by Mark Wandrey
Tobey grunted, sensing her mood. “Hollow point deer rounds,” he said, “I was saving that mag for a special occasion.”
“Honored,” she said and they continued up the hill. Another from behind, this one took three shots.
“You only have ten left,” he warned her.
“How?” she asked.
“Long practice,” he grunted.
“Huh,” she said. Bang! Nine rounds, she thought. It gave her something to think about other than the fact that she had just shot a teenage boy in the shoulder, blowing his arm off and watched him set upon by a dozen others.
They worked up the hill, Kathy a few feet behind him with his rifle, firing only when she absolutely needed to. She swung from side to side every few second and listened for him to call her attention if they were being flanked. Her count was down to two when she heard him sigh and the trailer hit the ground. “We’re here,” he said.
Kathy backed to where he was working with the trailer. She looked to see he was hitching it to another vehicle. Only this wasn’t a little ATV. This was more like a rugged dune buggy that would have been right at home in a Mad Max film. “What’s that?” she asked.
He finished hitching and grabbed the gun back, which she gladly handed over as she pulled the little plastic pistol out. He swapped mags without comment, but didn’t drop this one. He carefully slid it into a bag over his shoulder.
“It’s a UTV,” he said, then added “firing!” She needed to remember that procedure. It kept her from jumping out of her skin when he fired. “Utility Task Vehicle. Think of it as a cut down 4x4 farm truck that can go almost anywhere.” She admired its utilitarian design, noticing the cargo area was full of gear and a gun rack over the passenger area (big enough for four people) that held three more long arms. “Jump in and cover me,” he said.
She didn’t need any further encouragement. She slid across the driver’s seat to the passenger side just in time to see a creature slinking up on the UTV. She aimed the pistol and was surprised to see the sights were glowing in the dark. They made aiming almost instinctive, even at night. Two shots and it went down. The gun had half the recoil of her S&W .38. “I think I’m in love,” she said as the H&K roared several times. Tobey jumped in and with a push of his finger the UTV barked to life.
“Maybe we should take it one step at a time,” he said as he stomped the gas and the machine rocketed ahead with amazing acceleration.
“I meant the gun,” she complained.
“Sure you did.”
* * *
The inside of the hangar was bedlam as the survivors all ran around making sure there was no way out. It didn’t help that the space was fairly dark. It only took a few minutes for someone to trip and hurt themselves in the gloom. The light let in by the skylights just didn’t add up to much.
“Great job,” Andrew said and clapped Chris on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” Chris said and grinned. “You have a plan bringing us in here?”
“Well, for one we’re out of the fallout…”
Chris looked concerned. “So that was a nuclear bomb that destroyed Monterrey?”
“The biggest FAE wouldn’t do a tenth of that,” Andrew told him, then saw his look of confusion. “Fuel Air Explosive, sort of a poor man’s nuke, without the radiation.” Chris just nodded. “I can only assume they did it to stop this… pandemic.”
“You mean zombie apocalypse,” someone said. Andrew turned and saw a young, twenty-something there in cargo jeans and a Portal shirt. “Well, technically a nombie apocalypse.”
“First,” Andrew said, “Those aren’t zombies. They were only passengers on my plane. Everyone got sick during the flight and a bunch went nuts and starting trying to eat everyone else.” The man nodded and gave him a ‘Isn’t that what I said?’ look. Andrew narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like this guy one bit. “Look… what’s your name?”
“Wade Watts,” the man said.
“Look, Wade, some disease isn’t the same thing. They aren’t zombies, you can shoot them and they die. And what the fuck is a nombie?”
“That’s why I said nombie apocalypse. Nombies aren’t dead, zombies are.” Chris who was more or less behind Wade gave Andrew a ‘what the fuck’ look. Andrew rolled his eyes.
“Did you have a plan when we almost got our asses eaten to get in here?” Chris asked Andrew. Both of them were now trying to ignore Wade who had begun explaining the difference between nombies and zombies to a couple of shell shocked women who looked like twins.
