I don't really remember most of what was going on. I remember going to an airport. I remember some type of dirty bomb. We were under attack. There were all sorts of attackers. People everywhere were possible enemies. And no one knew. No one but us.
We got on a plane. We were trying to get out of there. The pilot was trying to get it started but there was something wrong.
Skytrain C-47B serial number 43-49942
that was built in 1944,
and belongs to the Highland Lakes Squadron Commemorative Air Force
based at Burnet Airport, Burnet, Texas.
Photo By Jim Thompson
26 October 2008, 09:07:56
CC BY-SA 2.0 (source)
I frantically tried to stuff the pockets of my shorts full with batteries that I had gotten somewhere. Rechargeable. 18650's. Lithium Ion. And capacitors. I had a bunch of capacitors. But I hadn't finished sewing the one pocket onto my jean shorts that were falling apart, and a bunch fell onto the floor of the airplane. I tried to pick them up and shove them into my pocket before we took off.
But it didn't matter. We weren't taking off. There was something wrong with the plane. We had to find another.
We got off and ended up next to some kind of door.
Someone, a member of the group, played a practical joke and did something to my leg. I got pissed and hit him with all my might and he collapsed. Crumpled. Destroyed.
It was somewhere around here that I woke up. We didn't have a way out. We needed a new plane. We needed to get out of there. We needed to not die. And every moment we stayed was a chance where we could be attacked, or have to pick up extra passengers.
Did I die? Did we all die? Did we find a new plane? Did idiots pulling practical jokes mark our end? Or was it my own fault? Losing my cool over someone so stupid. I never was one much for controlling my anger. What exactly was it we were running from? Who were the attackers?