Flight 3108

by Mikeworth, Sharon

  “You all right?” Dustin asked, pausing on his way out.

  “Yeah, I’m good, but I could use an antacid.” He followed Dustin through the doorway, and they moved to the side to wait for the other two.

  A moment later Rocky emerged, and Dustin straightened up from where he’d been leaning by a bank of blank monitors. “Hey Rocky, bossman needs something for his stomach. Do you think the medicine is still good?”

  “Uhhh… it might have lost some of its potency but I doubt it would hurt you. What are you wanting?”

  “Anything we can find,” Mason said.

  “Okay, well there should at least be some Tums around here.”

  “I shouldn’t have drunk that rum.”

  “I, myself, regret nothing,” Juan declared, coming out. “Except maybe getting on Flight 3108,” he amended.

  “Let’s try up there,” Rocky suggested, pointing to a place ahead on their left across from the beginning of a large seating area between the two nearest gates.

  They quickly moved up to the shop and entered, turning right past a rack of ball caps where the store continued on around.

  It was a little too dim in the back where the light from the windows didn’t reach, and Mason had to click on the Maglite. He shined the beam along the shelves and racks of moldy snacks, gum, and other convenience items until he found the section he was looking for.

  He grabbed a two-pack of Tylenol from a display box and started searching again.

  “Here,” Rocky said, indicating a shelf in front of him. “There’s Tums, Alka-Seltzer—”

  “Tums is fine.”

  He took the roll and propped the flashlight on a stack of sweatshirts while he dry-swallowed a Tylenol and chewed up two of the antacid tablets.

  “You okay now?” Dustin asked, moving away from the moldering baked goods he’d been staring mournfully at.

  “Yeah, that should do it.”

  “Good,” said Juan from where he stood. “Because this place is giving me the creeps.”

  Mason looked at him in surprise. Up until now, he hadn’t shown anything but the normal amount of anxiousness they were all feeling.

  “I don’t know about you,” Juan continued, “but I’m ready to get the hell out of this airport.”

  “Okay… Well, then let’s go.” Mason wasn’t relishing the long walk back they would soon have to make, but the others were no doubt worried by now.

  Not that they had anything good to tell them, or any kind of solution to their current predicament.

  The other three wanted to head on out of the terminal, but Mason insisted they give the last section a quick perusal first. Might as well; they’d come this far. He had no urge to drag it out, though, and took off at a fast clip. Like Juan, he was ready to get the hell out of there.

  They made no stops and reached the other end pretty quickly.

  Mason was moving by a long wall of windows where the building ended, watching the rain misting down on a nearby jet and the attached bridge. Raising the binoculars, he was startled by movement outside.

  It was two men and a woman running pell-mell in their direction across the wet tarmac.

  “Hey, look!” he yelled. “There’s people out there.” But not their people, he realized as the others rushed up to see. These were dirty and unkempt, wearing clothing that had seen better days. As they watched, one of the men shot a wild look over his shoulder.

  What were they running from?

  “What the…?” murmured Dustin at the same time Mason saw the other figure come into view.

  “Is that—” began Rocky, but Dustin overrode him. “It’s fucking Yul Brenner!”

  Mason would have laughed if he hadn’t been so thrown. It did look like the android from Westworld, only without the accompanying hat. Stopping directly across from them but still facing partially away, the bald man, who was wearing the faded gray uniform of a security guard, spread his legs, pulled out two huge-looking revolvers, and began shooting at the fleeing trio now swerving away.

  One of the men’s back arched, a red splotch appearing across it like a bullseye, and he went down as the guard continued to fire at the retreating two. A second later, the other man flew forward and tumbled across the pavement.

  “Dios mío,” whispered Juan.

  Standing petrified, they watched as the woman dashed across, dodging and weaving desperately. Mason thought she was going to make it—she had nearly reached the far corner—then she stumbled, dropped to her knees, and crumped to the ground.

