by Mark Wandrey
“Orders said you were to be transported in cuffs,” Ward said, “They didn’t say how you were to be cuffed.”
Prescott snorted and gave a nod.
“You don’t approve of what’s going on, do you?” he asked the sergeant.
“Not at all, sir. Not at all.”
Andrew thanked him, got comfortable, and was asleep in minutes, just like any other soldier used to deployment would be. You learned to rack when you could, or not at all. When he awoke it was to the sound of flight attendants moving laden carts and cutlery on plates.
Ward was picking at his plate in a desultory fashion. Prescott had already given up and had some beef jerky from his pack and was gnawing on it with a disappointed yet resigned look on his face.
“I tried to warn you guys,” Andrew said with a chuckle.
“Want some?” Ward offered, gesturing to his plate.
“Nah. Like I said, I got my fill. Besides, that sub wasn’t too long ago and even that damned seasoning isn’t sitting well with me. In fact, I better hit the little boy’s room.” Ward just nodded as he got up and headed towards the nearest lavatory.
There was quite a line waiting at the set of three bathrooms, and it looked like most of them were ill. Andrew sighed. On top of returning for his own court-martial, now he was going to get some nasty Middle Eastern bug and spend the next month shitting his lower GI out.
He was next in line and trying not to listen to the sounds of distress coming from behind the thin door when the guy behind him gasped and started rambling on in another language.
“You okay?” he asked the man who looked back at him with half wild, feral looking eyes. The door next to them opened and a woman staggered out, her forehead covered in sweat and chin still covered in bits of vomit. “Jesus,” Andrew exclaimed and took a step back, fetching up against the bulkhead.
The woman mumbled something as she stumbled past and the crazy looking guy jumped ahead of Andrew and into the wretched smelling bathroom. “No, go right ahead,” Andrew said under his breath. He looked to the next person in line, a thin Asian man with a vacant stare and sweat on his forehead. Shit, shit, shit, he thought. The next bathroom opened and he quickly slid in before he could get bumped again.
The bathroom smelled like an army latrine after being visited by an entire squad just back from the jungle. It was wretched in the extreme. The last person hadn’t even bothered to flush, something that he did immediately upon locking the door. The mess disappeared with a snap and loud sucking sound leaving him a bowl covered in a thin layer of blue water. He sat down and did his business.
A few minute later he flushed and washed up, relieved that his feelings of ill had diminished. He attributed it more to more nerves than the sub of suspicious origin. When he opened the door, a din of commotion hit him. Dozens were lined up, elbowing each other and pushing to get at the bathrooms. “Uh oh,” he thought; was the food poisoned?
When he got back he was relieved to find neither of the MPs appeared sick. “You two okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ward answered from his game, “but we were about to go looking for you. Prescott here was convinced you’d managed to smuggle a parachute on board and had flushed yourself to safety.”
“Ha, ha,” Prescott said and turned the page.
“A lot of people are sick,” Andrew told them and looked around. Just from where he was sitting he could see dozens of people either getting up to head for the bathrooms and wiping sweat from their brows. A few were slumping in their seats uncomfortably as if they’d just fallen asleep and couldn’t help it. One man nearby, an Arab with a massive beard, was just standing by his seat, shaking his head from side to side and mumbling. A woman in a hijab was looking at him, her eyes wide.
“I’m not surprised after eating that shit,” Ward said, then looked up to glance around. He was about to look away when he did a double take, noticing the Arab man shaking his head. “That dude isn’t a RIF, is he?”
“Radical Islamic Fucker?” Andrew asked. “No, he looks like an old school Imam. They aren’t radicalized very often. In fact, they usually help us, if even on the down-low.”
Ward nodded, continuing to look around. He might not be an infantryman, but as an experienced law-enforcement officer he recognized a deteriorating situation. After watching for another moment, he elbowed Prescott and gestured with his head.
“What the fuck,” the younger man asked.
