by Steven Till
Kyle shook the thoughts from his head and focused on the present. He had received an invite from his brother Ty in Pittsburgh to stay with him and his wife for a few weeks. Ty claimed that a change of scenery would be good for both him and Melissa. Kyle had accepted, knowing that Ty was right. When Melissa heard the news of the trip, she immediately beamed with excitement. She loved her Uncle Ty and only got to see him once or twice a year when he and Aunt Katie came into town during the holidays. She was even more excited for the plane ride there.
“Daddy, do shooting stars shoot during the day?" Melissa asked.
The strange question pulled Kyle away from painful thoughts of the past and he looked at his daughter. "Sometimes, why do you ask sweetie?"
"Because there's one right over there," she said as she pointed at a spot in the sky beyond the big picture window.
Falling from the sky was a bright ball of fire; thick black smoke trailed behind it. He had no idea what it was. A meteor? Maybe. But something about it didn't seem like it came from space. It moved too slowly. It continued to move down towards the horizon, but it was definitely too slow to be a meteorite. Those suckers traveled thousands of miles per hour.
The fireball cast an eerie light against the dark overcast sky. It continued to plummet, finally reaching the distant horizon. He couldn't hear a crash, but he could see a small flicker of light as it disappeared beyond the tree line.
****************
"Delta-Three-Four-Eight has just fallen off the scope, sir," a voice from one of the air traffic controllers called across the room.
"Someone get me the FAA on the line and notify the local authorities of the situation," Blake McMurry barked. The fifty-two year old Air Traffic Control Tower supervisor had kept the airspace above Boston safe for the past 29 years. Just three days away from retirement, the last thing that he needed was a lost bird on his watch.
"Neil, any chatter coming across the air from Three-Four-Eight?" he asked the controller to his right. Neil was Blake's most trusted controller; young, but sharp.
"Negative. We lost radio contact four minutes ago, just after they requested their approach vector," he replied, beads of sweat peppering his prematurely receding hairline.
"Charlie-Seven-Two-Niner, you are clear to land 22-Lima," Timothy Simms said into the boom mike that protruded from his headset.
"Logan Tower, this is Charlie-Seven-Two-Niner, copy all clear on 22-Lima." replied the pilot of the British Airways flight, inbound from Heathrow.
Timothy continued to watch the blip labeled C729 on his radar screen, besides the dozens of other blips moving around the approaching Airbus A380. The stress level in the ATCT had shot through the roof as his boss dealt with the downed plane. The controllers scrambled to keep the airspace as calm as possible. Pilots radioed into the tower to report and question the fireball. C729 made its final approach, landing gears extended as it drew closer to the runway.
****************
Melissa watched the British Airways flight approach the runway, angling its nose up as it dropped engine power, allowing it to glide to the ground. She always thought it was cool how planes landed as their big doughnut tires squished and kicked up puffs of smoke as the plane touched down.
Without warning, the plane's left wing swooped down and forced the plane perpendicular to the ground. The nose tipped downward and dropped. The left wingtip caught the ground, tearing off a five foot section of the wing. The flight careened up onto its nose and sent it and all five hundred and fifteen passengers into a devastating roll, tail over nose.
The tail section flew over the plane, the cockpit crumpling under the weight of the fuselage. The right wing spun under the body of the plane, snapping in half and propelling the craft back up into the air for another rotation. By some miracle, no fireball erupted as it continued to spin head over tail as debris flew off of it bit by bit.
Melissa screamed as the plane danced down the runway. Kyle stood next to his daughter completely dumbfounded. He pulled Melissa back from the window. They stood about 10 feet from the large observation windows and watched the scene unfold. The miracle ended when the plane spun again, this time the fuel tanks caught. The giant A380 exploded in a hell storm, smack dab in front of Kyle, Melissa, and the entire terminal.
The concussive shock wave from the blast shattered the one-inch-thick observation windows. Thousands of lethal shards rocketed into the rows of onlookers. Glass daggers impaled eyes, ears, necks, arms, and whatever else stood in their path. Kyle wrapped Melissa in his arms and turned her, placing himself in the path of the danger.
