Planet of the Dead (Book 3): Escape From The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  We’re at war, Rusk thought. And war demands sacrifice.

  Terry

  La Porte Municipal Airport

  La Porte, Texas

  “We need to hurry,” Conroy said.

  Terry nodded, squinting through the snowstorm across the tarmac at the perimeter. Thousands of the dead stood clanking against the chain-link fence that stretched for miles surrounding the airfield. There had always been straggling corpses—random occurrences of herd-like groups for no reason but a primitive interest in getting past the barricade. But as more and more survivors came looking for a way out, more of the dead followed them. Drawn probably by the sound of vehicles or the headlamps—all the activity when for so long they had kept quiet and out of sight.

  “Who else we got left?” Terry asked, still gazing at the horde gathering at the locked fence.

  Conroy shook his head. “John and McDermott said they could fly those Beechcraft’s over in hanger five. Both have ten seats, though they can squeeze in two more bodies if they needed. That’ll leave you with the Cessna. That’s only got 4 seats, not much wiggle room, assuming we get it running. She hasn’t flown in over a year.”

  “Twenty-eight souls left to save,” Terry commented, mostly to himself. “And how many people are waiting over in Hanger One? Dozens more. How are we supposed to get everyone out?”

  “Better than nothing. Hell, I still think this is crazy,” Conroy grumbled. His large eyes stared at the dead as they pounded on the fence. Even from all the way out on the runway, he could hear the moaning cries of hunger and frustration.

  Terry smiled. He pulled his parka tighter against his shivering body. “You still on about that? Think we should have flown off to some tropical island soakin’ up sunshine by now? Nothing but the two of us and a pair of fishing poles.”

  Conroy coughed and lit a cigarette. He exhaled smoke that swirled quickly in the snowy breeze. “Don’t forget the bottle of Jim Bean. Gotta fight the good fight against dryrot and rust.” He offered the smoke to Terry.

  Terry took it, his smile fading. “I couldn’t imagine just taking off. I guess its not in my wiring.” He took a puff and handed the stale Pall-Mall to Conroy. “Some cargo trucks still parked around back. Plenty of gas to spare. You could find a back road out of town.”

  Conroy shook his head, taking back his smoke. “Yeah, well I’m still counting on you to take me to the Promised Land. So, I guess I better keep you alive.”

  Terry didn’t reply. He smiled and hugged his jacket closer to him, rubbing his hands together. He glanced up at the darkening grey sky. “Don’t suppose this storm will let up anytime soon.”

  Finishing his smoke, Conroy said, “And that fence isn’t going to hold forever.”

  “Right. Let’s get John and McDermott airborne.”

  “And how are we going to handle the passengers?”

  “How much ammo you got left?”

  “Two clips still—why?”

  “We’re going to take as many families as we can, give priority to the children and women. But I suspect there will be some protest. I’m an old-fashioned guy with old fashioned sentiments. I ain’t doing none of that first come first serve bullshit. Now, I don’t want to use force, but I need you in there just in case. You cool with that?” Terry glanced at his friend.

  Conroy exhaled loudly. “We’d better get back inside before they start thinking we’re making out or something.”

  Terry laughed. A short, loud burst that filled his heart with warmth. Tears stung his eyes, but they weren’t sad. He’d already given his share of sorrow. Any measure of joy was a moment worth cherishing.

  ***

  Hanger One was in an uproar. Fifty or so voices clamoring to be heard above the others. Only the children were silent. Clinging to the arms of their mothers and fathers. There were families, dressed in puffy winter coats of various color with reasonably worn boots. Some were more of a hodgepodge by design as if they had raided a church donation center. And there were a few who looked more affluent, dressed in smart thick wool trench coats and comfortable scarfs and snowshoes that looked brand new.

  “I’ve been here for over twelve hours waiting for a flight,” said one of the affluent. He was a tall, somewhat thin man. A thick fleece, beanie cap covered his head. He stood jabbing his hand while he barked. “And now you’re telling me there aren’t enough seats to take everyone?”

