Zombie Apocalypse Serial #2

by Ivana E. Tyorbrains

  “How’s Cori?” I said.

  “She says her throat still hurts, but that’s it. No stuffy nose. No cough. I don’t think she’s got it.”

  It. Now it was a thing. It had been an idea, a prediction. Now it was an event.

  Now it was national news.

  Sabrina had pulled up CNN.com on her phone. Stretched across the screen, in big black letters, was a headline that took my breath away.

  Late Season Flu Outbreak Takes World By Surprise: Hundreds of Millions Wake Up Sick

  Episode 3 – Zombies on a Plane

  Rachel Holbrook

  Think of a time you stepped on a plane and were greeted not only by the flight attendant, but also the captain. How did he look?

  Yes, I said he. I know it’s more proper to be gender neutral, especially coming from a female captain like me, but let’s be honest. The pilot who greeted you was a white man aged forty to sixty. Most of them are.

  So you’re thinking about that white man in the captain’s uniform who greeted you at the door. He is taller than average, balding but not bald, exempt from America’s obesity epidemic (you don’t get fat on airplane food), and has a strong, confident way about him.

  Take a look at his smile.

  Does it look fake to you? Does it look plastic and strained like the one the flight attendant wears when you step on board, or does it look like a genuine smile?

  It’s the captain. That dude doesn’t fake it. He has every reason in the world to be smiling.

  We captains are genuinely happy to see you. You’re on a commercial flight and we are at the helm. We are living the life of our dreams.

  You see, for every one of us who gets to wear this short-sleeved white shirt, there are millions more who wanted to but never got a shot. Here’s how the weeding out works.

  Start with ten million fourth graders who tell their teachers they want to be a pilot when they grow up. By their freshman year of high school, nine tenths of them will have dumped that dream, the public schools having taught them we’re all destined for a life of mediocrity.

  Now you’re left with a million dreamers, with half of them eyeing entry into the Air Force and the other half playing flight simulators on their game consoles. By graduation, eight hundred thousand of those dreamers will have given up that dream in favor of a path with less resistance. Some of them will work at the fast food joint. Some of them will go to the community college and flounder in remedial English classes. Most of them will take the first job that’s offered and find themselves on a career path to nowhere.

  200,000 eighteen-year-olds are left with their heads in the clouds. 35,000 of them will make the mistake of joining the military, thinking that the Air Force or the Navy will teach them how to fly a plane and they’ll have a golden ticket to the friendly skies. Of those thirty-five-thousand, less than fifty will end up in commercial air. Nobody kills dreams more efficiently than Uncle Sam. The military provides us with air traffic controllers, aircraft maintenance, aircraft construction, defense contracting…these jobs are all stuffed with washout wannabe pilots who found out the hard way that the purpose of the Air Force is to fill all the shit jobs in the aviation industry.

  The rest of us got here through a long, expensive path beginning with flight school, a pilot’s license, 10 weeks of commercial flight training, a one-year apprenticeship on a freight carrier, two years as a flight engineer, and a veritable eternity as a first officer.

  I did it quickly. I was in the pilot’s chair by my thirty-seventh birthday.

  That’s why I smiled at you when you stepped onto my plane. That’s why I sounded full of myself when I got on the intercom and said, “This is your captain.” I knew then and I know now that I am a bad ass who set out to do something worthwhile with my life and actually did it.

  The fact that I’m one of the few women in the profession at all makes it doubly sweet.

  Sure, there are downsides too. Not seeing my family, having my circadian rhythms constantly out of whack, a nonstop stream of crappy food…I could go on.

  But the fact is, it’s worth it. I chose this life and I was prepared to live it all the way into retirement. It’s too bad I never got that chance.

  I was one of three pilots who boarded Pacific Air Flight 902 that morning. We were going from Hong Kong to Los Angeles.

  The first person who got a view of my grinning face was Roman White, an old codger who hit on me for three hours straight last year when we did New York to Miami.