As Ward explained to his partner Andrew continued to assess the situation. Up in the front of the section a flight attended appeared leading one of the flight crew. Three stripes on his cuff identified him as one of the first officers, or copilots, aboard. There would likely be at least two complete flight crews on a trip this long. Normally seeing someone like that back here taking charge would have filled him with confidence. In this case the sight of the copilot, a man in his forties, sweating and looking a little unsteady on his feet sent a chill up Andrew’s spine.
At that moment one of the flight attendants, a lovely Arab girl in her early twenties sporting long jet black hair in a ponytail slid by Andrew’s row heading towards the flight officer. Andrew was only too aware of the sounds of a scuffle farther aft by the toilets. As she went to squeeze past the Imam the holy man screamed, grabbed her in a bear hug, and bit her on the neck.
The flight attendant’s visceral scream of pain was punctuated by a bright red fountain of arterial blood as the Imam tore away a goblet sized chunk of flesh and artery. Many of those nearby were doused in bright red blood and began screaming as well.
“Son of a bitch!” Ward barked and tried to leap, only to grunt and fold like an accordion. He’d forgotten his seatbelt. Andrew was stuck in the middle, so all he could do was help the MP, so he reached down and deftly flipped the buckle, releasing the sergeant. “Thanks!” he snapped as he got up, took two quick steps, and body-checked the Imam off the woman.
The flight attendant staggered and turned. Her hand was pressed against the horrible wound, blood spraying in a red fan between her delicate fingers. She looked right at Andrew, her expression wild in pain and realization as she saw her life’s blood pulse out.
Andrew was up and heading towards her as she crumpled towards the floor. A man sitting next to her, already covered in blood, managed to slow her fall and another lady helped him lower her to the ground just as Andrew reached her. Someone else handed him a blanket. Some part of his mind absurdly noted the Saudi Air logo in stark white as it was dyed red by the woman’s blood.
Prescott vaulted over Andrew where he was trying to help the flight attendant. Andrew looked up and saw that unbelievably, Ward was losing in his grapple with the Imam. The much older and seemingly weak looking man had managed to get Ward rolled over, one arm pinned under a knee. Ward’s other hand was planted in the middle of the Imam’s chest and he was pushing for all he was worth. Veins were standing out on his neck as the Imam’s snapping jaws drew closer and closer.
Prescott joined the fray. He threw and arm around the man’s neck and tried putting him into a choke hold right out of the manual. The Imam grabbed Prescott’s arm, jerked his head down under the grasp, and tore a piece out of the corporal’s forearm.
“Mother fucker!” Prescott roared and jerked his arm away, leaving the mad Imam with another mouthful of human meat. Ward took the opportunity to free his other hand, cock the arm back and delivery a heel strike to the Imam’s nose. Andrew heard the crunch clearly, even over the screams and shouts of a couple hundred panicking passengers. The Imam’s head rocked back, and blood started flowing from the shattered nose, but he went right back to trying to bite the sergeant. Ward hit him again, and again, and again. The muscles stood out on his arms like steel bands and he pummeled his assailant to absolutely no avail.
Mexico, Andrew suddenly thought. He remembered thousands of crazed people moving down a road, attacking people with their hands and mouths. Nothing stopping them, not even gunfire. Andrew looked back down at the flight attendant and
noted she had gorgeous blue eyes, uncommon for someone of Arab descent. Then he noted they were blankly staring. He gently reached up and closed the eyes.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” he heard someone roar. And then a fist hit him in the side of the head, and he was thrown into the dark.
Chapter 14
Saturday, April 21
Morning
Kathy carefully extracted herself from under Tobey’s muscled arm. Waking up with the sunlight falling through the old linen drapes and onto their naked bodies, she’d briefly considered waking him up for another go. He was obviously at least forty, and it had been quite a while since he’d taken a woman to his bed. But the thoughts of how he’d made love to her with almost wanton abandon cause a little shudder to run up her tummy. He’d finished in only a couple of minutes the first time, but that had only been the first of many. She’d silently thanked her ingrained field habits. Never go on assignment without extra batteries, and condoms.
