Torchwood: Exodus Code

you tonight, amigo.’
    Jack’s heart was racing, a bitter taste filling his mouth. And that smell? Like oil of vitriol… and fear.
    His.
    ‘You realise this isn’t something we’re going to be able to keep to ourselves for much longer,’ said Renso, flying the Hornet low enough for Jack to get one more look. ‘Soon I’m not going to be the only one who owns a plane in this part of the world.’
    ‘I know,’ Jack replied, rubbing his temples. Now he felt really sick. This was definitely much worse than a bad burrito.
    ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Renso asked.
    Jack’s head weighed a ton on his neck, his eyes wouldn’t stop watering, and every nerve in his skin was on fire. Was he dreaming? Even his hair seemed to hurt. ‘I’ll do… some… some investigating, Renso. I’ll return when I know more.’
    ‘I don’t know, amigo,’ said Renso, glancing at Jack, holding his stare for a beat. ‘Perhaps this isn’t a place you should ever return to.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You look like shit.’
    Jack forced a smile. ‘Ah, thanks. It’s the altitude or something I ate.’
    ‘Ha, very funny, my friend. When has flying ever bothered you? I’m taking us back to Castenado.’
    ‘Good, but then I want a closer look, Renso. I need to get into that mountain. I need to examine those rings.’
    ‘Not on my watch, Jack.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Cause, my friend, your eyes are bleeding.’
    ‘What?’ Jack wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his tears pink against his pale skin. Before he had time to process what was happening to him, adrenalin shot up his spine, spiked across his limbs, and exploded into his brain. Jack’s back arched, his legs stiffened, and his entire body convulsed, rocking the tiny biplane. He couldn’t control his limbs, but he was aware of every violent flailing movement. It was as if someone had wired an electric current to his brain and was making his body dance.
    ‘
¿Qué diablos?
’ yelled Renso.
    Horrified, Jack watched the words spew from Renso’s mouth in waves of green and yellow, but the only sound Jack could hear was a woman’s shrill pitch. And her voice tasted like ginger.
    And then as if a switch was flipped inside Jack’s brain, every sound around him became painfully amplified – the howl of the wind, the roar of the propellers, even the scratching of his coat against his neck. And that stench. What was that smell? It was like trench mud and rotting corpses, mountains of them, suffocating him. Jack gagged. He bit down on his tongue. His blood tasted like… like death.
    What the hell was happening to him?
    Jack lifted his hand to his face, forgetting he was still holding his notebook. It flew from his fingers. Instinctively, Renso reached up to catch it.
    ‘Man, what the hell was that?’ Renso yelped, yanking his hand back. The notebook swooped up into the air and out of reach . Renso screamed, and the sound felt like a knife had plunged into Jack’s leg. He pressed his hand to his thigh, but there was no wound. Slowly, he pulled himself upright, the convulsions finally abating.
    Jack stared in horror at Renso’s right hand. His fingers looked as if a hammer was crushing them one by one.
    ‘Oh Jesus, what’s happening? Do something, Jack!’
    At first Jack was too stunned to move. Renso’s hand seemed to have a life of its own, bone and cartilage pushing through Renso’s shredding skin.
    Renso howled. Jack loosened his harness and at the same time Renso’s wrist snapped in half, arterial blood spraying across the cockpit. Jack scrambled from his seat. The Hornet plummeted towards the mountain.
    ‘
¡Madre mía!
’ Renso whimpered, his face draining of colour, his head lolling against the Hornet’s controls as he fought to keep the plane in the air with his other hand.
    ‘Stay with me, Renso,’ Jack yelled, ‘Stay with me.’
    Jack tore his scarf from his neck, but when he tried to stabilise himself in the cramped space the Hornet bucked and he was thrown back into his seat.
    Renso was bleeding out. No doubt in Jack’s mind. He was watching his friend bleed to death in front of his eyes. Jack climbed up on his seat, doubled over because of the wing, and hooked his arm over the frame above him. He stretched as far forward as he could in the tilting, tumbling plane, trying desperately to get the scarf around the ragged bloody stump that moments ago had been Renso’s hand. The screaming in his head was getting louder, the taste