Henderson looks around in slight confusion, taking in the miles of sand surrounding them and the World War I biplane situated not far from the front gate. They've been driving all night and part of the morning, further and further into the desert, only to stop in an almost abandoned village and Henderson was more confused than he was two hours ago. "Who the hell are we gonna meet all the way out here," he asks the Medjai on his right.
"A friend of O'Connell's," he answers, looking just as lost as Henderson was.
"Could this guy be any vaguer?" Ardeth remains quiet and Henderson lets out a frustrated sigh, following the others out of the banged up convertible. They would have to walk from here, allowing O'Connell to take the lead with Henderson making up the rear.
"Morning, Winston," O'Connell greets when they can make out a few blurs at the top of one of the larger dunes. "A word?"
"Winston? You're asking that drunk geezer from the Casbah for help?" O'Connell sends him a look and Henderson presses his lips together in a firm line. How the hell was an old guy that probably couldn't even remember how to tie his boots going to help them rescue the women? What, is he going to talk Imhotep's ear off about the good ol' days?
"O'Connell," the old man calls to them as they climb the dune, waiting until they're closer to speak again. He was seated in an old wicker chair, a gramophone playing music that wasn't to Henderson's liking, shaded by a large umbrella with a boy standing off to the side to wait on him. "You only seek me out when you've got a problem, so what's it got to do with His Majesty's Royal Air Corps?"
"Not a damn thing," O'Connell says honestly. Winston sets his tea aside, interested in the answer.
"Is it dangerous?"
"Well, you probably won't live through it."
"By Jove, do you really think so?"
"Everyone else we've bumped into had died, why not you," Jonathan answers dryly, driving the point home that it was basically a suicide mission. Henderson didn't care if he lived or died as long as he knew his wife would make it home in one piece. He loved her too much to see her go before him.
"What's the mission, then?"
"The usual," Henderson replies grimly," save a few damsels, try to keep the world from ending, and, here's a new one, kill a dead guy." A broad grin brightens the old man's face and he stands quicker than any man his age should be able to, saluting their unofficial leader.
"Winston Havlock, at your service, sir!" Henderson offers up a halfhearted salute of his own for the old guy, then lets his hand drop to his side as he looks to Ardeth.
"So why did Imhotep have to kidnap my wife? He didn't seem pleased to see her when he showed up."
"He intends to keep the promise he made to his nephew," Ardeth answers as they follow Winston over to the biplane. "He will either keep her close to ensure her absolute safety from things he disapproves of—" A meaningful glance in Henderson's direction "—Or he will simply try and resurrect his younger sister and put her into your wife's body."
"AJ won't let him kill her or anyone else."
"He will not give her the choice." Henderson clenches his jaw tightly, anger surging through his veins like fire at the thought of someone trying to harm the love of his life. He's been with her for nine years now, married for five, and he'd be damned before he allowed his son to grow up without a mother.
And how could she defend herself against a fucking mummy? She may be sassy and intelligent, but she wasn't physically strong enough to fight off a man of Imhotep's size. "Trust me, buddy, my wife's too stubborn not to put up a fight."
Henderson had never liked planes, not even the smaller one his father used for crop-dusting, so the fact that he was seated directly behind O'Connell and not actually inside the plane had him hating them even more. The biplane only had two seats, O'Connell and Winston taking them while everyone else just tried to hang on for dear life.
Henderson was just glad he'd drawn the long straw and was able to lie out on the tail, Ardeth and Jonathan each having to choose a wing and hope they weren't thrown off. There's a machine gun mounted near Henderson's head and he hoped like hell that it wouldn't need to be fired anytime soon because it would be a hell of a lot louder than his pistol was.
"You doin' okay," O'Connell shouts over the wind.
"Don't you talk to me right now, boy," Henderson screams up at him, miffed about being tied down. His bad mood only got worse when he looked to the side and took in the enormous sand tornado—at least, that's what he was calling it. Being from Texas, he's seen his fair share of tornadoes and he's helped rebuild houses in his state and in the states that surrounded him, and this one was barely an F-3.
Where's a siren when you need one?
At least this was way out in the desert where any human with some sense wouldn't be; no houses to rebuild, lives to mourn, or a certain black cat that won't be named to chase down the street because Tucker refused to go into the cellar without the damn thing.
The howling of the wind picks up and Henderson glanced at O'Connell in time to see the other man's blue eyes go wide as he stared at something over Henderson's head. "Oh, my God," he moaned in fear.
"What," Henderson shouts, wrapping his arms tighter around the metal beneath him," what is it now?!"
"Winston, peddle a little faster!" Henderson lets out a shriek as the plan nosedives over a cliff, closing his eyes as the ground rose up faster and faster. We're gonna die, we're gonna die! I'm too young to be murdered by an old geezer with a death wish! God, old buddy, I'll go to church every Sunday from now until I'm too old to walk if you get me out of this alive.
And then the plane leveled out, Henderson letting out a breath of relief. "Thank Christ," Henderson croaks. The noise only grows louder as O'Connell starts firing off round after round into whatever is chasing them through the skies. As Henderson began to relax again, they were hit by a wall of sand, the air knocked out of him as it swirled around them tightly and the plane spun out of control.
We had a deal, you celestial asshole!
He tries desperately to suck in some oxygen, but only succeeds in getting a mouthful of coarse sand. This was the worst week of his life and that was counting the time he'd showed up to a job interview in just a pair of boxers and one of his dad's ties.
Just as suddenly as the sand hit, it fell away, leaving the little plane to slam into the ground with enough force to break it apart. Henderson groans, pulling out his pocket knife and cutting through the rope, crying out as he slid off the plane and hit the earth.
"Everyone okay," O'Connell asks from beside him.
"Not even remotely," he pants as he sits up," I think my stomach fell out when we did the nosedive."
"Excuse me," Jonathan exclaims from his wing, now a good seven feet from the body of the plane," a little help would be appreciated if it's not too much trouble!" Henderson leaves that chore to O'Connell, getting up on unsteady legs and stumbling a few feet away from the deathtrap, spitting the sand out of his mouth.
"I think I broke my pride." A loud groaning sound makes him jump backwards on instinct, looking around for the threat when he notices the body of the plane beginning to sink into the sand.
"Quicksand," Ardeth warns, grabbing Henderson's sleeve and pulling him back a few more feet to safer ground. Winston, unmoving, went down with the plane, buried like all the other men he'd fought with during the war. Henderson lowers his head and mutters a quick prayer for the man's soul, his Christian upbringing something he always fell back on.
"Don't give Jesus too much trouble up there, Winston."