Zombie Rules (Book 5): Mount Weather

by David Achord

  "Attention passengers," the captain's voice came through loud and clear, but the woman's tone was subdued, even meek, "We are over San Francisco and, God willing, will be on the ground shortly. Once we touch down, ambulances will be dispatched to tend to those who require attention. Please bear with us, and try to remain calm. You will soon be in the hands of the best medical minds on the planet, and they'll have this whole thing quickly sorted out."

  Huh? So, we're not crashing, then? Ambulances? Those who require attention? What the hell did I miss?

  As the captain's voice clicked off, a stewardess appeared at the front of the plane. It was the cute little thing who'd brought Mason his over-abundance of drinks, each one delivered with a sly grin and a cute little wink. Oh, she was a doll alright, but it looked like she'd been spending her down time sampling her own wares. She stepped to the front of the aisle, looking vaguely ceilingward, and stumbling awkwardly. Finally, she grabbed a nearby seatback for stability and brought a metal tray up to her chest. A crude message had been scrawled across the tray in bright red lipstick, and Mason gawked at it curiously. The words were printed clumsily, letters bumping into letters and words overriding one another, but the message was clear enough.

  'If you can see, please come forward,' it read.

  What the hell?

  Mason read it again, and then again, and once again just to be sure. 'If you can see, please come forward'. Nothing more. No explanation, no qualifiers. 'If you can read this, please come forward'. What in God's name did that mean? Was it a joke? What the hell did he sleep through?

  He watched and waited, but no one came forward. Well, if it was a joke, the cute little stewardess was committed to it, that's for sure. She stood there for three long minutes, grasping the seatback for support and holding that stupid tray higher and higher in the air.

  'If you can read this, please come forward'.

  Okay, if she was that determined to have her silly joke, Mason would play along. And then, once everyone dropped the act and had a good laugh at his expense, he'd give his best 'aw-shucks' expression and pretend to be a good sport. Really, being laughed at now would be the best thing that'd happened to him in a long time.

  He began to stand, assuming his neighbor would take the hint and follow social convention by swinging his legs to the side or hoisting his big, fat body up and out of the way. No such luck, though. The man with the pudgy face and the big belly simply cried and dabbed at his eyes with a soiled handkerchief and heaved his ponderous chest outward every time he needed to draw in more air for another round of wailing. Mason gruffly cleared his throat loudly, but to no avail. The fat man was too absorbed with wallowing in his own personal misery to pay attention to anything else. Finally, and reluctantly, Mason tapped the whale of a man on the shoulder.

  "Huh? What?" The man finally became aware. He gazed across at Mason's crotch and squinted desperately. "What? Who'zat? What do you want?"

  Surprise, jerkhole, it's Marilyn Monroe, and I'm here to sing Happy Birthday, he wanted to say. Instead, he whispered quietly, "Would you excuse me, please."

  "Huh? What?"

  The man looked positively addled. He made no move to stand or sidle sideways or otherwise remove his prodigious bulk from the pathway to freedom.

  I thought booze and Dramamine were good, Mason thought to himself. Maybe I should try a little of what Fatty's having….

  He finally pushed his way gruffly past a thick pair of legs, and a pair of meaty hands groped at him as he passed.

  "Christ, dude, I just wanna take a leak. Do you fucking mind?" Mason snapped and shoved himself out into the aisle.

  "Sure!" The big man howled, somewhere between pissed off and full-on crazy, "Why not! Take a leak! Take a leak wherever you like! The world's your toilet!" And then he laughed and laughed and ended up crying again.

  "Please, everyone!" Someone spoke up a few seats away. It was an older fellow with wire-framed glasses and a crucifix around his neck. "We must not fight among ourselves!"

  "He's right," a tiny woman agreed from across the aisle, "We should remain calm and work together."

  Suddenly, a chorus of voices rose up, some agreeing, some arguing, and some downright crude. Those who didn't join in were too busy either sobbing quietly or staring at the seatback in front of them, all but insensate. A baby started crying like an air raid siren, and his mother spoke to him in a calm, soothing tone, holding it to her breast and sobbing quietly.