He felt the sting of each shard pelting his back. His leather jacket provided some protection, but all it did was slow the glass enough to hurt more as it tore into his flesh. The hail of debris finally ceased, and although his back was a wreck, he didn't feel as though they hit any vital organs. He'd live.
Kyle stepped back and looked at Melissa who, although scared, was otherwise unharmed. He turned to face the gaping windows, only to find one of the large GP7000 engine turbofans spinning towards the terminal. It bounced once, breaking at the impact, which sent a large section of the fan hurling through the large window.
He didn't have a chance, the fan embedded into the center of his body lengthwise, from pelvis all the way to the top of his head. The inertia thrust his lifeless body backwards twenty feet, stopping at the people-mover. Melissa screamed as her father's body twitched reflexively.
****************
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Blake mumbled as he watched the British Airways flight tear itself apart as it moved down the runway. The ATCT was in a tense state when Delta348 had gone down. Now that Charlie729 was gone, along with a good part of the terminal, the ATCT was in full-blown panic. Phones continued to ring off the hook. Controllers spoke into the receivers; shouting orders and seeking information around both plane crashes.
"Sir, I have distress calls coming in from at least a dozen other inbound contacts," Neil said, with a nervous quiver.
"What are the nature of the emergencies?" Blake asked. A tightness in his chest wrapped around his torso like a vice. I better not have a goddamn heart attack three days from retirement, he thought.
“Unknown, sir. But more maydays are coming in by the minute. Tim's already logged seven since Charlie729 went down."
"Have we heard back yet from the FAA?"
"No, sir. We've been having trouble getting through. It looks like there have been several other emergencies at other airports around the country," Neil replied.
"Sir, we have inbound craft on a collision vector!" a junior controller yelled from the far side of the control room.
"I want everybody to divert all inbound traffic to Worcester, Manchester, or Providence ASAP," Blake commanded. "We need to get as many birds clear as we can before we lose more."
No sooner had Blake barked the command, a fireball flared about a hundred yards west of the tower and about three hundred feet above the Earth.
"Sir, we have collision! I repeat, we have collision!" the newbie yelled.
"No shit, Sherlock. Neil, get the fucking FAA on the phone! I don't care how many dicks you have to suck, you get them on the line! Tim, make the call to FEMA, we need emergency aid on-site yesterday!" Blake issued the orders while fixing his gaze on the burning, falling wreckage of the two planes that had hit each other. Another noise caught his attention. He turned and stared down runway 33R to see a 747 belly-flop onto the asphalt, the landing gears never making it out of the gear bays. Sparks flew as the jet scraped along, igniting the engines, blowing the wings clear off. A gust of fire billowed out behind the craft, but the body of the plane remained intact. It screeched to a halt a mere fifty feet from the tarmac, flames burning where the wings used to be.
Another explosion rocked the tower, as a smaller 737 seemed to have just dropped from the sky, landing close to the ATCT. Acrid smoke from the burning jet fuel rose up and blew towards the tower, enveloping it in a blanket of darkness, o
bscuring all view of the runways.
"I need answers people and I need them now!" Blake demanded. His patience was out and his nerve was wavering. This couldn't be happening. But it was. It was real. Not a dream. Not a nightmare.
Neil approached Blake and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Sir, you're gonna want to take a look at this."
They walked over to Neil's station, the radar screen depicting a frightening scene. Blips on the screen moving and then disappearing. "Sir, I've been taking a look at the aircraft that have crashed, as well as those that have issued distress calls," Neil explained. "It turns out that every flight is an international flight; all coming into the country."
"You're sayin' that there isn't a single domestic on the list?" Blake could taste the bile in his stomach rise into his throat. Could this be a terrorist attack?
"Affirmative, sir. All in-bound flights in distress originated from Heathrow, Frankfurt, Dublin, and Charles de Gaulle." Neil was trying to remain calm, but it was obvious that he was having trouble dealing with the worst air travel disaster in history.
