He saw the full field now. Inclining up and away maybe ten degrees, the lush, grassy expanse was a balloonist’s paradise. No rocks, no trees, no power lines, no tractors or cars to dodge. Just soft grass. Sitting about a hundred yards away from where he had the balloon heading he saw his Silverado with the trailer attached. Leaning against the front wheel well was his daughter. She had one hand on her brow to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched them approach.
“Malinda, where’s the ambulance?”
He watched her lift the walkie to her mouth.
“They don’t have any to send,” she replied.
“There isn’t a second ambulance in town? The one at the fair should be here. It exists for this. We have a critical injury here,” Tim said, his ire rising.
“Don’t kill the messenger. I called 911. First call they answered and said they’d send someone, but it would be a long time as they were really busy. Then I called the festival people and asked for their ambulance, and they said 911 called it away. I’ve tried calling 911 twice more now, and Dad… they’re not picking up.”
The way she spoke chilled Tim. A hopeful woman, young, vibrant, intelligent, funny, Malinda never talked like that. She never used such… finality. Such… fear.
“What’s the radio saying?”
“More insanity. Reports of the biters spreading east and west. I don’t think this is a joke, Dad. You need to land and we need to get home. No more balloons for a week or two.”
“Okay. Start unhitching the trailer. We’re going to put Lucas in the truck and bring him to the emergency room ourselves.”
“Dad…”
“Malinda, do it,” Tim said as the ground seemed to come up faster and faster.
“Dad, please.”
“Don’t make me tell you. Just do it. After we drop them off at the E.R. we’ll head straight home. I promise.”
“Fine,” she said, pissed.
Tim watched her toss the walkie on the hood of the Silverado (dinging the paint for the hundredth time without doubt) and stomp around to the rear of the pickup.
“Coming in a little faster than I’d like. Lucas, Julie, get ready for a bump and a tumble,” Tim grabbed hold of the basket’s lip and took the burner’s ignition in hand. He tugged on the cord and the propane engine roared to life. The balloon’s descent slowed a tiny fraction and Tim felt immediate relief. He fired the burner again, then again to coax the elevation and speed in and out of the physics.
Tim was good at this. He had the feel for the fire of the burner, the density and speed of the air. Flying a hot air balloon wasn’t just lift and letting the wind take you where it wanted. There was a science to it. Several sciences in fact, and Tim’s banker mind knew them inside and out.
The balloon slowed, descended a few feet, and began the drop of the last ten feet.
Something far above shifted.
Tim would’ve described the feeling as being the idle tip of a bullwhip right before the snap of the wrist. Laying on the ground, connected to the handle in the hand of a performer, or maybe a cowboy, or whoever it was that used bullwhips nowadays. Sensing that something nearby was about to change something–everything–but unable to do a damn thing about it.
If Tim, Lucas and Julie in the basket were the idle tip of the whip, then the top of the balloon far above was in the hands of something very strong, and very violent. Tim knew a massive gust of wind above them was about to fling them. Maybe higher in the air, maybe on the ground just below, but he had a split second to react.
Tim grabbed the rip line and yanked on it. As the basket shot forward like it was being hauled by a herd of fleeing colts, the red cord of the safety line fell down on top of him.
Tim saw a frayed end pass before his eyes as the basket heaved upward into the air, just before his head smacked into the metal upright of the basket.
- Part Five -
The Blood Basket
“Tim,” Julie said to him. “Tim wake up. Tim you gotta wake up, right now!” She shook him. “I don’t know how to fly this thing!”
Tim opened his eyes and regretted it. The glare of the blue sky that filtered in around the circumference of the massive golden balloon and the face of Julie above burned his retinas like stove pokers and triggered a stabbing pain in the middle of his forehead. Growing to match that discomfort was a sweltering spike of agony just above his ear. From his sitting position in the basket he reached up with eyes closed and probed at the spot on the side of his head near his ear. He opened his eyes and looked at the tip of his fingers.