  “Morning Roman,” I said.

  “How’s it going, Miss Rachel?”

  Just Rachel would have been fine. Roman was such a putz. On this morning his voice was weaker than I remembered. His eyes were red. His face a bit flush.

  “Feeling alright?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said. “Got a bit of a cold, but nothing I can’t handle. Something awful is going around.”

  “Really?” I said. I wasn’t just making conversation. I was completely out of touch with the rest of the world. I had landed in Hong Kong seven days prior, coming over on the flight from LA and then taking a week off. I spent the first two days exploring the island like a tourist, but the last five hovelled up in a village north of the city with a certain flight attendant.

  I told you that captains have every reason in the world to be happy.

  Ping Kuan-Yin is her name. You heard me. Her name. I bet your whole opinion of me just changed. I bet before you were picturing me as a woman with makeup on her face and a bouncy ponytail behind her head. Now that you’ve heard I have a girlfriend, you’re imagining me with short hair, a plain, lesbian face, and a paunch.

  You were right the first time (although, on flight day, my bouncy ponytail is pulled back into a tight bun). Yes, I’m falling in love with a woman. Yes, I suppose that makes me gay, or bi, or whatever. Yes, I’ve always been a bit on the masculine side as it is—I am a pilot after all. But I still like to be a lady thank you very much. And I’m not some hoochie who gets it on with a different guy or gal at every stop. I am a married woman with two young children who is having an affair, just like everyone else in commercial aviation.

  It’s awful, I know, but it’s a part of the industry. Flight attendants are a benefit of the job, no different than health insurance or a retirement plan. And my husband knows what’s going on. He has to know. You can be married to a pilot or a professional athlete or a rock star—it’s all the same. When your spouse has to travel to make the big bucks, you and your family know in your hearts what goes on, and you make do.

  It’s not that Steve’s a bad man, or that he deserves to be mistreated. Far from it. Steve is a fine father and a good friend. We’ve been married for twelve years and have a son and a daughter (9-year-old twins). Steve has been supportive of my dream to be a pilot since Day 1, and now that I am a pilot, he takes the lead on matters at home.

  We live in Boise, Idaho. My workweek begins with a flight from Boise to LA, then I do a flight from LA to Hong Kong, then back to LA, then back to Boise, where I usually get a week off before starting the whole routine again. On my weeks off, Steve and the kids meet me in Boise and we enjoy time together in our house. When I’m on the job, Steve takes the kids down to see my folks in Hailey, who, with my financial help, have built a beautiful mountain getaway where everybody can hunt, hike, and fish.

  In a normal marriage, I wouldn’t be cheating on him. But our marriage stopped being normal a long time ago. Steve loves being outdoors with the guys, but hates being in bed with me. He’s a regular at the golf course on the country club. He and his buddies do long hunting excursions. He takes the kids hiking. He leads a river rafting expedition every summer.

  He doesn’t ever want to have sex. It’s a problem for us. I’m not some nymphoid or something, but I have needs, and Steve doesn’t meet them.

  Ping and I were marooned together in Tokyo last month when a typhoon ended outbound flights for the day and we all retreated to the Radisson. Ping found me sitting alone a
t the bar. She came up to me and said I looked tired. We had a few drinks. We shared some laughs. When the bar got dark and empty, she kissed me, and I liked it.

  Ping is thirty years old, fluent in Chinese and English, grew up in the Hong Kong middle class, and wants me to leave my husband for her. She and I shared texts all last month, and planned our schedules so that we could meet up in Hong Kong.

  Ping found us a bungalow in a village outside the city. The village, called Sam A Tsuen, had a private beach on one side and a patch of tropical jungle on the other. Ping cooked for me all week. We sun bathed and body surfed. We lay on the beach and made love under the stars.

  We were totally in lust and completely isolated from the rest of the world. It was a pretty amazing week.