  Jesus…..you pass out for a few hours and everyone loses their shit..…..

  Mason strolled up the aisle toward the stewardess with the tray. As he moved, he was impelled to push one man back into his seat to get by, then he became aware of a little old woman groping about in the aisle. A string of rosary beads lay in a ball a few feet further up the aisle, so Mason collected the beads and placed them in the woman's hands. She stared up at his belt buckle with red, moist eyes and held the beads to her frail little chest.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you," she purred, then she fell silent and brought the rosary up her chin, moving her lips in silent prayer.

  The stewardess had given up by the time he arrived. She had dropped the tray to the ground and was groping her way back behind the curtain. Mason tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around, her face a mask of horror.

  "Please don't hurt me!" She gasped.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," Mason said as gently as he could. Christ, his head hurt! He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the contemptuous rabble behind him and leaned in to whisper in the girl's ear. "I got your message."

  The girl's expression changed instantly.

  "You can…." she began, then she stopped herself and reached out toward him. Her fingers played over his face, then she gently pulled herself close until her lips were nearly pressed against his ear. "You can…...see?" she asked, a distinct desperation in her voice.

  "I can," he breathed in a whisper, then he stood back and waited for the punchline and the gales of laughter.

  To his amazement, there was neither. The stewardess grabbed him by the arm and turned on her heels. She started to grope her way away from the main cabin, but she stumbled over the discarded tray and would have fallen on her face had Mason not caught her. He took hold of her hand, laid it gently on his outstretched elbow, and guided her into the galley. The drink cart was standing in the way, so he pushed it to the side, helping himself to a few tiny bottles of scotch on the way. He slipped two of them into his jacket pocket and snapped the third one open, downing it in a single swallow. Maybe it would help dull the throbbing headache, and if not, what the hell. Either way, they could add it to his bill.

  "Gloria?" The stewardess called out.

  An older gal was standing against a little metal sink, weeping. She pulled herself together long enough to mutter a solemn, "I'm here, Katie."

  "Gloria!" Katie said in an excited whisper as she lugged Mason along, then she lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper, "This man says he can see!"

  "Oh, thank the Lord…." Gloria hushed. She choked back her tears, wiped her eyes with her hands, and stumbled her way across the galley. She reached out blindly as she drew near, and Mason took one of her hands in his. When she felt the grip, she nearly collapsed. "Oh, thank you, thank you….." she gushed, "Who are you?"

  "The name's Mason," he offered vaguely.

  "What seat number?"

  "Uhhh….10B."

  "Scotch, rocks, and a beer, and keep them coming," Gloria managed a weak smile through her tears.

  Mason pressed the heel of his hand against his throbbing temple and sighed, "Yeah, that's me."

  Katie spoke again. "Mr Mason, we need your assistance if you would be so kind?"

  It was phrased as a question, but her tone of voice declared it as an imperative, rather like 'Excuse me, sir, would you mind terribly stemming the flow of blood from my jugular vein?' or 'Begging your pardon, young man, but would you be so kind as to telephone 9-1-1 while I have this heart attack?
'.

  Mason nodded, but he quickly realized the stupidity of the action and answered aloud.

  "I'll do whatever I can," he said honestly.

  Gloria lugged him along with her and reached for a phone on the wall with practiced familiarity. She pushed a button, waited a few seconds, and said, "I think we found someone."

  She hung up the phone, and a buzz sounded from the door directly opposite. Gloria opened the door, and Mason found himself looking directly into the cockpit. The pilots at the controls half-turned in their seats, though neither one looked directly at this strange intruder standing on the verge of their inner sanctum.

  "Hello?" The man on the right said.

  "Hello," Mason replied warily.

  "Please come in, sir. Thank you, Gloria. Please close the door."

  They both did as instructed, and Mason found himself gawking through the large windscreen at a clear night sky and a grid of city lights far below.

  "Excuse me, sir," the one of the left spoke up. She was older, and with an air of authority that identified her immediately as the one in charge. "Who are you?"

  "Uhh….10B," Mason said awkwardly, "Scotch, rocks, and a beer."

  The captain smiled affably.