The tips were slick with blood. He reached back up and ran his finger up and down the edge of a clean gash that went all the way to the bone. The cut ran across the curve of his skull near his ear almost to his scalp.
He pried his eyes open and looked at his polo necked shirt. His entire left shoulder and sleeve was soaked in blood, down to below his nipple. He couldn’t feel the blood running down his neck, couldn’t feel anything yet, really, but the damage had been done.
“Water, please. There’s a bottle here somewhere,” he croaked after closing his eyes.
A few second later Julie pressed it into his hands with a crinkle and he unscrewed the cap. A few refreshing swigs later he felt a tiny bit better. The wind ruffled the hair on the top of his head, and he could feel the sway of the basket as well. They were still aloft. That was bad.
“How long have I been out?” Tim asked.
“Three, maybe four minutes, I don’t know,” Julie responded.
Tim looked at her. She had blood covering her arms up to the elbows and her cheeks were smudged with it too. Some of it belonged to Lucas, and likely some of it was his too. At this point the inside of the basket was covered in the stuff from shoe to belt. Her eyes were pinned wide, manic but not panicked. She seemed freaked out but in control, and that made Tim feel good. She’d found a reservoir of tough stuff to draw on while he was ko’d.
“Are we still heading east?”
“Like I know what direction we’re going in.”
“Is the sun mostly in front of the way we’re moving? Are the clouds keeping pace with us?”
She stood, steadied herself using the lip of the basket and looked around. She leaned out into the open air and looked up beyond the horizon of the balloon above.
“I think so.”
“That’s good. Now, how high up are we? Does it look the same as when we were flying around before we tried to land?”
“Maybe a little higher. It’s hard to tell.”
“Where’s my walkie?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard it go off since you last talked to your daughter,” Julie said, and looked around.
“Shit,” Tim said. “Did you look for it yet?”
“Not specifically. I was trying to bandage Lucas’ arm and hold a shirt to your head while praying we didn’t smash into a fucking tree, Tim. I was busy.”
“It’s okay, you did great. I owe you one.”
Tim rummaged around the floor of the basket looking for the communication device. He moved the shirt Julie held against his head while he was out and then the first aid kit, and the cooler with food and water. He’d brought strawberries for the couple to share.
He opened his backpack with a change of clothes and his rain jacket on the outside chance it had opened the zipper and fallen inside on its own. He gave up after a minute of looking. The walkie was gone. All he found was the frayed, busted rip line. The impossible. He’d checked the rip line twice that morning already and it was brand new. No way in Hell it frayed naturally that fast. But sabotage? How?
“Was I holding the walkie when the wind jerked us up? I can’t remember.”
“I think so,” Julie said.
“I must’ve dropped out of the balloon when we got yanked,” Tim said and groaned. “How is Lucas doing?”
“Not good. Look at his arm. It’s all messed up. He’s sweating, his breathing is like, almost not there. He’s twitching and moaning. I ca
n’t get him to come-to anymore.”
“Fuck,” Tim muttered. “Pardon my French.”
He got to his feet and leaned against the basket. The act of standing made his head pound and triggered a swamping slash of pain in the cut on his head. He almost blacked out but fought it off with his eyes shut and his hands knotted on the side of the basket. After a few seconds of focusing on the sensation of the wind against his face he was okay enough to look around at their surroundings.
Hills rolled to the north and south as they slid along the current of air in the rural valley. He looked to their rear back towards the town they’d departed the festival in and he could barely make out the small blot of buildings and streets in the trees. He could see the much larger expanse of Westfield a few miles ahead. Situated in a wider area of the valley and surrounded by farmlands the small city he lived in was hard to miss. They were headed straight towards it. Beyond that would be the small town that had the snooty private school his wife had wanted Malinda to go to. Auburn Prep-something.
“Where are we?” Julie asked him.
