A gaggle of pilots and crew ran back and forth, never giving her a look.
She wasn’t allowed back down into the hold, but she heard the squealing of metal and felt the entire plane shift as something was loaded into it. She was anxious for them to be done so they could get up in the sky. To get back to wherever Yuri was at that moment.
“All will be forgiven,” she reasoned. Whatever was going on in the city—the riots, the violence, the chaos—she wanted to be with him. Yeah, part of it was he was her husband and thus she wanted the security blanket in place, but he was also wealthy beyond description. There would be nowhere safer in Russia than by his side. He’d have food. Weapons. Security.
Everything a girl needs to ride this out, she thought, amused at how easy she made it sound.
It took too long, but she finally got her wish to leave.
“Hi, Liza,” Zia said with a cheerful smile as she walked by. “We’ll be taking off soon. Please get buckled in.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
She prepared for the familiar takeoff routine. Buckle. Brace. Then tilt up to the sky. Only the Antonov was vastly bigger than anything she’d been in before. It rolled down the runway and seemed to take an endless amount of time building speed before she felt the expected tilt. The bulky engines screamed in the ascent, and it was much bumpier than the private jets she was used to.
And the airline service is horrible, she thought. Ahead, Zia’s skirt and leg peeked out from around the corner where she sat. Liza felt bad for joking about it, now that they’d become less-than-enemies, but without wine or a sensible dinner, she didn't feel too off the mark.
The captain announced over the intercom that they’d successfully reached cruising altitude. They were free to get up, though of course he didn’t recommend it.
“Can I get you anything?” Zia surprised her as the noise of the engines had covered her approach.
“I’d really like a vodka now, if that’s okay?” She smiled.
“Of course. Sorry about earlier,” she added. “They said a monster of a woman was flying with us. I didn't give you a proper chance.”
Damn you Ilia.
They shared a smile. The past was forgotten. Liza was grateful for a drink as there was no getting around the pain in so many places on her body. The PMS pills failed to impress her. The sounds in her head never went away fully either, which maintained the migraine headache she’d been pretending she didn’t have for the last several days.
“And do you have anything for pain?” she nodded to her midsection, hoping that would get her some sympathy, and the good stuff.
Zia winked, nodded, and said she’d be back in a few.
She was sitting there, almost smiling, when Ilia stomped down the aisle and stopped at her berth.
“The captain needs to see you. Something about Yuri. Said we’re changing destinations.” He said Yuri’s name almost with a sneer.
“Fine,” she said as she got up. She searched for Zia to let her know where she’d gone, but she was nowhere in sight. Unwilling to risk coming back to find the baton was missing, Liza grabbed its carrying bag. Then Ilia pushed her from behind, and she had to start walking.
Ahead, the cockpit was barely visible at the end of the narrow hallway. The drone of the engines made it impossible to hear the men up there. She passed another seating area with some books and papers on the table.
Suddenly, she was pushed into the compartment with such force she had to drop her bag and grab a seatback with both hands to keep from hitting the floor.
“What the hell—” She shut her mouth the second she saw the blade.
Ilia wasn’t taking her to the cockpit.
“Say one word and you’re dead,” he hissed.
Surely Zia heard that. There wasn’t enough privacy for him to be a real threat. Of that she was pretty certain, though he could hurt her without much thinking.
He got up and slid a heavy curtain across the berth. After sticking his head out and looking both directions, he came back in with a smile.
“You’ve been lucky. You know that, don’t you?” He sat on the other bench across the table from her, but he put his foot on her bench, preventing her—literally and symbolically—from leaving. She imagined pushing the leg and making a run for it, but the knife kept her from carrying it out.
“You should have died on that wall. That Oman fool must have failed target shooting,” he said, with ill-humor.
“You killed them all,” she said, without thinking.
“I had to! They were going to kill you. Believe me, princess, I thought about letting them do it, too. But then I wouldn't be doing my job, eh?”
“But you killed them,” she repeated with sadness, realizing her part in the play.
“It's done. And here we are,” he laughed.
“Yuri’s directive has always been to get you back to him. By any means necessary. Though I admit, going to Siberia was not on my list of vacation destinations. I had a grandfather do time up there. Shh,” he said, while holding up his finger to his lips, “don’t tell anyone.”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on his knife as he twirled it on its side on the table.
“That’s bad enough. Then you get bitten. Infected,” he said while mimicking spitting on her in disgust. “Now he wants me skip that and take you straight to America to cure you.”
Dan-fer, she remembered.
“I wanted to tell him to go hell the first time. But the money—was just too much to pass up. I said yes because I always say yes to Yuri. He’s rich. He’s powerful. And I was doing what I loved. What better way to use my skills from the army than doing shit with guns and being a bad ass for fun.” He made a “pffft” sound as if he didn’t believe the words.
“But now I’m done with him. Done with you. I'm just done,” he said heavily.
His head tilted down and he raised his eyebrows while his eyes broadcast his dislike of her. “I admit I wanted a taste of you because my boy Pavel praised your slender legs and tight ass to high heaven. Maybe it was all talk. Maybe,” he slurred.
