by Rand, Thonas
No one was close to help him with the mutant, so Paul readied the bloodied bottle of champagne that he had, he raised it above his head and cocked his bicep muscle to fire. The boy was almost in range, but it was just a boy, Paul thought, this was someone’s son. His parents had to be somewhere onboard because he was too young to travel alone and then Paul saw his mother—behind the running boy was a woman sitting in a seat with her throat ripped open—the boy was almost right on him, he waited too long to strike, the boy would have at him, but then it was stopped cold by Jeffrey, he had grabbed the boy by the arm. The dead boy swung around to attack him, but couldn’t when Richard got a hold of his other arm, immobilizing him. “Go ahead, Paul, put the little bastard out of his misery.” Richard told him.
Paul reluctantly stepped up to the child, who immediately lost interest in his captors and focused on him. It wanted him badly. Its eyes were wide searchlights that had him.
They had to have him…
Paul looked at it with compassion and then…
“I’m sorry,” he said. He brought down the bottle two-fisted and when it impacted into the boy’s forehead. In Paul’s mind he saw its skin come loose from the bone and ripple like a shockwave.
Blood and brain matter splattered over the three of them.
“Nicely done, proper,” Jeffrey said in a callous tone.
They dropped the limp corpse, and Jeffrey took the bottle from Paul. “Let us borrow this for a minute,” he stated after the fact.
Jeffrey walked over to the boy’s mother, who was showing signs of undead life, and bashed her skull in. He walked back to Paul and handed him the bottle. “Thanks, mate.”
Paul looked at the bottle in his hand that dripped gobs of blood. Blood usually made him nauseous, but he was way past that now, he wasn’t even numb. He was just there as if he were having an O.B.E.—out of body experience—just watching the banality of the carnage that he participated in. He realized that only one thing kept him tethered to his soul…
Katie.
He wanted to see her again and be there for the birth of their child.
Would he?
The undead that banged against the barricades said, NO!
From all of their screaming, roars, howls, and guttural moans, Paul could almost hear them communicating with him and the other survivors.
We will kill you!
We will eat you!
You will be one of us!
One of us!
Kill!
Eat!
Kill!
Kill!
There were so many of them now that their voices drove him mad.
Dozens pounded at each of the barricades, they couldn’t hold them off for much longer.
Jeffrey and Richard schemed together nearby. “We can’t let this plane land in London,” Jeffrey told Richard.
“I know,” he answered.
“You do?”
“I’m not as dumb as you think I am, mate. If this plane lands or crashes in England, then this shit will spread and kill everyone we love,” Richard said with a hard face.
“We have to bring it down now, while we’re over the ocean.”
“How?”
“The cockpit.”
“There’s dozens of those things between here and there, we’ll never make it.”
“We’re gonna die anyway, my friend, we have to try.”
Richard realized the truth of their hopeless situation. “Agreed.”
They headed to one of the barricades by the front of the plane toward the cockpit; there were four large men with their bodies braced against the brutal force of the undead on the other side. “Oy! We need to get through there.” Jeffrey said to one of the men.
“Are you fucking mental?” the man shouted.
“Listen, you know what’s going on here, right?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yeah, those fucking things want to kill and eat us! They’re not getting me!”
“The cause of the problem, man, you get bit by one, you become one.” Jeffrey said.
“Yeah, so?” the man said.
By now, the other men holding the barricade listened.
Jeffrey stepped closer to him. “What do you think is going to happen when this plane reaches England?”
The man thought about it. “Oh my god!”
“That’s right, so we have to bring this fucking plane down now!” Jeffrey exclaimed.
“How?” the man asked.
“The cockpit, me and my mate here, we’ll get in there and take care of it.”
“Right!” the man said. “You hear that men, they need to get through.”
The men all agreed.
“Okay then, when we say ‘go,’ you open her up and we’ll jump through,” Richard instructed them.
“Whenever you’re ready!” the man answered.
Richard faced Jeffrey. “No one has ever had a better friend than you, Jeffrey. It will be an honor to die with you.”
Jeffrey smiled. “Die? You’re too ugly, those things won’t touch you, but I’m fucked!”
Richard laughed and extended his hand and Jeffrey shook it.
“You’re the best.” Jeffrey said.
They turned to the barricade. “Okay, all of you ready?” Jeffrey asked.
The men nodded in agreement.
“Alright then, on my mark! Four, three, two—“
Jeffrey stopped the count because it became quiet all of a sudden, very quiet. All of the undead stopped banging on all the barricades.
“What the hell…?” Richard said.
Paul moved in close to one of the barricades and peered through a crack—he could see all of them just standing there, a hundred of them, at least, stood still and swayed in place. As if they were hypnotized, many of them had their heads raised, and their eyes closed. Paul didn’t understand it.
“What are they doing?” a passenger behind Paul asked him.
“I don’t know,” Paul answered.
He looked closely at them and heard them sniffing, he realized that they smelled something, but what scent could be so strong that it stopped all of them in their tracks?