  Murmuring from the crowd. Some, like the man, were agitated. Others, especially the mothers with children clutched to their side, groaned with concern.

  “Sir, if you would—” Terry tried explaining.

  “No—you listen. I have been here all day. I was told you were offering flights out of the city. And that is exactly what I expect to happen,” the man continued.

  “And what about them, huh?” Conroy, who had up until this point hung back, keeping his mouth shut as directed, asked, gesturing to the kids in the crowd. “You’d just leave them behind?”

  The well-dressed man sneered. His gaze darted to the children and their mothers standing behind him. He quickly looked away from them. “As far as I’m concerned, this should be first come first served.”

  The people behind began shouting angerly.

  “Oh, shut up!” the man snapped, turning partially to the crowd. “Each and everyone here is only concerned with saving their own ass. You want to judge someone? Judge yourselves.”

  The angry voices diminished to a low roar. With a satisfied smirk, the man turned back to Terry. “When does my flight depart?”

  Terry shook his head. Dazed at the behavior of this man acting as if he was talking with some clerk at Southwest Airlines, as if this hanger on a rundown runway on the edge of La Porte was actually Hobby Airport or Bush International and he was making a simple business transaction—as if nuclear bombs hadn’t utterly decimated U.S. cities, and around the globe, darkening the sky, as if the dead weren’t walking and eating the living, as if humanity weren’t on the verge of collapsing into the dark ages or worse, facing extinction.

  The man waited patiently. Eyebrows arched and blinking innocently, lips pursed like some horrible parent killing a child’s dream of becoming a western cowboy or a superhero, no Jonnie, those jobs don’t actually exist.

  “Its not,” Terry said, matter-of-factly. “Not just for you. This isn’t some commercial airliner. We’re not taking a flight to some sunny resort. This is life and death. And I call the shots on who boards my planes, not you. You got me?”

  Shock filled the man’s face. His eyes darted around, searching for something to say, anything that could win him his way. Stepping forward he whispered, “Listen—let’s not be rash here. I can make this very lucrative for you. I have assets. Money. Whatever you want.”

  His voice was laced in desperation and Terry felt for him, he really did. But none of it, not money, prestige, social standing or class mattered. Not anymore. He had to think about the bigger picture. Doing what was right in the moment. Sowing seeds of hope.

  He moved past the rich man and addressed the crowd. “Folks, I am truly sorry that I cannot take all of you. I am. But truthfully, we’re lucky to have what we’ve got. And what we’ve got left is three birds with twenty-eight open seats. There are over fifty of you here. We cannot take you all.”

  A silence hung in the air.

  “Who gets to go?” someone asked from the back.

  Terry took a breath and exhaled. “The women and children, but especially the children, take priority.”

  Angry protest broke out.

  Terry raised his hand, gesturing for them to be quiet. “I know this will separate families, but it’s the right thing to do.”

  “The hell it is!” shouted the well-dressed man. He looked pale, as if all the blood had rushed from his face. His eyes were wide and unblinking. “This isn’t the fucking Titanic. Its every man for himself.”

  Conroy stepped forward, brandishing his pistol.

  The businessman stepped back, gazing at the weap
on timidly.

  Terry raised his hand again. “I know this is hard. And we’re not forcing you to give up your children. We’re simply offering a way to get them to safety. We’re going to an airfield near Townsend, Georgia. We heard of a place, a safe place, off the coast. There’s an island along Blackbeard’s Creek. Our sources say this is a safe haven, protected by a rocky shore that faces the mainland. There’s already a small community set up with supplies, shelter, medicine, food, and they welcome newcomers.” He stopped and looked out at the crowd. “I know what you’re thinking. That this is too good to be true. That it’s too much risk. Too many unknowns. I don’t have all the answers for you. I’m not forcing you to do anything. All I’m offering is a chance, a chance for your children.”

  Again, a heavy silence fell on the crowd.

  “And what about the rest of us?” the businessman asked, his voice low and defeated.