  "I could use that myself right about now, Mr Tenby," she said, and waved him further into the cabin. Before Mason could correct her, she held out her hand, and Mason took it. "Mr Tenby, my name is Katherine. This man beside me is Aaron."

  "Hello," the copilot repeated, looking over Mason's shoulder.

  "Hello," Mason said again.

  "Mr Tenby," the woman looked anxiously at Mason's chest, "can you tell me how many fingers you see?"

  She held up three fingers in a boy scout salute. Mason shrugged, "Three, but I don't understand……"

  The copilot cut him off.

  "Thank God! Mr Tenby, would you come forward please? We could use your help."

  "I don't .…." Mason started again, but this time the pilot interrupted.

  "Mr Tenby, how did you come to retain your sight?" She asked, then she turned to her copilot before Mason could respond and said, "Maybe we were wrong. Maybe it wasn't the lights. Maybe it was the food, after all. Mr Tenby, did you have dinner during the flight?"

  "If you want to call it that. Some kind of chicken, as far as I could make out."

  What was wrong with the chicken? Had he been poisoned? Is that what was wrong with everyone? Why was he brought up here? A million thoughts were buzzing through Mason's mind, but feeling a little like he'd been called to the principal's office, he let the others ask the questions.

  "What about the lights? Did you see the lights?" This, from the copilot, Aaron.

  Huh? Lights? What lights?……

  "I've been asleep for most of the flight," Mason admitted sheepishly, "Scotch, rocks, beer, and Dramamine."

  The pilot laughed aloud, and the copilot leaned across a control panel and hushed, "Katherine, if he was asleep….."

  The pilot clicked her tongue to cut off Aaron's words. "Mr Tenby, normally I would caution against such a potent cocktail, but I count us as fortunate that you didn't read the instructions that came with your airsickness pills. It's seems that you are the only person aboard this aircraft not suffering from a temporary loss of sight."

  Jesus…..

  "We hope it's temporary," Aaron corrected her.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph……

  The captain slumped in her seat, but her tone remained stalwart. "Yes, we hope. But the fact of the matter is, Mr Tenby, apparently you are the only one aboard who can see."

  The full reality of the situation washed over Mason in a wave, and his knees felt suddenly weak.

  "You're telling me that you're both blind?" he sighed, and put a hand to his temple.

  "I'm afraid so," the captain said frankly.

  Back was the vision of a fiery death, and Mason almost chuckled to himself. It was just too perfect. The perfect end to the perfect week. He wondered if Becks would even shed a tear. Then it occurred to him why he had been brought forward, and that new thought unnerved him even more.

  "You don't expect me to land this plane!?" He fairly barked, stepping nervously backward.

  Despite the copilot's ashen face, the man laughed. He actually laughed! The captain joined in, but it was with a stilted little chuckle that was stifled quickly.

  "No, Mr Tenby. We have no need of Karen Black at present. This aircraft if fully capable of functioning without our assistance. A state-of-the-art computer is quite handily running every system from the set of the flaps to the flushing of the toilets. We pilots usually spend most of every flight simply monitoring the readouts. Trust me when I say that this aircraft can quite literally fly itself and land itself. No, Mr Tenby, thankfully for all of us, this is not the movies."

  Mason sighed his relief and retrieved another little bottle of scotch from his pocket. Then stopped. He was on the flight deck of a jumbo jet. Surely, alcohol was forbidden anywhere near the cockpit. But then he quickly realized the ridiculousness of his situation, unscrewed the cap, and downed the liquor in a swallow.

  "Smells like scotch," Katherine smiled, "I hope you haven't had enough of those to blur your vision."

  Mason sheepishly tucked the empty bottle in his pocket. "Sorry, Captain. Hair of the dog. I have a splitting headache. What is it you need from me?"

  "Just your eyes, Mr Tenby," the copilot said ominously.

  There's a panel in front of me," the captain spoke over her shoulder and waved him closer to her side, "Right about here, there's an indicator marked A/P. Can you see it?"

  "The one with a green bar? Yes, I see it."

  Both officers breathed a heavy sigh.