She took a moment as she opened the old door to admire his muscled torso and what he held between his legs. Yep, quite the man. She resolved to stop on the way back north and thank him again. She’d think of something to thank him for later.
In the room he’d loaned her she dropped her robe and padded into the bathroom. It was just as old fashioned as the rest of the house, but the water was clean and hot. After last night, she needed a bath badly anyway.
Cleaned and hair brushed, she went into her room and to her surprise found her clothes cleaned and folded on the bed. She shook her head in amazement. Tobey had gotten up in the middle of the night, cleaned and dried her clothes, folded them, and left them for her. She could still see him gently snoring in the master bedroom so she headed toward the kitchen. In the light of the morning she noticed his gun cabinet. All sorts of rifles, shotguns, and assault weapons were there. She shrugged. Texas.
Silently apologizing, she helped herself to a couple doughnuts and a banana from the kitchen, and finished the last of his milk. She figured after last night he wouldn’t mind. With some food in her stomach and feeling refreshed from the sleep she got, Kathy headed outside, quietly closing the noisy screen door.
The truck was already loaded with the ATV, trailer, extra fuel cans, and her gear. Tobey had arranged things in a very considerate way. The truck sputtered and caught on the first try. She turned around and headed down the driveway.
A few miles away as she was consulting the map on her smartphone, she felt a crinkle in the breast pocket of the farm style shirt she was wearing. It was a hand written note that simply said; “Thanks for last night. Be safe. Tobey.” She grinned and put it back. Definitely coming back this way. Ten miles further down highway 101, she turned south. “Mexico Border – 24 Miles” the sign read as she drove past. High overhead, a flight of aircraft left delicate white trails in the sky as they moved south as well.
* * *
Andrew felt his consciousness return as fractured pieces dribbled into his skull through iridescent pain. “Mother fucker,” was the first thing he said.
“That one is awake!” he heard someone yell and then sensed more than heard people coming towards him. He forced his eyes to open and saw a middle-aged African-American man, balding with a neatly trimmed silver goatee holding a nine-iron over his head in a baseball bat pose. Stupidly Andrew focused on the name inset on the club’s head; Mizuno.
“Say something intelligent,” the man said, his accent with a slight New Yorker sound.
“Is it too late to get off in London instead of connecting to Dallas?” Andrew reached up and tentatively felt the side of his head. There was a nice lump there, but nothing felt broken.
“He’s fine,” the black golfer/baseball star declared. After lowering the club to hold at his side he moved closer to look at Andrew, examining his head with a critical eye. “That dude smacked you with his cane pretty good, though there appears to be no lasting damage.”
“What are you, a doctor?” Andrew asked as he got to his feet.
“Actually yes,” the man said and offered Andrew his hand. “Dr. Abraham White, at your service…”
Andrew looked abashed and took the hand. “Lieutenant. Andrew Tobin, US Air Force.”
“More to that than you are saying,” Dr. White said and nodded to the handcuffs on Andrew’s left wrist.
“Maybe later,” Andrew suggested and looked around. There were eight of them locked in a compartment about the size of a tiny apartment, maybe four hundred square feet total. The floor angled from both sides down towards the floor suggesting they were somewhere in the bottom of the plane. Both walls were lined with metallic cabinets, each with their own twist lock and a number code. “Where are we?” he asked anyone in particular.
“Galley stowage, aft,” a woman answered. She was an attractive American woman with short cut brown hair and an improvised bandage over her upper arm that was seeping blood. “The whole plane has gone completely insane!”
“More like a kind of psychosis,” Dr. White interjected. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say some sort of encephalitic fever. Nasty one with a short onset.”
“You mean like rabies?” Andrew asked. He’d been a bit dizzy for a moment. Luckily that had gone away quickly.
“Sort of,” the doctor said. “It seemed to begin shortly after dinner was served.”
