End Time

by Daniel Greene

  NIXON

  Washington-McCone International Airport, VA

  Agent Nixon lay in the back galley of the plane. His head pushed painfully on a metal beverage cart, secured in place with a red clip. Bright red blood pumped from his veins with every beat of his heart. The deep bites covering his body burned like fire. He lifted himself into an almost upright position. Pain shot through his limbs like a thousand knives sticking him. Bodies of the deceased and infected lay around him in a pile of disgusting carnage.

  He struggled to push the remains of a Foreign Service Officer he knew from Kinshasa off his chest. Was her name Kalyn? Putting thoughts together is like fumbling through a dense fog. Breathing is hard. No matter now. The FSO’s eyes looked like a doll’s; lifeless and open, seeing but not.

  When the plane engaged its final landing sequence, many of the dead had been pulled backwards by the G-force, causing the bodies to tumble, slide or roll into the rear galley. He had tried to cover himself as they all started toward the galley, but he couldn’t stop the tortured bodies from landing on him. He was a mere child swiping at falling rocks. Sharp pain plagued his legs, but he was unable to pinpoint the source as if his legs were broken into tiny pieces.

  Every movement was a monumental task. Picking his head up, he tried to see his legs. A young woman, her throat chewed out, looked up at him. He couldn’t say she had made eye contact, but they had made a connection on some sort of animalistic level. Hunter and prey?

  Flesh hung loosely from her neck, exposing her pink ringed trachea and damaged vital arteries. Her pale white eyes stared blankly, with no recognition that he was either human or alive. She chewed noisily through her macabre face. A chain hung around her neck and a shiny gold shield dangled from it. That…is familiar. I…should know what it is.

  “Argghh,” he managed to put out instead.

  She cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive dog and bent back down close to his body, but all he felt was pain. Exhausted, he laid his head back down.

  Acid rose in his throat and he turned to the left and spat. A frothy, reddish globule spattered onto what remained of the upper half of a male flight attendant. His lower half gone.

  Agent Nixon thought about his partner, Agent Reliford. He had shot Reliford in the head as he tore apart their interpreter. Who…for me?

  Soon he would join his stiff comrade. He had known he was a goner the second he was hauled into one of the lavatories. Bastard…must have…taking a shit.

  The monster’s pants had been down around his ankles and, if Nixon hadn’t been within arm’s reach, the half-naked man wouldn’t have been able to bite him or even pursue him. He probably would have just tripped and fallen.

  Nixon had pushed the bathroom assailant down, the man’s pants easily tripping him. But it was already too late; he had been bitten. He had cursed himself for not having been more careful. Just too…many infected.

  He had told Mauser to leave him to hold off as many of these damn things as possible. The bodies of six infected lay about him as testament to his sacrifice.

  Things were getting hazy. This is it. A reddish hue surrounded his peripherals, giving him a fiery tunnel vision. His blood boiled in his veins, but oddly enough he felt as though he were getting better. He embraced the painlessness. It had to be the virus. Nixon wanted to laugh, and he wanted to die. Instead, he gave out a pathetic, bloody cough.

  He tried to finger the gun that lay at his side, slick with blood. Is that…my blood? I must have…one...bullet.

  The handgun felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in his hand, but he hefted it anyway, straining to point it as close to his left temple as he could. One…effort…peace. His finger shook as it depressed the trigger. Centimeter by painful centimeter it moved rearwards. Click. Damn...would…have been…nice…to die.

  Nixon pulled himself upright. Wobbling a bit, he realized something wasn’t right with his legs. His entire vision was now a red blur. Hunger penetrated his entire form, the only thing driving him forward.

  A female stood up next to him. They ignored each other. Not prey. Having surrendered himself to the virus, Nixon had no control left over his limbs. The thing dropped from his grasp, falling with a loud thud as it hit the body of food. No need for that. It would just get in the way.