  Belatedly, Mason realized the danger they were in as the Yul Brenner look-alike pivoted, caught sight of them, and went rigid. Holy shit, Mason thought as he stood there, pinned in place by the thing’s freaky silver eyes.

  “Oh, this ain’t good,” said Juan. “This so ain’t good.”

  “Run!” yelled Dustin.

  They took off, instinctively veering to the side to get away from the windows.

  “Go, go, go!” screamed Dustin.

  They made it out of sight and started booking like hell down the concourse, arms pumping.

  All of a sudden, Juan cried out and fell to the floor, clutching his ankle.

  Mason skidded to a stop and looked around frantically for the security bot, thinking he’d been shot. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my ankle,” moaned Juan.

  Rocky ran back and squatted beside him. “Your ankle?”

  “Yeah, it goes out every now and then. I don’t know why. It’s done it my whole life. It’ll be fine for a long time, and then bam, it’ll sort of pop out.” He extended his foot and slowly rotated it. “It should be okay in a minute.”

  Mason and Dustin kept watch while Rocky helped Juan up and got him going again, albeit a little slower. But after a bit, his ankle eased up, and they were able to increase their speed.

  Soon they were coming up on the home stretch, about to leave the gates behind. Mason was just envisioning making it across the front and out the doors, when from around the wall of the duty-free shop to their left, out walked the droid guard. Stopping directly ahead of them, it raised the revolvers, and for half a second, Mason considered pulling out his pistol—but there was no way he was getting into a gunfight with it. Then, “Over here!” cried a voice to Mason’s right, and the woman it belonged to was flinging open a door behind her. “This way!”

  Having no other choice, they shot across and simply followed her outstretched arm through the opening.

  Too late Mason understood they’d entered a jetway. He could hear the rain drumming on the roof above them. Dustin, ahead of him, looked over his shoulder as he ran and must not have liked what he saw, because he began moving even faster.

  Mason risked a glance and saw why. The android guard had entered behind them and now stood legs apart, guns up and ready to shoot.

  “Look out!” screamed Rocky, who’d also seen him, and all of them instinctively dodged in different directions.

  BOOM, one of the guns went off, incredibly loud in the narrow space. Stumbling, Dustin reached the door to the aircraft, and having no choice, bounded up and into the plane, past a male attendant, also an android, Mason assumed, standing by the open door.

  We’re being herded like a bunch of cattle, he thought. “Wait!” he cried. But what other choice did they have?

  Another shot rang out and Mason felt something snag his shirt as it whizzed by incredibly close.

  And then he was dashing by the weirdly smiling attendant—its eyes were like the other one’s, only blue—and entering the aircraft.

  Rocky flew through behind him, then Juan, and the door slammed shut.

  Dear God, thought Mason. What is that smell?

  Dustin, who had apparently gone right when he’d entered, came flying back up out of the dimness. “Go, go, go!” he yelled.

  Where the hell were they supposed to go?

  Nevertheless, they wheeled around and went for the door.

  “We have to get off this plane,” Du
stin cried, crowding into them.

  Mason backed up to give him room, and a moment later was yanked sideways by a clawlike hand latching onto his upper arm.

  “You need to take your seat,” said the brilliantly red-haired stewardess who had him in her grip. She had begun to deteriorate as well, possibly from degradation of her internal components for whatever reason, and her—its— voice sounded flat and mechanical.

  Mason tried to yank his arm away from her, but she only tightened her hold and began dragging him farther into the plane. “It’s b-b-b-best that you take your seat now, until the difficulty has passed and we have received the all clear. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “A little help here,” he said over his shoulder, but the others were having their own issues as the aircraft door burst open and the security guard from hell filled the opening.

  Mason’s attention was abruptly pulled away as he hit something on the floor and nearly fell while the android stewardess, relentless, continued trying to drag him toward the back of the plane. He looked down as he stumbled over the obstruction and saw it was a blue backpack with orange trim.