She watched as he picked up the knife, looked at it, then struck the table with its point. It didn’t sink in as she expected, but instead slid to the side as the table bounced. It seemed to catch him by surprise, too.
“Son of a bitch!”
He banged the knife a couple more times, but still it wouldn’t penetrate the table. He tried to steady the surface as it hung from the wall, to no avail. That got him extra angry. With both hands he tried to rip into the table with the knife until he worked up such a rage he was on his feet doing it.
But still it wouldn’t cut.
She shrank into the seat, hoping the tempest wouldn’t blow in her direction.
Ilia looked at her with furious red eyes. Though a deep, cynical, suicidal portion of her soul wanted to mock his impotence in that moment, she kept her eyes at his chest level rather than challenge him.
He spun with the knife and sunk it into the curved plastic wall next to the table. He left it hanging there while he used his upper body to smash the tabletop. It was made to fold into the wall, so it was only held by a weak hinge. It came out easily and the broken top banged against the wall.
That gave him room to step in front of her, though he hunched over a little because of the low ceiling.
“It’s all over thanks to you. Now look at me, you little hussy.” He slapped her across the face lightly.
As instructed, she lifted her head to him. But not to the eyes. She was afraid that would trigger whatever he was about to do that much sooner. There was still hope Zia would rescue her.
“I said, LOOK!”
He grabbed her under the chin and forced her head to turn up the rest of the way.
“Oh, God, no.”
The bag was somewhere close. Her fingertips searched the seat next to her. Her foot slid around stealthily but felt nothing on the floor. There would be no reprieve this time.
His eyes weren’t red with an
ger. They were red with blood.
He’d been infected.
They both knew by whom.
25
Her heartbeat jumped out to a head start over her breathing. She was in serious trouble.
“I blame myself,” he said, changing the conversation to a place she didn’t expect. “I should have left you to die after you ran away. But it’s hard, you know, to give up on something you’ve been thinking about for so long. That damned Pavel wouldn't shut up about your breasts, you know. Said he liked to walk in on you so he could see them. Made it sound so easy, huh? I bet you two did it at Constance's?”
He put his arm against the wall next to her head. A subtle nod let her know not to try making a break for the hallway.
“Pavel and I—”
“Shut it,” he said almost in a melody. “I don't care.”
He poked at his temple with his free hand. “This ringing is hell itself,” he stammered.
“I never touched Pavel,” she shouted. Both for him and for—please—Zia.
He giggled. “Pavel wanted me to leave you alone. Said I was wasting my time. At first I thought it was because he wanted you to himself. Now? I think he was right.” He pointed to his eyes. “Because you infected me with the Tunguska Virus.”
Their eyes met as he searched hers for evidence she also had the infection. Rather than hide her eyes she looked all the way to the left so he could see her eyes, but not the gateways to her tortured soul. He then put his free hand in her hair.
“So here we are. I was going to let you off easy. Back when there was still a chance I'd have to report to Yuri about our adventure. But let's try it again, what do you say?” His laugh was jagged and wet.
He clawed at the buttons down the front of her shirt, ripping the top half open.
She whined in fear, but all he had to do was point to the knife to shut her up.
“This is what’s going to happen. A, you get undressed. B, you undress me. C, I, uh …” He lost what he was going to say, but grabbed her so she also stood in the compartment.
While she was thinking of the best way to get herself out of the mess he pulled his black shirt up and over his head. On anyone else his barrel chest and firm muscles might have been attractive, but because of who he was, she found the bare skin repulsive—even without the large reddish and black patches. Whatever the virus did under his skin, it wasn’t pretty.
“Now you,” he insisted.
He pointed to her shirt. She methodically unhooked the remaining buttons while keeping her eyes steady on him. There was no question he was burning up inside. His skin appeared clammy and wet. Maybe if she could delay him.
“Yuri would be so disappointed,” she said as a test.
Ilia’s hand attached to her face and mouth. He squeezed so hard she feared he was going to break her jaw.
“Yuri is no dummy. You are the dummy. He knows about you and Pavel. Because I told him!” His giggle was wet and tired.
“But that's a lie,” she said in disbelief.
He yanked her shirt off the rest of the way, leaving her in the same type of cami she’d been wearing when she fought him off above the boutique.
“You’ll never see him again, you know. He’s sending you away. Sending us all away. Only some of us don’t want to go. I can solve all our problems by taking care of you.” He smiled. “Maybe they'll give me a medal.”
He seemed to drift as they both stood there in an awkward state of half-dress. Motion caught her eye to her right. The curtain nudged open behind Ilia, and Zia stared wide-eyed at her. Liza was struggling to mouth the word Help, but Ilia struck like lightning.
He pushed Liza to the bench, spun with precision to reach for the knife still in the wall, then jabbed it through a part of the curtain. Zia yelped and fell away. Ilia followed.
Liza couldn’t see through the tangle of the curtain but heard the knife go in and out of Zia several times.
I’m going to die.
The man was insane. Just like the rioters.
She scrambled to find where her bag had fallen and found it kicked into the corner under the seat. She pulled it out and a few seconds later held the police truncheon in front of her with both shaking hands.