“Well you were right about the elevation. I think we’re about 3,000 feet up. I’ll check the altimeter, but I’d bet on it. We’re still heading east, and it looks like we’re halfway to Westfield.”
“Are we going to be okay?”
He looked her in the eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know. If we can stay aloft over the river and forests below us, and out of the trees, we can aim for the farms near Westfield. Good, open ground near there.”
“Okay. Okay. Lucas talked about Westfield. They were his high school’s rivals. He hated them.”
“No one likes Westfield around here, unless you’re from Westfield. Running joke in the county,” Tim said, trying not to touch the throbbing cut on his head. “I live there now, but I don’t tell people that.”
“Right.”
“Now our larger issue is Lucas. Just looking at him… he’s not long for this world.” He paused when her eyes filled and flowed with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t cry. I should’ve been a little more… tactful. But Julie, it’s like you said.”
“We have to land. We have to get him help. We were talking about marriage. I met his family.”
“We’ll land in Westfield, but I don’t know what kind of help we’ll find there.”
“Why do you say that?” Julie’s face twisted up in confusion.
“We can try calling with our phones when we get a little closer, but there’s no telling how good cell service will be, or whether or not 911 will pick up. My daughter said they were a bit busy at lunch earlier. My walkie is history, and I can’t see Malinda on the roads below us. We’ll have no truck to move in when we set down.”
“Shit. Pardon my French.”
“We’re all French today, Julie. Now if you can, I’m going to get us some elevation to try and get us in a faster wind going east, and I’m gonna try and get Lucas and I bandaged up. While I’m doing that, if either of you have a smart phone, I’d appreciate it if you’d look up the news, and see if my daughter was playing an elaborate joke on us, or if we’re really dealing with the plot of B-grade horror movie down there.”
“You mean up here?”
Tim looked down at the man who gave every indication that he was dying.
“We need to find some kind of weapon, because if he turns into a zombie… we need to do the right thing for your fiancé.”
“I can’t believe this is a conversation that’s actually happening in the world,” Julie said. “I won’t do it. I can’t do it to him if it’s real.”
“Let’s just hope it’s all an overblown mistake.”
Tim looked at the twitching form of the unconscious Lucas and fired the propane burner to get the balloon higher in the air. He worried about his daughter, and thought about his cell phone in his backpack. He resolved to call her as soon as the balloon was in a good level of air.
He also had to call the Federal Aviation Administration, and let them know he had gone a bit awry. He might lose his pilot’s license over it all, but that was a small price to pay. Right now, he had to land his balloon, and save Lucas.
- Part Six -
Sometimes You Become the News You Hear About
Malinda didn’t care about getting a ticket. When her dad’s balloon got snagged and flung upward by a freakish gust of wind right before touching down she’d lost any semblance of spare shits to give. With the trailer already half unhitched and the balloon rocketing upward and eastward and her walkie transmissions going unanswered, she made the call to finish unhitching. She was more than half done with it, and she’d be able to drive the truck far faster to chase them down.
She’d apologize later for flooring the truck in the Crane’s fields and tearing their property to shit. Malinda couldn’t help but think of the stern talk her dad would give her when he found out she’d tore up the field. Not even his safety was worth the trouble of fixing the grass, or apologizing to the Crane family.
Sometimes he was a bit rigid…
But she loved him.
As she bombed through the side roads heading back to Route 18 she weaved around the oblivious drivers putt-putting their way to the boring Wednesday activities they had. If they knew what was happening in the world, they’d be driving faster. She crossed over the center of the lineless back road and passed a Honda Civic doing 5-under the limit. The elderly lady driving the compact ejected a middle finger at Malinda as she crossed the big 4x4 truck back into the correct lane. The oncoming SUV honked its horn at her and she waved out the window at the two.
“Eat a fatty, people. I got places to be,” she hollered in glee. This is liberating. Not the maybe-zombies, but the not-giving-a-shit of getting to Dad. Being an asshole feels good. Speaking of zombies…
Malinda thumbed the radio volume up and listened to the broadcast; it didn’t matter what station she chose. They all said the same things.