“That,” Andrew said and pointed to what dominated the hangar.
“Are you kidding? What are we doing to do with that thing? I mean, we don’t know the first…” Chris trailed off as he took in Andrew’s uniform for the first time, from the multi-pocketed flight suite to the black embroidered wings stitched above his left breast. “Oh.” Andrew winked. “So you’ve flown one of those?”
“Well, not exactly,” Andrew admitted and looked up at the craft.
“What did you fly?”
“Fighters.”
“Seems a tad bit different.”
“I landed that A380 out there,” Andrew told him.
“The one on the end of the runway?” Chris asked. Andrew nodded. “We saw that when our pilot set down. It looked like you skidded off the end of the runway and almost flipped.”
Andrew grunted. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
Chris nodded. “That plane looked pretty extenuated to me.”
Andrew made a face and walked over to the office, finding the file for the plane. Chris tagged along as Andrew began the ground check. He was surprised to see it was a US Army plane, and as he came around the side he stopped in complete surprise. “Holy shit!” he yelped and jumped in the hair. “I don’t believe it!”
“What?” Chris asked, looking from the plane with its strange protuberances to the pilot.
“You don’t know what this is?” Andrew asked.
“Should I?”
“Oh man, wait until you see.” Andrew continued on the check, finally ending up climbing inside. Chris continued to follow, looking at all the interior equipment, seats with TV screens, and strange belts hanging from the ceiling. Andrew went forward and mounted the steps, hopping over the console into the seat with ease. Chris watched from the cockpit door as Andrew took the pilot’s thigh board and strapped it on, running the interior checklist. When he turned to the second page he sighed. “I should have known there was a reason this was here.”
“What,” Chris asked. “What do you mean?”
“It was dead-lined,” Andrew explained, pointing to the form. “The aircrew had to shut down engine #3 on the way down.”
“Can’t it fly on three engines?”
Andrew thought for a moment. He was used to only one- or two-engine aircraft. It stood to reason that it would fly just fine with three. Might be tricky on takeoff, but still safe enough. Maybe. Even through the cockpit they could hear the sound of fists banging on the metal of the hangar. It sounded like there were more every minute. “We’re going to need to find out either way,” Andrew said. He pointed to the firetruck. “Go move that thing into that alcove over there and then start getting everyone aboard,” he said, “I’m going to start the preflight.”
“Will do,” Chris said and headed down the ladder.
Andrew flipped the master power and noted the battery charge, then the fuel. He grimaced as the fuel gauges calibrated. There were worse things than having a bad engine. He remembered landing the huge jumbo jet and running out of fuel only too well. The plane’s tanks were less than half full. And he knew there was no way he could refuel. Those facilities would be out on the runway, swarming with crazies. No, it was half a tank or nothing.
Andrew started the APU. Watching the gauge, he confirmed it was working and providing power. The battery charge level began to go in the right direction. He spent a few minutes looking over the controls, trying to familiarize himself with the operation.
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br /> It was a huge cockpit, pretty much designed to be operated by three crewmen. Like many military craft of its sort, it was designed to be highly robust and redundant. He could occasionally hear the sounds of people climbing into the plane behind him, conversations between them, noting with amazement the technology the plane was crammed with. He left the plane to finish warming and headed aft.
Andrew ignored their questions and swung down the boarding ladder where Chris was helping the last of the survivors to get aboard. He looked at the big bay doors, hearing the sounds of people pounding on the metal from the other sound, and considered his options. It sounded like there were a hundred of them out there. He looked around and considered for a time, how long he didn’t know. Eventually Chris put a hand on his shoulder.
“They’re all aboard,” the man said. Andrew chewed his lip and nodded. “That obnoxious geek is in there playing with the computer consoles in the back.”