More explosions sounded outside. Some close, too close in fact, and some which sounded farther in the distance. Another glance at the radar confirmed Blake's fears, as more digital triangles disappeared from the screen. He looked out the large windows and tried to peer through the thick smoke which was still gusting around the tower. Finally the wind shifted and the smoke began to move away.
Blake had wished the smoke had stayed. It would have spared him the horror which he now surveyed. It looked like a war zone. Planes, or at least the remnants of planes, were strewn over every runway. Some hadn't crashed, but sustained damage from the crafts that had. Fires burned everywhere, casting bright orange light and thick toxic smoke into the air.
"My God," Blake whispered, but there was no God there today. As he looked on he could see movement around many of the wreckage. At first he thought they were the airport emergency crews, but a closer look told him otherwise. Crews would have been wearing reflective, yellow emergency gear, but these people weren't wearing any of that. They also weren't moving towards the wreckage, they were moving away from the mangled metal. They were pouring out of the various ruins like rats from a sewer, running full tilt.
The scariest part was that the majority of them were completely ablaze, running full speed towards the airport. They weren't slowing down, or stopping, or dying. They kept coming. Those who weren't on fire followed the roasting survivors. Through the noise of the distant explosions and commotion in the ATCT, Blake could hear an unholy, collective inhuman scream.
****************
Melissa stood crying. She was so excited to fly in a plane, but she didn't want to fly anymore. Not after all the planes fell from the sky. Her daddy was dead and she was alone. Who was going to take care of her? Was she going to go live with Mommy? She heard screams coming from outside. Not screams of pain, but something more menacing. Scary screams.
She turned towards the open windows, the cold air whooshing in past the shards of glass that were still lodged into the window frame. She inched her way towards the window. Her feet crunched on the glass below her feet. She stopped and gazed at the hell outside. Melissa clutched her teddy to her chest. She felt warm urine run down her leg as fear paralyzed her.
A white, clawed hand grasped the jagged window sill, pulling up a monster into the open window. Melissa gasped, losing her breath as it knotted in her throat, preventing her from screaming. The monster distended its jaw wide. A thick black vapor escaped the hideous creature and sped towards her. I'll see you soon, Daddy, she thought as the strange vapor consumed the little girl.
CHAPTER 5 THE CLEANSING
Downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
December 16, 2014
The snow had let up a bit, finally leveling out to a fine, powder sugar that was floating to the ground. A nor'easter had hit the east coast and now Pittsburgh was catching some of the effects from it. Two and a half feet of snow had dumped down onto the city. The road crews had been working all evening, but the various roadways into the city were still treacherous. This was a good thing, as the vast majority of commuters had opted to take a self-proclaimed snow day and stay in. To make matters worse, a second Arctic storm was culminating to the north and was due to dump more snowfall onto the Three Rivers within the next day or so. Despite the weather, the downtown streets were still busy, since the trolleys were still running.
Nathan Ackland drudged through the dirty slush that plagued the city sidewalks, trying not to slip at each intersection as he headed to lunch. Sirens blared in the distance as he made his way up Smithfield Street, then up Seventh Avenue towards Grant Street. He glanced at his watch. The digital face showed 2:00 pm. Seems like those sirens have been going all day, he thought as he waited for a bus to drive by. All morning he could hear police and ambulance sirens moving past the office building where he worked as a web designer.
When he arrived at work that morning, the large video wall displayed breaking news on CNN instead of the animated agency logo. His colleagues gathered around, captivated by stories of the air catastrophes that had occurred in some of the larger cities on the east coast. Dozens of planes had crashed in New York, Boston, Charlotte, and even one at Pittsburgh. He remembered hearing something about the crash at Pittsburgh International this morning on the local news before he headed for work. He rushed to get ready for work and only caught bits and pieces of the story as he drifted in and out of the room.