Ilia came back through the curtain and chuckled when he saw her. “Gonna play pat-a-cake with that?” The knife and his right arm were awash in blood. He jammed the blade back into the wall, creating a new hole next to the first.
“I'm unarmed. You can hit me with that and take me down.” He leered at her, as if daring an attack.
She didn't wait for another invitation. She swung the baton back with both hands, first hitting the partition behind her, then she projected it so it landed right on the side of Ilia's head.
“Take that!”
Ilia actually laughed. “In this little cubicle you couldn't swing that thing hard enough to bruise me. And you only get one shot.”
He grabbed the baton from Liza and threw it behind him, almost on Zia's feet.
“As you can see, baby, this is a one-way trip now.” He smiled. There was blood in his teeth.
Where did that come from, she wondered, then shuddered as the answer hit her.
“Just tell me what you want me to do,” she implored. Her heart rate flew as high as the Anatov.
“You know what to do, you whore.” He swayed in front of her, sweat dripping from every pore, but she wasn’t lucky enough to have him fall over dead. As with the rest of her life, she had no way to refuse what he wanted.
She tried to block what was happening from her consciousness as she undid her pants and rolled them to her ankles. Regardless, she found her eyes continually drawn to Ilia’s neck. His strength and vitality flowed through his veins, and his neck bulged in a way she’d never noticed.
She had to pretend to say yes, but it was going to be the last time. Just as Ilia was taking his one-way trip, so, too, was she. And Ilia was her way to flame out.
He clawed at her panties with a sudden fury and bent his neck at the perfect angle, at the perfect time, and she saw what she had to do as it if were drawn on the man with ink.
She mashed her face to his neck, then latched her arms around his head and held on for life. She sank her teeth into the tender area of his carotid. He screamed and flailed as she expected, but just as she couldn't swing the stick, he didn't have the room to throw her off.
Nonetheless, it was harder than she imagined. The artery she sought wasn’t as close to the surface as the vampire movies suggested. The taste of blood was sickening to her, but her life depended on following through and putting an end to the deadly threat. She plunged in deeper.
Ilia thrashed in the berth, but got caught up in the black curtain. While he fought to untangle himself, she found what she sought. The blood spurted out with fatal warmth.
She felt the wind sucked out of her as Ilia made one last effort to crush her against a wall. She let go and tumbled to the floor in the middle of the walkway, her body being sprayed with blood the whole way down.
“Die, you bastard,” she croaked while spitting with hatred.
Ilia groped his neck, desperate to staunch the tide, but she was satisfied he would have no luck.
She drew in a painful breath, so she could let it back out again. “Pavel and I had nothing, you stupid asshole.”
He didn’t acknowledge her. He stumbled to the broken table and pulled the knife of out the wall.
Her eyes bugged out in surprise, her stomach twisted, and her legs refused to participate in any escape.
“Shit,” was all she could say, wiping her lips.
She backpedaled furiously on her hands and feet while sitting on the floor. She ignored Zia’s body as she went.
There would be no begging. She’d already made up her mind about that.
26
By chance she’d backed down the hall in the opposite direction from the cockpit. Had she gone in the other direction she might have found some men willing to help her fend off the sad ex
cuse for a human being. Or, she admitted, maybe she’d bring down the entire plane by allowing Ilia the opportunity to get into the cockpit.
He came out of the sitting area and leaned against the corner, glaring at her.
“Yuri said you were special. I thought it was bullshit. But you aren’t knife-proof. I assure you of that.” He swayed as she watched, though the spurts from his neck wound had shrunk in size considerably. Still, he took some steps forward. His eyes were half-closed and he missed stepping over Zia's body. The fall happened in slow motion. She prayed he would get hurt on the way down. It would give her an extra few seconds to find help.
Her prayers were answered. Ilia tripped, fell, and landed square on his own knife. It sank into his chest in a satisfying way. The dead man barely made a moan. Nothing that could be heard over the sound of the engines.
She dared not celebrate.
“Ilia?” she asked, as if they’d merely been playing a game. When there was no response, she released the tension in her belly. Already on all fours, she leaned over and threw up.
Always aware of how things must look to outsiders, she began to assemble an explanation for what would undoubtedly look like two murders on the flight deck of a military transport. As the sole survivor she could make up any story she chose. Being almost naked wouldn’t help her cause, no matter how she played it. That would look almost as bad as the murders, at least in her mind.
“A scandal. Just what I need. Yuri already thinks I'm sleeping around,” she sniffed.
She stood up to go collect her clothing.
Ilia lurched.
“Oh, my god!”
The dead man lifted his head. Then he planted both hands on the ground and did a pushup. By the time he’d gotten to his feet her plans all melted away as memories of all those sick people back in the streets flooded in.
“You’re one of them. A rioter,” she said, as if revealing the murderer at the mystery dinner.
The knife remained firmly ensconced in his chest. Right up to the hilt.
They watched each other warily. Ilia’s eyes dripped blood, though it was difficult to tell if that was an injury or the result of the disease process. He was a blood-covered image of hatred. Some came from Zia. Most of it was his.
World of Zombies Page 9