Paul thought hard and then looked at his wristwatch.
He rushed over to a window and looked out, he couldn’t see anything so he pressed his face against the Plexiglas for a better look, but nothing. He ran to the other side of the cabin, looked out the window, and then saw it up ahead—
LAND.
Maybe fifty to sixty miles away was a land mass, and they approached fast.
“England,” Paul said to himself and thought about it. “My god. They must be able to smell…the people, all of the people, millions of them.”
And he was right, even though the plane was pressurized, the overwhelming scent of fresh, warm meat seeped into the plane. The dinner bell rang loud.
Paul didn’t know that just below his face—the air marshal’s gun was wedged between the seat and the fuselage.
“What are they doing?” Richard asked.
“Doesn’t matter, this is our chance,” Jeffrey said. “Now, open it now!”
The men pulled out one cart, opening the barricade; they were dozens of the dead on the other side, but they were still dormant from the scent of England. Jeffrey jumped through first and the moment he did—the corpses snapped out of it and attacked him.
“Jeffrey!” Richard shouted.
Richard jumped in to save his friend and they assaulted him as well.
The men put the cart back into place and sealed the soldiers in their tomb…
Charlie drove the fire extinguisher down hard four times before he stopped and looked at what he’d done. It was dead—his wife was finished, but she left him something to remember her by; he was bleeding from a bit mark on his chin and scratches on his chest. He would join her soon enough. He searched his mind for words to give her, but there were none, and then Charlie noticed that all the undead around him were standing motionless. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care.
He sprinted toward the front of the plane and as soon as he ran by undead, they sprang after him, one, two, and then several chased him.
Twelve…
Twenty…
Thirty…
The staircase to the lower deck was just ahead, and Charlie pulled the fire extinguisher pin and fired it behind him. The thick chemical hit the dead faces chasing after him, creating a cloud that obstructed their vision; it slowed them down just enough for Charlie to disappear down the stairs.
At the bottom, he came upon the scene of Jeffrey and Richard being devoured by a group of undead. At one side, Richard was dead and in many pieces that they ate in a frenzy of blood. Nearby, Jeffrey was on the floor; a group of the dead had ripped his legs off at the waist, and they fought amongst themselves for a taste. Jeffrey’s upper body was a couple feet away and he was barely alive as they ripped pieces from his arms, chest, and one corpse was chomping on his innards. Excrement squeezed out as the vile creature bit down. With what little strength he had left, Jeffrey punched the thing in the face. “Gag on my…shit…you…dead fucker!” Jeffrey spat out in blood.
The dead thing didn’t flinch as Jeffrey hit it in the face as it ate, but when he hit it again, it grabbed his hand and began to chew on his fingers. Jeffrey bled out and died quick.
Charlie went for the cockpit door and entered the code, when he opened it—the captain attacked him and Charlie smashed its face with the extinguisher, it fell out of the cockpit and then Jimmy, who was missing an arm, came at him. Charlie cracked it in the face, and it fell back on the instrument panels, Charlie grabbed it by the shirt and threw it out of the cockpit. He closed the door and locked it.
He took his seat and tried to calm himself and breathe slowly, but he couldn’t. He felt the dead virus work inside him, coursing through his veins; he knew that he didn’t have long, because either the virus was going to kill him or it would be the dead outside the door. He put on his headset and worked the controls, but the instruments were badly damaged. He tried to turn off the autopilot, but couldn’t. Next, he tried the radio controls and they were damaged as well. More of the dead outside joined to get in and they banged on the door violently; fierce pounding, and the door wouldn’t last very long.
Only moments…
He fought to get the radio working…
DAY 23:
GLOBAL CATALYST
Current population of Great Britain: 66,000,000.
Current population of London: 9,000,000.
It was an unusually sunny day in London, and for its international airport, Heathrow, it was business as usual. Planes landed and took off in a steady stream of a controlled symphony.
Fifty-five miles to the southwest of Heathrow was the London Area Control Centre, the LACC, based in the village of Swanwick, Hampshire. Their facility controlled all the air traffic that landed and departed from London and Wales. This was a large facility with several dozen-computer stations that were arranged in banana-shaped banks. For them, it was the same routine, except for one air traffic controller—she had a problem on her hands—she kept a close eye on one of the dots on her radar screen. “Swanwick ATC to British 282, do you copy?” she said into her headset microphone.
She received no response, only dead air. “Swanwick air traffic control to British 282, hello?” but still, nothing.
She was perplexed as to why she couldn’t get through and then looked for her supervisor, an older gray-haired man, who was on the phone at a nearby desk. “Mister Wilkins?” she called to him.
The man put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Yes, Trisha, what is it?”
“Mr. Wilkins, I’m having a spot of trouble contacting one of my flights.”
“Really? Have you checked your headset connection?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, it’s functioning properly, I have no problem contacting my other traffic, except for British 282 from America.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Wilkins said into the phone and hung up.