  Stumbling down the aisle of the plane, he dragged his non-functioning leg behind him. That didn’t matter. There is no more pain. Only the need to feed. Feed. Feed. The hunger dominated him. When he reached food, he would stop and eat. He would never be full with the endless hunger that plagued him.

  Not knowing why, he needed to feed desperately. It was as if it had always been inside of him, a part of his DNA, but he only just realized it. Falling, he dug his hands into the food that lay in the aisle. He ate his fill, stuffing it into his mouth. He would have kept eating, but loud noises nagged him from outside. Like the siren’s call, he was drawn to them. Some of the others rose up and followed him out the plane door.

  He pulled himself outside into the daylight. The man formerly known as Agent Nixon twisted his head left to right, listening for the sound of prey. His milky white eyes looked up at the sky. His tattered, gore-covered clothes rippled in the warm breeze that he would never acknowledge was there. Warm or cold, he felt neither. The man that was once Agent Nixon cared not if it was even possible for him to care anymore. The only thing he knew was that there was more prey up ahead. Prey always made noise. Let the feeding frenzy begin. FEED.

  STEELE

  Washington-McCone International Airport, VA

  Steele’s group neared the terminal, a dark gray building, three stories high with long windows running down its sides for air travelers to see the taxiing airplanes.

  A big pedestrian vehicle, unique to McCone, called a mobile lounge, sat connected to the side of the building like a loading dock. The vehicle was large, old and ugly, and Steele had ridden in one more times than he could count. As a frequent traveler, Steele hated the thing. The people, the musty smell, the way the driver took corners, the way peoples’ bags toppled over, the times when people wouldn’t create space to fit others on board; his complaints were endless.

  Steele regularly found himself smashed up inside of a mobile lounge with scores of other jet-lagged travelers trying to not fall over. It was as if the airport wanted you to have just one more miserably claustrophobic experience just after you escaped the confines of the last miserable experience: the aircraft. Lazily, the airport would only send one mobile lounge to pick up incoming flights, forcing the passengers to wait and then travel in the most uncomfortable fashion possible.

  He exchanged looks with Mauser.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mauser asked, circling the base of the vehicle.

  “You know I hate these things,” Steele said, kicking one of the giant five-foot tractor tires with his boot, finding the mover sturdy.

  Mauser chuckled. “Funny thing is, this bastard machine might just be our ticket out of here.”

  Since the early sixties, Washington-McCone International Airport had used the latest technology of large ‘mobile lounges’ to transport people from the main terminal to the outer terminals and aircraft. McCone had yet to complete its rail system maintaining its mobile lounge transportation system for most of the airport.

  “Can you believe they still use these things?” Steele asked.

  “I don’t get it either. Give me a hand.”

  The passenger cabin stood far enough off the ground that Mauser would need a boost to lift himself up to the long rectangle seating area lined with windows. A sophisticated hydraulic system would raise the cabin from its driving position to the docking position in order to connect with a terminal building.

  “Let’s get Mauser up there to see if this thing’s operational,” Steele said in a low voice to Jarl. They hoisted him up.

  Mauser peered over the lip of the floor. When they dropped him back down he described a grisly scene.

  “By the doors t
hat connect the mover to the terminal there are two people: a cute blonde in a sundress; and a douche in ripped jeans and a T-shirt,” he said.

  “Infected?” Steele asked, but he already knew the answer.

  “Does eating people count?” Mauser said.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re eating, quite loudly, what appears to be the remains of the driver, Alan,” Mauser said.

  “They got Alan?” Jarl said angrily, clenching a fist. Jarl had befriended the plump older driver on their frequent trips together.

  “Sorry, buddy. I say we waste ‘em,” Mauser said.

  “Mauser, you know what to do. And do it quick. We’re drawing some unwanted attention.” Steele pointed to the edge of the terminal. The crowd had followed their movements and was on its way.

  “No worries,” Mauser said, flinging open his out-the-front blade with the push of a button.

  Jarl and Steele helped him back up to the ledge and Mauser disappeared as he crouched low. They heard a scuffle and the thuds of two bodies hitting the floor. A minute later, Mauser’s familiar face leaned over the ledge.