  Terry looked at him and then back at the crowd gathered together in Hanger One. “For the rest of you, we’ve got two 2 ½ half ton M35 Army cargo trucks at the back of the lot. They’re covered and fully fueled. Its high enough off the ground to keep those nasties off of you. I know this is not ideal, but it’ll get you out of the city.”

  Huddled together, the families discussed their options. After some time, the children began filing up, red eyed and sniffling, some with their mothers, and others without. One family hugged each other goodbye. Terry watched, tears stinging his own eyes as the seven-year-old little girl dressed in a pink overcoat and pink-colored ski cap hugged her father. She said goodbye in the sweetest tiniest voice, like an angel’s whisper. The father hugged his wife and promised that he would find them. No matter what it took, he would find them. There were nineteen children in all, and only nine mothers.

  ***

  Terry and Conroy were the last flight to take off. They watched as John and McDermott were air bound in the Beechcraft’s. By some miracle, the Cessna Skyhawk started up with no problem. The rotor purred like a roaring kitten. Conroy had salted the runway earlier.

  Glancing back, Terry visually checked on his passengers, the mother and the little seven-year-old from Hanger One. Though he didn’t say it, in his heart he vowed to keep them safe. He had even given the father his keys to the warehouse. Told him to take whatever he needed for the journey. Told him to keep off the main roads as much as possible. And to head east. Ditch the Army cargo trucks as soon as they ran out of fuel. Find something less conspicuous. Walk if necessary. Whatever it took.

  Satisfied, Terry guided the plane out on the runway. Clear of the hanger and straightened out, he pushed on the throttle, the momentum forcing him and the passengers back into their seats. Faster and faster the small plane trudged until finally they had reached optimum speed and he was able to pull back on the control wheel, guiding the plane into the air. Higher and higher they soared into the grey, thick sky. Ice frosted part of the windshield and port windows, but Houston was still visible below.

  “Jesus!” Conroy gasped over the headset, glaring out the passenger window, his breath fogged the glass.

  Terry glanced down and smirked. “Yeah, a bunch of real estate for sale at close-out prices, man.” Below them, the entire heart of the city was clogged with abandoned vehicles, stretching out in either direction as far as his eyes could see. Despite the cold, fires burned in high-rise apartment buildings and offices, including Market Square Tower, Montrose, JP Morgan Chase Tower and the Wells Fargo Plaza. No lights. No sounds but the hum of the airplane engine, but even way up here he could imagine the low, droning moan of the dead surrounding and choking off the city. Further out, the entire 225 freeway seemed ablaze. Hexion, Sekisui, Oxiteno, Dow, GEO, LyondellBasell, Chevon, and other Buffalo Bayou based refineries lit up the darkening sky with enormous licking flames. Black smoke billowed upward like the shroud of some eldritch nightmare. Without people to man the machinery, the mounting pressure had released, creating an inferno.

  “It looks like hell on earth down there. How did this happen? You’d think someone would have done something. Warned us. Prepared better.” Conroy sank back in his seat looking pale and sweaty.

  Terry glanced at him and then gazed back at his instrument panel. “What? You want to put some kind of explanation on all this?”

  Conroy shrugged.

  “Here’s one as good as any other,” Terry continued, “We’re being punished by the Creator. He visited a curse on us. Maybe, He didn’t want to see us blow ourselves up, put a big hole in the sky. Maybe He just wanted to show us He’s still the Boss Man. Maybe He figured we were getting too big for our britches, trying to always figure His shit out.”

  Conroy licked his lips

  Terry glanced at him and smiled a humorless smile. “Yeah. I don’t like that one either,” he said as he pulled hard on the yoke and guided the plane east.

  Polk

  Part II

  Unknown location

  She smelled perfume.

  Like a flower of some sort, but more smoky—familiar, though she couldn’t place it. Opening her eyes, for a while all Polk could see was darkness and then slowly a soft light glowed. The blur cleared to reveal a row of candles lit and sitting on an end table against plain white walls, and nothing else, as much as she could tell at least. Moving, she found that her hands and feet had been bound. Twisting, she gazed down at an empty thigh holster. They—whoever they were—had taken her pistol.

