“Now you can see why we get a pushback from a cart,” the captain explained, a slight nervousness in his voice. What he was doing was against all procedure and reasonable practice, but then, so had been the rest of his day. “We’ll either be stopped and arrested, or we will be off the ground in ten minutes.”
“Jesus,” Daniel exclaimed, watching the mass of bodies writhing around under mountains of flailing broken glass in the halls. He forced himself to remember that this was all they could do, they had to get away. He, too, was waiting for sirens to sound. It would be hard to explain to the authorities: well, officer, it’s like this, there were these zombies…
Because the rear and forward undercarriage were steerable, the massive beast of a plane handled easily as they backed gradually away from the gate. Soon, they were far enough from their resting place and neighbouring planes that they could begin taxiing forward. Their parked position had been near the threshold of the runway, so it took less than five minutes to line up on the centreline. The route they had taken up to this point was now littered with crushed bodies of Infected, too slow or unaware to move out of the way. The massive weight of the aircraft meant that no-one on board felt a thing as the human road kill piled up.
“Here, we go,” the captain announced, and the first officer placed a blind call on his radio, just in case someone was listening, announcing their departure. The captain sent the throttle levers to full power. The rather disconcerting aspect of these fly-by-wire planes was that, irrespective of the settings the captain input through the levers, the aircraft computers would decide how much power was needed for take-off, based upon configuration, weight and weather. All very clever, but it would never allow for the slight drag encountered as the wheels obliterated the occasional walking dead on the runway; it was just not an option on the menu. The plane’s size and inertia meant the small, but vicious obstructions on the runway went unnoticed, about as much as a car wheel squashing marshmallows, although these marshmallows left bloody smears on the underside of the wings and fuselage. By the time it left the runway, the plane looked like it had suppurating wounds along its rear flanks.
By some miracle of good fortune, none of the walkers had been sucked into the engines, and they lifted off quickly due to their much lighter than expected load. The plane began to follow its programmed route to the USA, firstly heading north, on a path that would take them over Lockerbie, then completing a Great Circle route to the northeast coast of America.
As the workload reduced in the cockpit, Daniel felt he could speak once more. “That was pretty impressive, thanks, Captain,” he commented. “Tell me, were any of your staff or passengers showing signs of being ill, at all?”
The captain, caught off guard by the question, his focus on flying the plane, paused a moment before answering. “We do have a few that didn’t seem too well when I checked earlier; one of them is a crew member. Why? Is there a problem?”
“From what we’ve seen today, it is quite probable that they will turn into one of those creatures you saw at the gate. For our own safety, we’ll need to take precautions against anything kicking off. Can they be restrained?”
“You think that’s necessary? Really? Have to say, I’m having trouble getting my head around all this.” Seeing the grimly serious look on Daniel’s face, he sighed before answering. “Yes, the purser has a supply of those plastic tie things that the police use to restrain people safely. Perhaps you and your friend can help her sort it out. I’m not happy about these sick people being on board, but they are American, and I think I need to get them home, no matter what.”
“A laudable sentiment, Captain, but we’ve all seen what they can do, if left to turn. They are unspeakably dangerous; they just seem to want to feed. On us.”
“So how did you lot get past them, then?”
“Aftershave.”
“What?”
“We sprayed ourselves with tons of the stuff; it stopped us smelling like fresh meat.”
“Ah, that explains it, I thought you all smelt pretty overpowering when you boarded, but I didn’t like to say. Especially as you had guns,” he added, wryly and a bit humourlessly.
“Captain, I’d like to apologise sincerely for pointing my gun at you out there, but we were somewhat desperate to get on board.” Daniel had hated doing that to a fellow pilot, but needs must when the devil drives.
“I get it, I’d ’a probably done the same dang thing, in the same situation. Let’s just forget about it. We’ll call it quits if you guys can secure my plane beyond the cockpit door.”
“Consider it a deal,” Daniel replied, taking an instant liking to this pilot. “I guess I’d better get back to Rob, and we can sort things out with Becky.” He stood to go. It was dark outside the plane now, but he could see, at the top of the cloud ahead of them, the last of the sun’s golden rays touching its tips. It looked beautiful, maybe it was an omen, telling of good fortune ahead.
Back in the cabin, he sat down beside Janet. She was sound asleep. For someone who was essentially afraid of flying, this was quite a feat, and told of her physical and mental exhaustion. Daniel holstered his pistol once more. Rob beckoned him over to his side of the cabin.
“Enjoy the take-off?” he asked Daniel.
“Yeah, it was great, apart from seeing all those poor bastards that were getting mangled underneath the plane.” He paused, reflecting on all the killing that was quickly becoming normal behaviour. “Did you get through to Sandra?”
“Yeah, I did thanks. She’s okay, I’m glad to say.”
“Listen, the captain thinks there are infected passengers aboard the plane.”
“What?” Rob’s face showed the horror he felt at the thought of being trapped in an enclosed space with something that wanted nothing more than to eat him, with the rest of them as dessert.