  “Good to go,” he announced with a thumbs up.

  An emergency ladder was lowered down to Steele, who helped the other survivors up. The remainder of the group scampered up into the people mover while Jarl covered them.

  The carnage in the cabin was prolific. Bloody bits and pieces covered most of the space designed for about one hundred passengers, soaking into the mover’s maroon-carpeted floor, making it squish beneath their feet.

  “People must have fled on here trying to escape,” Steele said at a whisper.

  “Doesn’t look like it worked.”

  “Shhh. You hear that.” Mauser’s eyes went wide.

  Something dragged itself along the tile floor of the terminal, scraping as it went.

  “The doors are open,” Steele breathed. They both bolted for the connecting terminal doors, but Steele was a step ahead. He slammed it closed with a bang, leaning his back against it, while the ugly disfigured faces of the infected appeared above. They snarled and clawed at the glass.

  “Hurry up,” Steele said with his back pushed against the door. Mauser strained driving his legs into the door. The weight of the infected forced it open a crack. A stained hand stuck through grasping for Steele. He shoved his back into it again hard, crunching the door closed. “I’ll cover the door. Help Jarl,” he grunted. Mauser nodded sprinting to the other end of the vehicle.

  Without Mauser’s help he fought a losing battle, Steele watched helplessly as he was driven forward. Spreading his back wide, he squatted low and thrust into the door. It closed, but only for a moment.

  On the other end of the mobile lounge, Mauser bear hugged Wheeler inside. He could feel the weight as more people pushed against the door. His tendons stretched to the point of snapping, his muscles were beyond their capacity. The infected bellowed into his ear, a deep gnar forcing Steele to turn his head away. I can’t hold this much longer. He readied himself to spring forward and begin shooting the last of his bullets.

  “Mauser, I can’t hold it.” The other survivors just watched his losing battle in horror. He gave the infected inch by inch. Much more and they would wedge themselves in the begrudged space and it would be over.

  Mauser vaulted into the driver’s compartment. “I’ll take it from here Alan,” he said morbidly. With a rattle of its large diesel engine, Mauser ignited the people mover and it roared to life. “I always wondered what it would be like to drive one of these things,” Mauser yelled over his shoulder.

  Jarl barreled forward leaning his weight on the door. From their elevated viewpoint into the terminal lobby, a great mob of the infected marched in their direction.

  “We won’t be able to hold,” Jarl growled.

  Mauser hit the gas, ripping them away from the terminal but failing to remove the lounge’s overhanging attachment. Steele fell to the side, his counter pressure gone, grabbing a gooey seat to help himself up. Mauser rocked them free.

  A long elastic overhang extended like an accordion and collapsed, banging into the mover.

  “I guess I was supposed to retract that thing before driving,” Mauser laughed.

  Some of the survivors cried out, as they were jostled around, grasping for handrails. Mauser pulled the lounge to the side of a building where other mobile lounges sat. Great ancient beasts sitting dormant like an elephant graveyard. Maybe they could blend in. Hide for a while and take a break. Wait until someone came to help. They all needed a break.

  The survivors huddled almost on top of one another in the relatively unblemished corner section of the vehicle. The rest of the mobile lounge was a mess. Blood doused the long panoramic windows in modern paint-like streaks. Half-consumed bodies lay on the floor strewn out amongst an air traveler’s intestines and unclaimed limbs. A man in fatigues, probably an active duty soldier, sat slumped in his seat. His neck bent at a strange angle and his eyes were wide open. He stared indifferently, his eyes seeming to follow Steele’s every move.

  The agents however were offered no respite. As long as these people were under their protection they couldn’t rest.

  Mauser spun around in the driver’s seat, covering his nose. “Look at all the bodies.”

  “We have to dump them,” Steele said, feeling queasy as he stared at someone’s lone leg. Keeping diseased bodies on board would be detrimental to both their physical and mental health, in particular having to stare at the remains of other victims.