Andrew felt a moment of panic. Was the master arming key still in the cockpit? Yes, he was sure it was. He trotted over to the big doors and looked at them, examining the overhead mechanisms and weighing his options. He was pretty sure he could rig up something to make the doors slide open without having to manually pull them. The problem was the crowd of nut jobs out there. They could never stop the plane from rolling out of the hangar, but they could certainly damage the props. And already down one engine, he wasn’t sure if he could get off the ground with only two engines.
More out of curiosity than anything else, he trotted to the other end of the hangar, behind the plane where the main doors were located. By the time he got there he knew there was nobody there. The banging was all coming from the other end. Apparently their brains were so addled none of them had even thought to check the other end. He went to the small, man-sized door and it opened with a simple turn. It wasn’t even locked.
Andrew slowly pulled the door open a few inches and stole a peek through. Nothing nearby, so he opened it another couple inches and observed all that he could see. He could see a few people wandering around not too far away. They seemed listless and confused, looking this way and that as if they couldn’t make up their minds where to go, or even why they were there. More were near another hangar on the opposite side of the field, maybe a quarter of a mile away.
Feeling brave, he quickly pulled the door all the way open, stuck his head out and scanned both directions, then retreated and quietly closed the door. He’d seen a pair near the left hand corner of his hangar and another one by the right. Further to the left were dozens more, slowly wandering down the runway.
“Chris!” he yelled.
“YO!” The other man came running.
“Grab some of that rope over there, and the big ladder from the firetruck.”
The other man looked at his suspiciously. “Why do I think this is going to be dangerous?”
Andrew went into the office and found some buckets full of grease just as Chris was returning. Ten minutes’ worth of work and they were tossing the ladder over to the side of the hangar. Andrew surveyed the setup and nodded.
“You sure that will work?” Chris asked.
“Pretty sure,” Andrew replied. As they walked back to the plane he unslung the rifle and handed it to the other man. “Think you can hit it?”
“This kind of rifle really isn’t my thing.”
“Well, I have to fly the plane. So unless you can fly a multi-engine turbo prop…”
“Right,” Chris nodded and took the rifle, examining the mechanism. “I’ve fired ARs before, of course… hey,” he said, noticing the selector switch, “is this what I think it is?” His look of skepticism had turned to a gleam of enjoyment.
“Yes, but don’t waste my ammo.”
Andrew took one last look through the firetruck for anything useful. He found a huge medical equipment box in a compartment he hadn’t noticed before and helped himself to it. Everything was in Spanish, but he really didn’t care. He grabbed a pair of fire axes as well with the thought it would arm a couple of the other men, and trotted towards the plane where several survivors were watching him expectantly from the door. One pointed and he turned his head as he walked. The chains that held the big back doors were coming loose. No, he was wrong, they weren’t coming loose, the sheet metal that made up the door was tearing, allowing the door to spread open. “Time to go,” he said and sped up.
The people by the door cleared the way, Chris climbing behind him, rifle sling over his shoulder. He leaned out and eyed his target.
“Remember,” Andrew said, “not until I say.” He tapped the speaker of the intercom next to the door for emphasis. Chris looked up from the rifle and nodded. “Hey,” Andrew said and smacked him in the face, palm open. Chris jerked and looked offended. “I’m fucking serious, don’t fuck this up.”
“Okay!” Chris said, rubbing his now read cheek.
Andrew nodded and headed towards the cockpit. He stopped by a series of three seats all with multiple computer monitors. In one, already strapped in and playing with the computer, was Mr. Wade Watts. “Don’t break anything,” he told the kid.
“Can I… you know?”
“No,” Andrew said, and mounted the cockpit ladder, all the time ignoring the pleas of the annoying gamer.
Back in the cockpit he wasted no more time. He strapped into the left hand seat and began the start sequence of Engine #1. As it was spinning up he took the headset off its hook, settled it on his head, adjusted the mike and used his thumb control on the wheel to activate the intercom. “It’ll take about a minute to get the two outboards up to speed,” he said into it.