He put on his own headset and walked over to the girl.
“Now, let’s see if we can clear this up, shall we?” he said to her like a schoolteacher.
“Yes, sir,” she responded.
Wilkins connected his headset to her station and activated the radio, he adjusted his microphone and spoke. “British 282, this is Supervisor Mr. Wilkins of Swanwick ATC, please respond.”
Nothing and he didn’t like it.
“British Airways 282, this is Swanwick ATC, can you hear us?” he said.
Still, nothing, only static.
He looked at her screen. “What is their current position?”
“They just past us, still on course for Heathrow, sir.”
Wilkins looked at the controller closest to Trisha. “Collins, do us a favor and take over all of Trisha’s traffic except for British 282, please. We have an issue.”
“Yes, sir, right away,” Collins said and took over her traffic.
And then there was a click on the radio, a quick moment of something else besides static. It was brief but it sounded like a voice.
“What was that?” Wilkins asked.
“Don’t know, sir,” she said and listened for more. “British 282, can you hear me?” she asked.
There was a response, their headsets filled with turbulent noise and the chaotic voice of what sounded like a man, but he was in a panic, near hysteria. “This is British 282, we have a severe problem— ” the signal was cut-off.
“Hello?” Trisha said. “British 282, repeat your last.”
Static filled their ears with a long hisss and then the signal came back on, loud and strong. “—is 282, some passengers have gone mad, they’re attacking everyone onboard!” he shouted and everyone in the control room stopped what they were doing and listened to Trisha’s signal. They could hear a big commotion in the background, people were screaming in horror, others were roaring like animals, and a hard pounding was constant next to the pilot’s voice. “They have killed the crew, including the captain, and many passengers! They’re trying to break in, I—” They heard the cockpit door being busted open, and the man screamed. They heard him being attacked by someone…no, by many.
It was ruthless, and the man’s screams became a gurgling of death. All that came through the radio were growls of the attackers, no words, just guttural tones of savagery. They heard clothes being ripped and they heard something else that ripped repeatedly, but it didn’t sound like clothing, it had a wet sound to it. They heard what only could be described as chewing, but the chewing of what?
The screams of other people that were being attacked in the plane hissed through their ears and then it went dead, the signal was gone.
Trisha covered her mouth from shock and Wilkins’ jaw dropped and they were all silent, they tried to absorb something that they have never heard before.
Wilkins wiped the tears that welled in his eyes. “We need to…” he drew a blank in the face of the unknown. “…What kind…of plane is 282?” he asked Trisha.
“It’s an a380, sir,” she answered.
“My lord. Uh, we need to…contact Heathrow and…inform them of the situation immediately,” he mumbled out in a broken voice.
Paul looked out the window and they were over land now, it sped by in a blur because the plane wasn’t very high above it.
And it was still descending.
The last of the surviving passengers still held the barricades to keep out the dead and it was a hard battle; dozens of dead arms stretched through the makeshift walls to reach them and they started to break through at two of the barricades, but the passengers fought back and reinforced their holds. There were hundreds of the dead stenches outside of their blocked off cabin now, on both sides, all the passengers on the plane were the dead, except this last wayward group.
“We need more help over here!” someone yelled from a barricade.
Because there were so many of the undead filth banging on tha
t one barricade, they actually pushed the whole thing in. More passengers rushed to it and pushed them back, but there weren’t enough people to go around. Paul ran over and joined the effort. At another barricade, the corpses almost got through as they pushed the carts and equipment out of the way, the dead arms reaching through the gaps got hold of a woman, they got her to the gap and viciously pulled to get her. Other passengers tried to save her, but they couldn’t and then the dead arms ripped her head off, and it was over. The people pushed back and closed the gap as the woman’s headless body fell aside, the arms went into spasms and reached for anything to grab.
The skies over London were clear blue. On the outskirts of the city, a single plane streaked through the thin clouds on a straight course. It was British Airways flight 282. The Airbus made a 747 jumbo jet seem tiny. The sky was clear of any other planes ahead of 282, intentionally clear, and the city of London was dead ahead, only twenty miles away and closing. The Airbus’ speed was constant, but was gradually losing altitude.
Little by little, it was going down…
Paul looked out the window again and the terrain looked familiar; he knew where they were. “We’re going to land,” he said to himself. “We might make it.” but he had no idea that no one was in the cockpit. People needed help at another weakening barricade, and he ran to assist them…
Heathrow Airport was locked down, all the runways were clear of aircraft; they were all on hold at the terminals. Airport emergency response crews stood by on the outskirts of the runway, at least ten fire trucks waited with only their lights on, they flashed as if they were searchlights looking for danger, and then they saw it. “There it is!” one firefighter yelled.
They looked in the direction that he pointed and saw the dark speck of the Airbus, as it approached the airport. It was several miles out and the big plane grew in size as it approached.
Four miles away…
The fire commander looked at the plane through a pair of binoculars. “Oh my sweet Jesus!” he said.