  “Hey, there,” came a whisper from somewhere nearby.

  Polk squirmed to see where the voice was coming from.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not one of them,” she giggled. “I guess you’re not one of them, either.”

  Spotting a shadowy frame to her left, Polk rolled over to face her. She was an older looking woman, though it was hard to tell exactly how old with only candlelight. Her accent suggested she was from the area, a thick, creole southern hitch in her pronunciations. She wore grey sweatpants and a pale dull red hoodie. Her hair was stringy and thin that fell to her shoulders with a mix of brown and grey. She was sitting up against a wall, chewing on her nails, hands and legs bound with the same rope.

  “Guess not,” Polk said, keeping her voice low. She glanced around the room again, searching.

  “They keep the men in another room,” the woman said. “I’m Bernie, by the way.”

  Polk looked at her. “Where?”

  Bernie nodded at the wall where the candles were. She gazed at the flickering light with a sorrowful expression. “On the other side,” she said, “I think this is that Holiness church on Florida. Never thought them Pentecostals would be so depraved. They are completely out of their minds.”

  Saying nothing, Polk watched and let the woman grieve. She wondered how long she had been there. How many of them there were? If her friends were okay. Strangely, she didn’t feel too concerned for herself. Her heart pumped normally against her chest. Her skin wasn’t clammy or sweaty as she used to get whenever she was nervous. Her breath was slow and deliberate. And her focus was crystal clear. She tested the ropes binding her hands. They were thick manila, like rope used in construction, hoisting beams and planks of building material. Whoever had tied the knots had done good work, yet somehow, she felt an inner strength and the binding seemed like straw in her mind. She relaxed, not wanting to break free—not just yet.

  “How long have you been here?” Polk asked. She laid flat on the floor.

  “Oh, a few days I reckon. Hard to tell, being kept in here in the dark,” Bernie answered. “I’ve only been taken out a few times to use the restroom—guess no one wanted to clean up the mess if I decided to pee on the floor,” She laughed, a dry sort of chuckle. “And when that dipshit gives his ‘sermon,’ and...” her voice trailed off.

  Polk rolled over and waited for Bernie to continue.

  The old woman sniffled and wiped her eyes. “I never would have imagined anyone... They’re pure evil.”

  Polk waited and then asked. “Who?”

  Bernie shrugged. �
�I don’t know them, personally. Passed by him at the supermarket, before—you know, all this. He’s just some guy that used to go to church here. I don’t think he was anyone really important. He doesn’t strike me as a preacher...though he’s preaching plenty now, but his message isn’t about hope and faith. He spews hate—a hate for God, Almighty. He blames the Lord for everything that has happened. The dead walking and the world ending. And as he reckons, if God loves his flock so much, he’s going to punish them.”

  “What?” Polk stammered.

  “He’s punishing God by punishing people.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I know. Its him, goes by the name Preacher Ty. And he’s got some followers. All of them God haters and blood thirsty sons of bitches.” Bernie paused, taking in deep breaths. She seemed on the verge of crying. Sniffling again, she continued. “We were about to get on the road. My husband Andre and his brother Carl and myself. We’d loaded up our Winnebago. Heard from this traveler a few weeks ago about a place he called ‘Paradise.’ And we were all set to go until we got jumped by these fools. I knew we should have just gone. We had plenty, but Andre was worried about bringing enough supplies to barter with, in case these people in Paradise expected payment of some kind. Oh, Andre loved people; he just didn’t expect too much from them. No one gives away anything for free, after all.”

  Polk took in what she said. Paradise, she wondered. Was that what she; they were searching for?

  “Where is this Paradise?” she asked.

  “Out east, the traveler had said to head toward Georgia—all the way to the coast. Look for Blackbeard’s Creek and then for the signs,” Bernie said. “Not that it much matters now.” She exhaled in a low sigh. “Andre had really taken to the idea.”

  Though she already knew the answer, Polk asked, “Bernie? What happened to your husband?”