“But you said three of the engines worked,” Chris complained.
“They do, but if I use all three for this it’s going to induce a lot of yaw.” He was talking increasingly loudly as the turbofan spun up. There was a dull thrum and a whine as the turbine caught and he noted the pressure gauges climbing and the temperature start to go up as well. He grabbed the pilot’s thigh board, strapped it on and checked the ideal numbers. They looked good, so he started #4. “It’s going to get real loud!” he yelled.
The Allison T56-A-15 engines quickly reached peak power, putting almost ten thousand horsepower at his disposal.
He looked down from the height of the cockpit and saw the doors of the hangar being torn apart by the throng of insane people outside. Arms were being squeezed through the jagged metal, skin and flesh torn, blood was flying. It was like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. The first of them were starting to wiggle through.
Andrew reached down and found the pitch controls. He set the brakes with his left foot, trying not to remember the last time he used brakes on a plane, and then pulled the pitch lever all the way up. The plane started to buck nose down.
“Holy shit!” he heard Chris over the intercom.
“Oh, just wait,” Andrew said, grabbing the two outer throttle controls by spreading his hand wide, he pushed them up and forward and the Allison engines began to roar.
The RPM meter reached the midpoint. Andrew gave it another ten percent and felt the plane start to slide on the slick hangar concrete. The first of the crazies was through, looking up at the camouflaged plane in wide-eyed dementia. Andrew stabbed the intercom. “NOW!” he yelled into the mic.
The sound of the M-16 firing was almost inaudible over the roar of the two turboprops in such a contained space. Out in the hangar it looked like a live action version of the tornado sequence in the Wizard of Oz. FOD of all imaginable types were flying around. He gritted his teeth and hoped a turbine didn’t ingest someone. That would deadline another engine. Clipboards, paper, a shirt flashed across the cockpit and he saw it turned to confetti by the four-bladed prop to his left. “Jesus Christ!” he said when an aluminum lawn chair careened off his side window.
Pop, pop, pop, went the M-16. He had a little camera view out the back and the doors were still closed. “Chris, mother fuck man, get it done!”
In the back Chris was gritting his te
eth as he fired several rounds. Standing in the doorway of the plane, its entire fuselage bucking up and down as it skidded backwards towards the door, was like trying to shoot from a ship jumping over waves. It was impossible. He tried to guess how many shots he’d fired. Seven, eight? He had no fucking clue. All the while the plane was getting closer to the doors. He knew if the tail crashed into those doors, it wasn’t going to be a flyable aircraft any more. “CHRIS!”
Chris snarled. “Fuck it,” he said and flipped the selector down, braced against the door, and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired on fully automatic. The first three made the gun climb surprisingly. He cursed himself for not expecting that, regained the target, and pulled the trigger again. The magazine fired out in a long rata-tat-atat-atat, barely audible over the earsplitting roar of the plane’s engine only a few feet away.
He didn’t know if he actually hit the rope, or if it was flying metal debris from the shredded metal wall. But the tie down rope severed and the contraption flew into action.
The rope was tied to the lock. When the rope severed the lock flew open. The other end of the rope restrained two five-gallon buckets of gear lubrication grease weighing thirty-five pounds apiece. They in turn were connected to the electrical door cables. Without power, those cables had no motor to make them retract the doors. The buckets did a decent job of it. The doors started to slide open.
“Thank god,” Andrew intoned as he saw the doors begin to slide open. There were half a dozen crazies already through the rapidly disintegrating back doors. Worse, they were walking against the hurricane force winds of the two engines, and about to reach the plane. Andrew snarled as he pushed the throttles to 80%. The result was rather spectacular.
The full force of the backwash propelled the six men and women backwards like meat rockets, and into the bay doors. The combination of half a ton of meat and bone along with hundreds of tons of restrained air blew the doors out like they’d been hit by a bomb.