  Steele pushed open the sliding doors. “Looks like we attracted some visitors below,” he said in disgust. The dead had already found them. So much for hiding.

  “We should shoot the crazies,” Jarl bellowed, “not feed them.”

  “We can’t shoot them all. Help me or don’t, but they can’t stay here,” Steele said. Jarl scratched at his beard, lost in thought, but he followed suit.

  “I don’t like this,” Jarl said, but he hoisted a body onto his shoulder anyway.

  Led by Steele, the agents dumped the dead bodies out the doors of the mover. It devastated them psychologically. It was one thing to deal with the action of taking someone’s life who posed an imminent threat to yourself and the public. Steele had been prepared to live with that action. Even worse was to see your friends slain, but also in the realm of possibility. But it was entirely off the charts, to toss and inadvertently feed dead bodies to diseased people who fed upon them like starving men.

  The infected gathered eagerly, awaiting the bodies like goldfish clustering around scattered bread in a pond.

  “You’re just going to let those things eat them?” an Asian female State Department Officer asked.

  “Yes,” Steele grunted, as he and Mauser swung a body out the doors. It landed on the pavement with a loud thud.

  “You can’t do that. It’s… It’s inhumane,” the female staffer said.

  Steele set down a woman’s legs, her sundress twisted oddly. The light flowered garment a reminder of the summer. A piece of human flesh hanging from her mouth betrayed her. Her once pleasant appearance tarnished by violence. Summer is at an end.

  He walked over to the State Department Officer and pointed a bloody finger at her. “You’re right. It is inhumane. It’s one of the most depraved acts I can think of. But do you know what the alternative is? Have you thought about what would happen if we left the bodies in here?” he demanded.

  Her chin tilted upward. “No, but there has to be a better way,” she snapped.

  Steele didn’t have time for her politically correct bullshit. “The alternative is to leave these people in here and have them get back up and eat us. Or maybe it’ll spread to us through the air. Maybe we’ll catch something else altogether from the bodies. Let alone the fact they stink already. No, there’s nothing nice about this, but it’s going to happen, so get used to it and take a seat, sweetheart.”

  The woman sat down with a “humph.”

  “If you don’t like it, you can get
out,” Steele said, pointing to the door. She shot him daggers with her eyes. That should shut her up for a minute.

  Does she think I enjoy feeding infected cannibals with the bodies of the deceased? Does she think I want it like this? Does she think I get pleasure out of it? I am no monster. I would much rather be sitting on a beach somewhere with an ice-cold beer, but sometimes you didn’t have a choice. The cards were dealt, and you played with what you had. All the while, hoping that you could scrape together a win.

  When they were done lobbing the bodies out of the mover, Steele tried to ignore the hapless, noisy feast on human flesh that was taking place below. They are no longer human. Steele watched people in the terminal - more of the infected - pounding on the glass doors in an attempt to break out.

  Night fell over the people mover and the survivors sat in silence. Crystal made the only noise rummaging through someone’s luggage. Steele was too tired to care if she scored some new clothes.

  “What are you doing?” Mauser asked her in a hushed tone.

  “Put this on tough guy,” she laughed throwing a lacy shirt his direction.

  Mauser’s eyes darted back and forth and Steele was sure he was probably blushing.

  “Ah. You’re into some kinky kinda stuff,” Mauser said spreading it across his chest.

  “Yeah do it,” Steele echoed softly. Crystal giggled a bit.

  “Found one for you Mark,” she tossed Steele a night gown.

  “I don’t know what to say. I can’t say I’m a fan.”

  “Its for the seats, goofballs,” she said smiling.

  “Ohh. Gotcha,” Steele said. “Thought you were going to do it,” he said to Mauser, nudging him.

  “Me too.”

  They wiped down the seats, windows, and handrails making the lounge a little bit more hospitable. Plopping onto the floor, Steele tried to dodge a bloodstain. He leaned against the seat back and closed his eyes, the first rest he had had in over twenty-four hours. He dozed for a time, but as much as he wanted to sleep he couldn’t drift off.