  Planting his feet and leaning back to slow his progress, he twisted around.

  And there was Peter, thrown over the seats with his feet hanging out, his head tilted at an impossible angle.

  His neck had been broken. Suppressing a gag, Mason recoiled, staggering.

  “Sir,” the red-haired horror show said, stopping in front of him. “I must inform you that we are… are… rrr… are authorized to subdue you if you exhibit unruly or dangerous behavior.”

  The sounds of a struggle increased behind him and Mason heard a gun go off once more as the android woman, having given what he figured would be her only warning, swiveled back around and started moving again, still keeping his arm in a vicelike grip.

  Mason finally went for the pistol with his free hand. He withdrew it and thumbed off the safety at the same time another ear-ringing blast sounded behind him.

  He raised the pistol and immediately had to dodge the red-haired bitch’s other hand reaching for his throat. Lunging, he threw himself into her, bringing the Beretta up again, jammed it hard under her chin—and pulled the trigger. The female bot jerked, letting loose of him, careened back over a seat, and then went down hard, crashing out into the aisle in a heap, now missing a chunk from the back of her head.

  He spun around to hurry back to the others and faltered momentarily at the remains of a body, still dressed in a policeman’s uniform. It had been there so long mostly only bones remained. He snatched up the pack, flung it onto his back, and took off for the front. Now that he wasn’t being propelled along by a malfunctioning robot, he was able to pay more attention to his surroundings, and he noticed several more bodies, or skeletons, he should say. They had obviously been there for a while, possibly the entire four years.

  But what appalled him the most was that they didn’t appear to have died from violence or some other disaster. They looked for all intents and purposes to have simply bedded down the best they could—some of them were covered in musty blankets—and then died. Or grown weaker and weaker until they died, he thought as the full extent of what they’d gone through struck him. They’d been trapped. Held on the plane and killed if they made too much of a fuss. But why? Some kind of data corruption causing them to allow these poor people to starve to death or die from dehydration?

  Mason slowed as he came up on the next to last row in first class. In the midst of being dragged away by the droid stewardess, he’d completely missed the source of the godawful smell. Pulling his shirt up over his lower face, he tried to breathe through his mouth as he took in the blood-covered form of a young man on the floor. He was lying on his back at an angle with his feet thrown up on the seat in front of him. Like someone, or something, had carelessly dropped him there.

  Looking at it, Mason didn’t think the body had been there that long. Maybe a few days. He remembered the blood stain on the concrete. Holding his breath now, he leaned over and found the bullet hole. Under the man’s right hand where he’d died clutching at it, there was a ragged wound in his abdomen.

  Unable to take it anymore, Mason moved on through the section, past the last row of seats, and nearly slammed into Dustin on top of the guard android’s back riding the damn thing like a bronco. He was attempting keep his hands over its eyes as it flung itself back and forth to dislodge him.

  Rocky, Mason saw, jumping across toward the still open door, had somehow gotten ahold of one of the revolvers and was attempting to keep it while the male attendant that had been manning the door grappled with him.

  “Down!” roared Mason, striding over and jamming the pistol to the back of the android’s head. Rocky and Juan instantly hit the deck and Mason pulled the trigger, dropping the thing where it stood.

  Dustin cried out behind him as he was finally flung off, and Mason spun around, pointing the gun at the guard who had momentarily forgotten about Dustin and was now switching its attention to him.

  The thing’s eyes seemed to blaze in alternating shades of silver as it fixed its cold, inhuman stare on him.

  He had yet to hear the thing make a sound, and it didn’t make one now as it moved one foot forward, without taking its unnerving gaze off of him, and began walking in his direction, slowly raising its remaining revolver.

  Mason steadied his aim and pulled the trigger, absently registering Dustin, still on the floor, diving out of the way. He caught it in the chest and slowed it some. But still it advanced. Mason fired again. This time the shot went wild, only catching the tip of an ear. It had almost reached him, revolver poised to shoot, and Mason fired one more time—and got it square in the middle of the forehead.