“Yeah. Unbelievable or what? As if we haven’t had to put up with enough crap today, to last us several lifetimes. Apparently, at least one member of the crew, and a few of the other passengers were sick a while ago. The captain wants us to work with the purser to restrain them. He doesn’t like the fact they’re on board, but he was going all marine on me, something about not leaving anyone behind. I approve of that under normal circumstances, but I think that he has inadvertently landed us royally in the shit.”
“I don’t like the idea of using the guns on the plane. It only takes one free bullet to make our day an even worse one. Maybe there’s something in the hold we could use, you know, to beat their heads in, if necessary, we should check that out.” They had the cleavers still, but the thought of using them seemed too bloody. He thought for a moment. “I think I can make the guns less dangerous for us, as long as we don’t miss the target. If we slice across the noses of the bullets we have, making a cross in the tip, they will break up in the target, so we won’t have any through and throughs. I think that air marshals use similar ammo.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that on telly, it might work. Let’s talk to the purser, see just what shit storm we’re heading for.”
Chapter 15
Meanwhile, Back in the USA
“It is said that when there is no more room in hell, the dead shall walk the earth,” the radio announcer said, as if they were his own words. He doubted he would ever be sued for plagiarism. “Today I saw that for myself. There is something coming out of the Big Apple that tells me that God is unhappy with us.” The radio presenter prattled on; for him and his righteous path, the whole world was now become Hell.
Sandra listened to the radio. Well, it was on in the background, keeping her company. The television was on as well, trying to achieve the same end. It was tuned to Sky News, which was running a loop of the same information, over and over again, once in a while containing an update viewers would find useful. It had been only three hours since she had last spoken to Rob. She was frightened, wondering if fate would deliver him back to her. For some reason, he had called from an aeroplane, en route to the USA. If it was at all possible
, he would try and call her again when it landed. He’d been so uncertain, and had no answers either for him or her. She had told him what little could be known, that the problem was spreading across the USA from the east coast. No news reports had been received from New York since much earlier in the morning. One reporter, mid-way through a description of the chaos on the street on which she was standing, had suddenly been attacked by a crazy, blood-soaked person before the live report was cut. They never went back to her.
The military were all over the streets, preventing ordinary frightened citizens and survivalists alike, not to mention opportunistic looters, from stripping shops bare of supplies. They did their best to maintain law and order. Washington spokespeople were talking about imposing martial law all over the USA, at least until they had the situation under control. Survivalists, or Preppers, as they were now being called, were accusing the government of using the situation to take full control of their lives. Finally, The Man had an excuse to dominate free men. The government would be resisted.
“God, I hope it doesn’t get this far,” Sandra said to her neighbour, Ella. They had only met earlier that day, both having gone outside to see if anything had changed on the street. Striking up a conversation, Sandra had invited her in for a coffee; both needed the company.
“Same here,” Sandra replied, “Rob is on his way back, and I don’t want anything to get between him and here.”
“Bill should be back this evening,” Ella replied. Bill was her husband; he was a travelling salesman, dedicated to his business. Even though things seemed rather strained that morning; they had argued about his need to go to work, he still drove off, intent on closing the one particular deal he had been chasing for a month. He wouldn’t let it go just because of a measly news report, those New Yorkers probably deserved it, was the last thing he had said to her as he drove away.
“Rob asked me not to go out; he was worried about the situation. Men do worry about their womenfolk,” Sandra said, mimicking a wild-western settler accent, “do ya want another coffee?” She was mainlining the stuff, her nerves on edge. Not that coffee was the cure. By mid-afternoon, she would have to try and climb down off the ceiling.
“No, thanks. I can’t drink too much, it gives me heartburn.”
“I shouldn’t either,” Sandra said, pouring herself another. “Would you like to go shopping with me?”
“You don’t think it’s inappropriate right now?”
“No, I mean food shopping. I think it might be a good idea to stock up a bit, just in case. I’m damn sure Rob would like a decent steak when he gets home.”
“Sure, why not.”
They left the house and Sandra drove, taking their dark blue Chevy Silverado. She had resisted its purchase at the time, saying it was a pointless gas guzzler, but now it was beginning to feel like the right vehicle for the job.
The military vehicles were still on the street, a few troopers visible at the far end, apparently aimlessly loitering as if waiting for something to happen. Sandra guessed their presence must be the deterrent the radio spoke of; they weren’t doing anything in particular, no road blocks, nothing. They drove down to the mall in central Castle Rock, past the neat little houses and arcades selling factory over-runs and other useful supplies. They saw the streets were all but empty of civilian cars, a few people quickly scurrying from one doorway to another. It looked like the prelude to a gunfight, all that was needed was tumbleweed to roll across in front of Yul Brynner, standing at one end of the street, being faced down by James Brolin. Again, there were more military vehicles parked up, but there was no sign of their personnel.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Sandra said, slowing down. In her mind she was wrestling with the urge to turn around, and flee back to their house.