  "Excellent," The captain grinned. "You have no idea what a relief that is. We were 99% certain that the autopilot was active, but we couldn't be absolutely certain because neither of can see that stupid twenty cent light."

  "You'd think there would be an audio alert," Mason reasoned.

  "Or maybe Braille?"

  Duh.….. Stupid.…..

  "Sorry," Mason offered clumsily.

  The copilot ignored the apology and pointed at a vague area of the dash, "Mr Tenby, there's a digital panel right about here. It'll say HDG and then show a series of numbers. Could you tell me those numbers?"

  Mason read off the 3 digit number, and the officers conferred. Apparently, the news was good. They had him read off a few more numbers and check that certain switches were set properly, and all the while the captain spoke into her microphone to someone on the ground. The voice came only through the pilots' headphones so Mason couldn't hear what was being said at the other end, but there were relieved smiles all around.

  "Thank you, Mr Tenby," Katherine said warmly, "Now, if you'd care to strap yourself into the jump-seat behind you, there's nothing for any of us to do now but wait for this big, beautiful girl to land herself."

  "What, that's it?"

  Her smile widened. "As I said, this aircraft is state-of-the-art. Sit back and watch the show."

  Sure enough, the plane started to descend all on its own. It was a disturbing feeling being at the mercy of a computer, but it was endlessly fascinating as well. With little for anyone to do but go along for the ride, Mason reflected back on something the co-pilot had mentioned.

  "You said something about lights?" he said, trying his best to sound casual.

  "The lightning, yes," The copilot said, "Didn't you watch it?"

  Mason shrugged and shook his head, then gave himself a mental cuff on the back of the head and spoke aloud.

  "No, I must have been pas…..uhh……asleep by then."

  The captain smiled knowingly, but said nothing. Aaron, however, grew quite animated.

  "We were in the clouds. It came out of nowhere at 40,000 feet! Most clouds stay well below that altitude, so it was strange to begin with. But here we were, just latching onto the polar jet stream, and suddenly we're lost in an altocumulus billow!"

  "Sounds li
ke fun," Mason said sourly.

  "Well, for a modern aircraft, storms aren't really an issue. But that lightning was incredible! Great flashes of blues and violets. We could actually smell the ozone!"

  "Inside the plane? What did you do, roll down a window?"

  Now the captain laughed out loud. With the stress of everything going on, it was a wonderful sound.

  "In spite of what you may have heard about modern aircraft recirculating air ad infinitum, Mr Tenby, we do actually draw fresh air in from outside. The compressors in the engines divert a continuous stream of fresh air through the packs… ..uh, sorry…. the air conditioners. Typically, the air you breathe in the cabin is a 50/50 mix of fresh and recirculated air. However, it is odd for that fresh air to have an odor, I must admit. At 40,000 feet, especially."

  "It smelled like ozone….. and something else," the copilot reflected back, looking skyward and rubbing his fingertips together, "It had an almost, I don't know….I guess a sort of chemical flavor to it."

  The captain laughed again. "You sound like one of those pretentious wine connoisseurs, Aaron," she affected a horribly clichéed British accent, "Woody and smoky, with just a hint of caramel…."

  All three of them laughed, and the topic was dropped. Katherine drew Mason's attention back to the control panels, and he called out numbers as they descended; altitude, airspeed, flaps, throttle settings. By the time they were lined up for their final approach, he was even beginning to understand what some of them meant. And all the while, neither officer touched a single control. The captain spoke into her radio almost constantly, and Mason continued to read off numbers aloud, but both officers sat as complacently as if they'd been on a cross-town bus. He expected a flurry of activity as they dropped below a thousand feet and the runway lights lined up in the center of the windshield, but there was none. Katherine and Aaron simply sat calmly and listened as he called off every 10 foot drop in altitude. Only when the wheels came into contact with the tarmac did the captain make a move. She applied her brakes carefully, and eased the throttles back under Mason's careful scrutiny.

  And they were down. Just that easily. No muss, no fuss. No burst of flame or fuselage cartwheeling down the runway. The plane stopped in the middle of a runway, and the flashing lights of a dozen emergency vehicles appeared like magic from either side.