  Swaying back and forth, the thing stayed on its feet for a moment, eyes rapidly flicking from side to side, and then finally fell backwards and crashed to the floor.

  Mason sagged, exhaling in relief. “Is everybody okay?”

  “Yep,” Rusty croaked from where he now sat with his back against the bulkhead.

  “Dustin?”

  He reemerged from first class. “Right here.”

  “Juan?”

  “I’m good,” he said, getting to his feet.

  Mason engaged the Beretta’s safety and stowed it away. “Okay.”

  Dustin ran his hand across his stubbly hair and looked around. “Now what?”

  “We need to find Peter,” Rocky said from the floor.

  Mason nodded toward the next section. “He’s in there. He’s dead.”

  “Shit,” Rocky muttered, and lowered his head onto his knees.

  Mason gave him and Juan a couple of seconds to absorb the knowledge then stepped over to help Rocky up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Dustin said. “I think I’m going to keep one of these guns and take point. There’s at least one more of them still out there, you know.”

  That was fine by Mason. His neck was starting to ache again, anyway. He gave Rocky’s shoulder a squeeze as Dustin removed the rounds from the other revolver to add to the one he was taking.

  When they reached the other end of the jetway, Dustin burst out into the gate’s area, expecting trouble, sweeping the revolver from side to side. But the attendant who had pointed them toward the plane-turned-coffin was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is she?” whispered Juan.

  “Hopefully off in standby mode conserving power somewhere.”

  Dustin, who had been stalking about the lounge area and checking the main boulevard in each direction, gave one last glance the other way, and came back over to where they stood. “The way’s clear, as far as I can tell. I don’t see any more of those things.”

  Juan gazed around him. “If there is, hopefully, like Mason said, they’re hibernating.”

  “Did you see the guy on the plane?” Dustin asked, addressing Mason.

  He nodded. “Those people were probably still here because of him.”

/>   “What?” said both Rocky and Juan.

  Mason told them what he’d seen and how he believed it to be the source of the bloodstain they’d found. “My guess is he was with them.”

  “But why would they be out here all by themselves?” Juan wanted to know.

  Rocky spoke up. “Maybe they came simply to explore, or on a lark, maybe planning to record everything left abandoned for whatever reason.”

  Dustin shifted around to look the other way. “They might have come in to loot or hoping to salvage something.”

  “And ran afoul of the robots,” concluded Rocky.

  “Anyway,” Mason said. “It’s possible he was shot, unbeknownst to them if he was apart when it occurred, then taken away, or maybe staggered away, before ending up on the other plane. They could have been searching for him.” While being hunted and thwarted at every turn until they’d suffered the same fate.

  Juan shivered. “We need to get out of here.”

  Dustin leaned in to Mason. “Listen, bossman… I’m with Juan. I think we’ve gotten all the information we need.”

  Mason was in complete agreement. It didn’t matter what had happened here in the past, or what the situation was out there now. What mattered was that this wasn’t their world.

  “Whatever this is,” Dustin continued. “Wherever we are… it’s not right. Nothing’s right.”

  Might as well say it; there was no denying it. “This is not our Earth.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be,” agreed Rocky.

  “I think Kimi and that Becka girl were right,” Juan said. “Crazy as it sounds. But what other explanation is there? We went through something, and somehow ended up here. Somewhere else. This is not how things were. This airport’s been abandoned for years. Everyone is gone, from here and the surrounding areas. And there’s fucking robots. This is—”

  “Take it easy,” Mason said.

  “—insane. I mean, I know they’ve been developing sophisticated AIs and all, but come on.”

  “There sure as hell weren’t any robots in the airport or at the frakin’ candy shop before,” Rocky contributed. “There was that publicity crap on the news a while back about a robot being named a citizen or some shit, but serving behind counters and manning airline gates and serving as guards and flight attendants? No way.”