  “Yeah, something awful going around,” Roman said, bringing me out of my stupor. “I called personnel to ask how it looked if I sat this one out. She said if I’m well enough to complete the flight, they need me. Eighteen people called in sick this morning in Hong Kong alone.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You don’t think it’s like the bird flu or something?”

  “Not what I’ve got,” said Roman. “Just a cold. The only reason I called personnel is because I wouldn’t mind another night in Hong Kong. Went to the red light district last night. You been there?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Got myself a massage with a happy ending last night,” said Roman. “Man oh man…I just love a happy ending.”

  “Don’t we all, Roman” I said, unable to mask my contempt for the man. “Don’t we all.”

  Caleb

  Late Season Flu Outbreak Takes World By Surprise: Hundreds of Millions Wake Up Sick

  Nelson News Wire

  Jenny Cox Reporting

  Did you wake up with a runny nose, the sneezes, a cough, and a mild fever this morning? You’re not alone. The Center For Disease Control is reporting a dramatic surge of flu-like illnesses in communities around the world, with nearly every patient claiming the symptoms began this morning or late last night.

  “I did a six-mile run yesterday, like I do every Sunday night. Felt great when I went to bed, and I even remember waking up at eleven to let the dog out and felt fine. But then at midnight I woke up again, and this time I was sneezing and had a stuffy nose,” reports Lisa Butcher of Brooklyn. Lisa, like many, called in sick to her job today.

  “I’m a sales rep for a tool manufacturer,” Lisa says. “I figured I was doing everyone a favor keeping my germs at home. Turns out everyone else was doing the same too.”

  Estimates range from a third to more than half the work force in the United States took the day off, bringing much of the nation’s commerce to a screeching halt. All across the country, businesses didn’t open, airplanes didn’t take off, schools cancelled classes, and people stayed in bed. So many stayed in bed, in fact, that even healthy people found themselves taking it easy.

  “My wife and I are both fine, so we got up this morning and went to work,” says Eric Vann, a wealth management specialist at a Manhattan consulting firm. “But hardly anyone was there, and the people who were there all felt sick. An hour into my workday, we were told to go home because they were closing the building. Who would have thunk? A skyscraper in lower Manhattan was shut down on a Monday morning because so many people are sick!”

  When asked for his theory about why he and his wife remain healthy while the rest of us are sick, Eric says, “We have a lake house in Connecticut. We took last week off for a romantic getaway and spent most of our time hiking and canoeing. Whatever’s going around—it must have stayed away from us.”

  The Center For Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta is very interested in people like Eric and his wife, and are seeking out as many of them as they can find.

  “We’ve moved 100% of our research staff onto this outbreak. It is an unprecedented event,” says Richard Weaver. “Just like the rest of the world, we too were affected this morning. By nine-thirty, when sixty per cent of the office had called in sick, we knew something unusual was going on, and we ordered everyone into work, regardless of how they felt. What we know about the outbreak is that it is worldwide with identical symptoms in every country on earth. The symptoms themselves aren’t that troubling—low fever, cough, sneezing, runny nose. It’s the fact that it exploded onto the scene all at once that is curious. Right now the CDC is most interested in speaking with people who aren’t sick. If you woke up this morning with no symptoms at all, we’ve set up a phone line for you to call in and talk to us.”

  When asked how best to respond to this outbreak, Richard said people should do exactly as they are doing.

  “Clearly this is a contagious ailment, and although it appears to be benign, the healthiest thing to do is to stop it from spreading. It’s like a forest fire and we are all the timber. To make it stop, we need to cut off its fuel supply. Stay at home if you can. Stay in bed. Drink plenty of fluids. Get plenty of rest. Hopefully we’ll all be feeling better in the morning.”

  Good advice for all of us. The author of this piece is about to heed it.

  “Holy Christ,” I whispered.

  “It’s for real, Caleb,” said Sabrina. “It’s all for real.”

  We were in the cab of my WiFi-enabled truck. The clock in the dash read 10:45. I had slept in late, dreaming peacefully in the tent while the sun rose and the civilized world began its descent into hell.