“We’re here now. It’ll be okay,” Ella replied, the only justification for her optimism being that she’d been there, to these shops, a thousand times before. Her natural comfort zone hadn’t yet been invaded.
“Alright, if you say so,” Sandra said dubiously, parking up in front of her usual grocery store. What was unusual was her ability to park right in front, the most convenient place to stop. Before opening the car door she peered around, up and down the street. Strange for that time of day, it appeared to be deserted. There was a man standing behind a shop window, just staring out blankly. She looked in the direction of his gaze but saw nothing. Creepy.
“Come on, then,” Ella broke her concentration. Of course, why not. They climbed down from the car, and hurried into the shop. Collecting a couple of trolleys, they began their hunt for food. A number of the shelves were sparsely stocked, what was left of their contents scattered in disarray, several bags of foodstuffs spread over the floor.
“Looks like they’ve had a run on some of this stuff,” Ella said, a little nervously. They began collecting tinned food, more than usual; both had overactive, protective instincts that were kicking in now, determined to make sure they had enough sustenance for what may lie ahead. Between them they filled their trolleys almost to the top.
“Fresh stuff,” Sandra said, “Rob will want his steak, for sure.” They wandered around to the meat counter. No-one was serving, the counter was bereft of staff.
“Well, that’s just typical,” Ella said, “this place is always bad at service.”
“But the food is always good,” Sandra said, defending her regular grocer.
Ella walked around behind the counter and looked at Sandra, a mischievous look on her face. “What would you like, madam?” she asked, pretending to be staff.
“Two rib-eyes, if you please, young lady.” Sandra smiled, joining in the game.
“Will these do?” Ella said, holding a couple of beauties up for inspection.
“Oh, yes, please.”
“We’re doing a special today, fifty per cent off for self-service.”
“Sounds like a bargain. Make it a dozen, then,” Sandra replied, getting into the fun.
Ella wrapped the steaks and threw them to Sandra, who caught them awkwardly, with a squeal of excitement. Ella picked out her own meat requirements, packed it up, and came around to the correct side of the counter once more.
They continued their shop and finally went to the tills, ready to pay. There was only one lass serving, so they wheeled their full trolleys over to her checkout. This slip of a girl was just standing there, staring at her till, almost as if it would bite if she touched it. She had a bloody nose.
“Are you alright? Miss? Hello.” Ella prodded her to get her attention. “Are you okay? Can I help?”
The girl slowly turned her face towards the interruption. She looked like death warmed up, eyes cloudy, skin marble-pale. She was drooling, the saliva mixed with traces of blood.
“You know, this isn’t good. Have you had some sort of accident? Has someone hit you? Your nose is bleeding. Do you need a doctor?” Ella was sounding worried but exasperated at this point. “Can you even hear me?” The girl just ignored Ella, staring right through her.
Sandra was worried; this looked frighteningly like what had been talked about on the radio and TV earlier. It also looked distinctly like the symptoms Rob had warned her about in his last phone call.
“Ella, this feels wrong.” Sandra was trying to catch her new friend’s attention. Her sixth sense made her look behind, down the aisles towards the meat counter. The butcher was coming, he looked pissed, clearly unhappy with the fact that they had helped themselves to his product. His butcher’s apron was unusually bloody, surely that wasn’t right; it went against all health regs, being that dirty. Peering more closely, she saw that his mouth was strangely shaped, and lop-sided. Most of the blood down his front appeared to be coming from it, running in coloured rivulets towards the floor. In his hand he held an enormous cleaver, the sight of which made Sandra gasp in fright. She grabbed hold of her friend’s arm in sudden panic.
“Ella, forget her, we have another problem.” Ella looked to see what Sandra was talking about.
She stared, mouth ajar, the sight of the butcher made her face drain of blood. Fumbling in her purse, she withdrew a snub-nosed .38.
“What the fuck…?” Sandra burst out.
“My dad was a cop. I held onto this when he died.” She raised it, and shouted a warning for the man to stop. “Don’t come any nearer!” she called, voice quaking, “we’re going to pay for the meat. We couldn’t find you.”
The man kept coming. As he got closer, they could see he wasn’t interested in their self-service approach to shopping. His jaw was torn, hanging by a string of muscle. His eyes were completely cloudy, and he gurgled incoherent words, arms coming up as if to grab hold. The cleaver flashed silver, and a shot rang out. A small hole appeared in his chest. Ella had fired upon him, the raised cleaver being threat enough.
“Christ!” Sandra cried in surprise, ducking at the sound.
He looked down at the hole, a quizzical look on his face. The look turned into a frown, and he lurched towards them, cleaver sweeping in an angry arc, getting closer. A second shot and a hole appeared in his forehead, pink spray and gobbets of flesh flying out behind. As all emotion evaporated from his face, he dropped to his knees and collapsed forward, exposing the gaping hole in the back of his head. Ella lowered her pistol, her arm shaking alarmingly with the shock of having fired upon and killed another human being. It was one thing to hit paper targets, quite another to actually blow a man’s head off.
The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 13