Andrew shook his head. “Some of the passengers were sick before they boarded.” Pilots were trained to recall from the beginning. What did that gauge read a minute ago? What course were you on when you spotted that target? He was running back the time before boarding. Standing in line for his sub sandwich noticing people sick. There had been a lot in that airport terminal. He just hadn’t noticed until now. Shit. “The food just triggered it.”
“That’s possible,” Dr. White agreed, rubbing his chin and considering.
“But they’re going so crazy they’re trying to eat each other?” one of the others with them asked. This person was obviously an American tourist returning home.
“Illness-induced psychosis can have unusual results in people,” the doctor explained.
All the same sort? Andrew wondered, but kept it to himself. He was again thinking of that road in Mexico he’d photographed from thousands of feet up. “How did I end up in here?” was what he asked instead.
“I dragged you back into the galley when that guy knocked you out,” the flight attendant told him, “right after Annabelle was killed.”
Andrew nodded, guessing Annabelle was the flight attendant the Imam had bitten and he had tried to save. “Did you see what happened to the two MPs with me?” The flight attendant looked confused. “The soldiers in uniform?”
The doctor nodded. “Them, yes! Last I saw as we fled into the kitchen was them fighting with a dozen crazed people.”
“Jesus,” Andrew said. Then a thought occurred to him. “How long have I been unconscious?!”
“About six hours,” the doctor admitted.
Andrew did the math in his head. A couple hours watching videos. Three or four more sleeping. Six down here in this storage area. Eleven, maybe twelve hours since the flight took off. He rummaged in his fatigue pants and found his ticket. “Flight time 16 hours, 20 minutes.” And his numbers were only estimates. He reached for his smartphone. It was gone. And his watch was in his personal effects bag, over their seat back in Row 62 somewhere above them. “Anyone have a watch set to arrival time?”
A woman he hadn’t seen before they all ended up down there pulled out a phone and glanced at it. “Four forty-five in the morning,” she said. Andrew glanced at the ticket. Three hours, twenty-nine minutes from their destination.
The information meant a lot of things. One, they hadn’t stopped to land at the first airport they’d come to after the crisis began. Two, they were certainly over North America by now. Probably somewhere in Quebec. In their flight path they’d passed over Greenland and Iceland as well, both with opportunities for an emergency landing. The engines sounded even and c
onstant. It was unlikely they were descending or even at a lower altitude. And third, the presence of an ill member of the flight crew spoke of the fact that they could all be sick, or even crazed.
“There is a possibility no one is flying the plane,” Andrew told them. Seven others sets of eyes looked at him, all wide in suddenly renewed fear. They’d felt that this little place was safe, and all of them had completely forgotten they were in a plane 36,000 feet up going six hundred miles per hour.
The flight attendant went to one end of the space and opened a box, revealing a phone inside. With the ease of someone who did it a dozen times a day, she snatched the phone and dialed before putting it to her ear. Andrew could hear it buzzing as the line rang on the other side. Over, and over, and over.
“The cockpit isn’t answering,” she said at last, her eyes wide in fear. “I dialed the situation code. The only time someone would not answer is if there were an emergency underway!”
“I need to get up there,” Andrew said, half to himself.
“No offense,” Dr. White said, “but what good would you be?”
Andrew grabbed his uniform and pulled out the tab under his name with his camo wings sewn into it. “Pilot,” he said.
“But can you fly something like this?”
“They all follow the same rules,” he said and went over to the elevator. “Where does this come out?”
“Aft of the galley,” the flight attendant said, wiping her sweating brow. “The door swings out and into the corner wall. It’s not very big.”
“And exposed,” Andrew added, looking around for anything to use as a weapon. The good doctor’s club wasn’t a bad choice, though in the crowded space of the elevator he suspected it would be less effective. “How does this thing work?” The flight attendant described the operation and how it took over a full minute to arrive on the flight deck. Even though it only moved up about twelve feet.