  “It’s afternoon in New York,” I said.

  “It’s nighttime in Asia,” said Sabrina.

  Cori, whose own complaints of a scratchy throat took on a new urgency with this news, was lying down across the bench seat in the back.

  “Is it happening?” she said. “Is the world getting sick like you thought?”

  “Yes,” said Sabrina. “It’s happening.”

  “I’m so sorry I got sick, Mamma.”

  “I think you’ve got something different, Baby,” said Sabrina. “Everybody else woke up sneezing this morning after feeling fine last night.”

  “I didn’t feel fine last night,” said Cori. “My throat’s been bugging for three days now.”

  “How’s your nose, Sweetie?” I asked. “Does your nose feel stuffy?”

  Cori shook her head.

  “She’s got something else,” said Sabrina. “She gets sore throats. They always go away.”

  “I got one last year at Christmas, remember?” said Cori.

  “Yes, Baby, I remember.”

  We stayed close to the truck all morning, surfing for news on our phones and my iPad. There wasn’t much beyond the wire service story, almost like the news sites couldn’t bring themselves to write anything more.

  “They’re probably all at home sick,” I said. “The whole world is resting in bed.

  At 12:30, The New York Times wrote their own story about the outbreak. Their story focused on the mild symptoms and was written in a dismissive tone, as if the world was giving too much attention to such a mild ailment. Other news outlets picked up on that thread, calling the outbreak “The Great Mild Cold Pandemic.”

  “The government’s behind that,” I said. “They’re telling the media what to say. They don’t want people to panic. Only Planet Gulag’s gonna tell the truth on this.”

  We tuned in to the Planet Gulag radio hour at 2:00. Elvis Guerrero was doing the show by himself this afternoon, Barry Clementine and The Witch Doctor apparently having fled to some private getaway.

  “Are you healthy out there?” Elvis asked. “I pray to God that you are, my friends. I am sad to report that I am not. Even with the advance warning I was able to give all of you, somehow, this plague has caught up to me. Like hundreds of millions of others across the world, I woke up this morning with a fever, a stuffy nose, and a cough. I knew right away that it was over for me. I tried to call Barry. Got his voicemail. Tried to call The Witch Doctor. No go with him either. I hope they’re alright. They both of course have safe houses to hide in. I hope they made it okay
and in good health. I fear they did not. They shared the air with me in our studio room all week. It seems likely they are ill.

  “I’m running the show myself today. I’m taking all the calls. I’m doing all the production. There will be no commercials today. I feel like I’ve been chosen to do something important with this broadcast. I feel like my life’s work is right here, right now.”

  Elvis went on to read Frye’s letter again. He read it top to bottom three times during the show. He paused at the parts where it said, “People will wake up with symptoms not terribly dissimilar from the common cold,” and “what looked like a cold on Monday will become fatal on Tuesday.”

  “If you’re healthy, you need to gather up what you can right now and get out of town,” Elvis told his audience. “Find a place to hide, and prepare for the worst. And if you’re sick, like me, stay in your home. We need to leave the roads clear so the healthy people can get out and get away.”

  “I’ve been trying to contact the CDC all day. I’ve emailed a copy of the letter to their offices. I’ve left voicemails. I wish to God they’d call me back. Our anonymous source was convinced it was Timothy Frye who wrote this letter. I am too. Right now, before it’s too late, the government needs to capture Timothy Frye and find out what he knows. Maybe it’s not too late for a cure. Maybe Frye knows how to turn this illness off, just like he turned it on. According to his letter, we have only hours left before it’s too late.”

  Rachel

  You know what makes me mad? Passengers getting restless about a flight delay.

  There we all are, sitting inside a steel tube that is literally about to fly like a bird, that will take hundreds of people higher than the clouds at five hundred miles per hour, getting them across the country or around the world in less than a day, all for a few hundred bucks, and you lose your shit because we have to wait thirty minutes before takeoff.