we all lost footing. A few loose bottles of rum came free and broke as they hit the walls. It was as if gravity shifted from under us, and we flew into the ceiling of the airplane, ending up upside down. I have no idea how McCloud managed to stay able to control the contraption strapped in as he was, but Muuzaji was not happy.
"McCloud, you turn this thing back around now!" He shouted through gritted teeth, and we all agreed angrily.
"I'm working on it, Chief!" was his only reply, and we did our level best to try and hang on as he maneuvered the vehicle back around... and the beast outside prepared for yet another impact.
Another crunch, and we felt an engine give out, forcing McCloud to drop his speed. We hit the floor with a thud, and got up as fast as we could, aiming for the beast this time. I'm not sure which one of us hit, but someone shot the damned thing in the wing, then the head, and it spun screeching and bleeding into the ocean, dying on impact.
"Jesus Christ!" McCloud swore from the cockpit. "What the hell happened back there? Nobody told me those guys chasing you outta Cairo had planes!"
"It wasn't a damn plane, McCloud!" I cried in frustration, my nerves shot to hell. "There's an archipelago off the west side, flat enough to land..."
"Alright, hold on, folks... this isn't gonna be a smooth landing..."
To say it wasn't smooth was an understatement. We landed heavily in a rice paddy, disturbing some poor farmer, but none of us were harmed. The airplane itself was absolutely near destroyed, and McCloud tells us we are all fortunate it didn't break up on us. From his estimates, we'd have surely died had it taken any more damage.
I am writing this from the Savoy Hotel in Shanghai, off the Bund. The view is excellent but smoggy and grim, as with everything in this city. Sarah and Clayton have taken to lying low with the little boy, where I do not know, but they tell us they will contact us later once they are settled in. The rest of us have managed to get the airplane moved to a warehouse, where McCloud has arranged for repairs. I did, for the record, get the Arab his morphine, though I am not sure how long that supply will last, as it was for emergencies only...
At the least, we are all alive, though I must admit - this was not precisely how I imagined we would arrive in China!
-- Dr. Ludwig Hildebrand (May 12, 1928)