The staff glued themselves to the news for most of the day. Nate had went to his desk to try to get some work done, since he was well behind schedule on one of his bigger projects. Although his intentions were good, he wasn't able to get anything done. Instead, he just sat and stared at the twenty-seven inch Mac on his desk and thought about the horrible news that CNN, and now his co-workers, regurgitated.
Already the media placed the events in the same echelon as Pearl Harbor and 9/11 and had dominated all the social networks. The news bombarded citizens with coverage of the crashes and the many riots that continued throughout Europe. That's another thing he didn't quite get. A couple days ago, news broke of riots in Russia, Paris, Munich, London, and several other cities in Europe and Asia.
Conspiracy theorists were already hard at work trying to convince the populace that every terrorist sleeper cell in the world had activated. They claimed it was in retaliation for the various “freedom” missions that the U.S. were waging. The plausibility of that was dubious at best. With similar reports surfacing about disturbances along the east coast of the U.S., Nathan started to wonder if the conspiracy nuts were all that crazy after all.
He finally reached Grant Street, stopped to look both ways and darted across the four lanes before the walk signal gave him the go. Sirens blared throughout town as well as across the three rivers encircling downtown proper. A smell wafted towards him and enveloped him in a warm, soothing embrace; drowning out the sirens. Hot dogs.
The hot dog stand stood within a large nook in the wide sidewalk across from the Omni-William Penn Hotel. A large awning extended out and allowed a little shelter while patrons waited for the best dogs in the 'Burgh. The depressing news that flooded the media hadn't put a damper on anyone's appetite, as the line was now about nine people deep.
The Dog Shack belonged to one Ronnie Manguba. A native of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, this Filipino-Scottish character migrated to the ‘Burgh about five years ago. He moved into the apartment below Nathan and his fiance Evelyn and became best friends with them immediately. Ronnie bought the hot dog stand off of an old Greek woman for peanuts. Soon after, he had transformed the former gyro stand into the hottest thing in Pittsburgh since Sidney Crosby signed with the Penguins. The “Shack” was so popular, that it stayed open in even the most inclement weather. Nathan was still surprised at the fact that there was always a line, even on days like today.
Nathan speed-walked to the Dog Shack and went straight to the end of the line, hoping that it
moved fast. His stomach growled in agreement. It was a little odd that there were so many people in line this late in the day. This was a late lunch even for Nathan. Finally, he reached the small counter in front of the large open window.
"Yo, yo, yo, what's up Homie-G-Funk?" Ronnie as he saw Nathan approach the window.
"Not too much buddy, just hungry as hell," replied Nathan as he glanced down at the large sign that listed the day's "special" hot dog. Ronnie followed the gaze and must have read the expression upon Nathan’s face.
"Aw man, check it out, check it out, check it out, you gotta dig on the special today, bro. My latest creation will make love to that stomach of yours, I guarantee it!"
Nathan stared at the Special of the Day with a mix of trepidation, fear and nausea. Szechuan-style General Tso's Pig-in-a-Wonton. "What in the name of all that's holy is that?" Before he could get the official explanation, he placed his usual order. "Never mind, I'll take my usual. No offense, I just like what I like.”
If the Dog Shack had one flaw, it would be the daily specials. Although gifted with boundless creativity, a touch of ADHD prevented the scrappy frankfurter artisan from honing his craft. Except, that is, when it came to processed meats jammed into a casing. His enthusiasm knew no bounds; he melded the simplicity of a hot dog with more complex international culinary ventures. The worst of which incorporated some type of sushi and what appeared to be his version of vegetable tempura. Nathan had learned early on that the specials, although creative, were rarely edible. The only people who ever dared to eat them were usually the occasional tourist eager to taste the local Pittsburgh fare.
Despite the obvious look of disappointment on his face, Ronnie started piecing together the usual boring assembly of hot dog + bun + ketchup + mustard + onions. Rejection was nothing new, although that didn't deter him from trying to sway Nathan. As the Wizard of Wieners made his lunch, Nathan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished in his pants for a few seconds and answered before it could go to voicemail.