More or less.
First station: “And we’d just like to tell folks that the reports of people biting each other are confirmed. The volume of reputable reports from Asia, Africa and Europe can’t be denied. What we’re… what we’re trying to confirm for everyone is this ‘getting back up when dead’ fact. That’s a little too unbelievable for us to report as fact until we hear something from Washington, from the White House.”
Second station: Remember people; aim for the head. Even if you can kill them by shooting them in the chest, play it safe and aim for the head. Play it safe. Shoot anyone who doesn’t look healthy. Remember; you’ll have a decent defense in court based on media reports sensationalizing it, and it’s better to try your luck with a jury than it is to try it with a zombie. Better to be judged by 12 than ate by 1.
Third station: Water, people. Basic services might be disrupted if this gets out of hand. Get to the grocery stores right now, and buy a few gallons of spring water. Canned goods, bandages, all the things you need for safety and well-being. Now I’m not saying start fights, but make sure you get what you need.
Fourth station: Just a reminder that everything you read and see on the internet isn’t always true. Remember that scary movie that came out, with the ghosts? The one that was nanny-cam footage? Paranormal Activity? People thought that was real and it wasn’t. And uh, the one in the woods. Blair Witch. That one was fake and they tried to make it seem real, so please use caution, but remember most things like this are fake. It’s all media hype and spin to sell movie tickets. Stay inside, ride the next 12 hours out, or at most, head to a safe place where you know everyone.
Fifth and final station, a gospel one: Do you think this is what God really wants, people? Come on. I assure you God is not a George Romero fan, otherwise he’d have had that movie’s copyright go through properly. And let’s not even get into the idea that the dead are coming back to life. That’s just absurd. The science doesn’t support any way for a virus to do it, and there are no fungus’ out there that can do it either. Hogwash. No biker gangs are
coming through, there are no helicopters heading to mall rooftops. Just hole up in your house, pray and pray again for the safety of your family and those around you to the Lord Jesus above, and all will be provided to you.
“I find it a little amusing that the man preaching on the Christian station is a clear and obvious fan of zombie movies,” Malinda said and chuckled. She stopped laughing when she saw the flash of blue lights ahead. “Uh-oh.”
Malinda eased off the gas using the sudden shit she had to give. A Westfield police cruiser was parked diagonally across the oncoming lane, tail end towards her. It had crossed the line and formed a safety block, obscuring her view of the oncoming lane. Just beyond the cruiser she could make out the tail end of a spun car in the middle of the road. Some kind of traffic accident. She slowed more, and flinched when she heard a series of loud, sharp snaps.
The scene unfolded at 20 miles per hour out her driver’s side window.
Two vehicles had hit each other head on. A sedan in her lane had crossed over into the other and hit a minivan. The two cars were totaled, but worse yet, two adult bodies had been ejected out of the minivan and into the middle of the street. One had the skull dashed open with a stream of pink, puffy material spread out around it. The other body–a mangled woman of indiscernible age, tripping and stumbling, blood oozing from a multitude of cuts and breaks–approached the bulky officer who was trying to pry open the driver’s side door of the sedan.
The hurt/dead/zombie woman from the minivan hurled herself at the distracted cop as his partner snapped off several shots from his pistol at her. His shots strayed across the lane Malinda drove in, and the partner collapsed out of the way. The zombie abandoned the peace officers and went through the busted window at the trapped driver.
Malinda gagged as the obvious dead woman ravaged the teenager that hit her car. The cop who dropped out of the way got to his feet and grappled with the woman, screaming at her to leave the kid alone, but when he wrapped her up and went to take her to the ground, Malinda watched as the cop’s meaty forearm crossed her busted-up chin and went right between her teeth.
An Ill Wind: Tales from the world of Adrian's Undead Diary Volume Five Page 3
