by Paul Seiple
He eyed the air sickness bag. "I'm not going to vomit," he whispered. It was more begging than an affirmation. Oliver swallowed, forcing the sour taste back down his throat. For the moment, there was a reprieve from the sour stomach.
It wouldn't last.
The urge to vomit returned just as Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" faded from his earbuds. Oliver's playlist of choice for flights usually was more guitar-driven, but the classical music helped with stress, even if studies suggested metal was better. He fought the sickness back down again, before a coughing spell made his eyes water. The dull ache intensified to a sharp, prodding pain. Oliver rubbed his eyes.
"What is wrong with me?"
"You're sick. You shouldn't be on this plane. Where's your respect for others?"
Oliver brought his hands from his eyes and faced the woman seated next to him. She was older, maybe late fifties or early sixties.
"I wasn't sick when I left the house this morning," Oliver said.
"It doesn't come on this fast. You've probably gotten everyone on the plane sick," the woman said.
Oliver opened his mouth to speak. The burning returned to his throat, bringing a warm wetness with it. He knew what would happen next. Oliver placed his hand over his mouth and ran to the restroom. He barely made it to the toilet before releasing his breakfast back into the wild. A cold chill took hold, dancing up and down his spine. Beads of sweat formed on Oliver's forehead. His throat felt as if he had chased razor blades with whiskey. A tinge of aching clutched the joints in his knees and then his elbows.
"Hey, don't take all day in there. You're not the only who has to pee."
The voice seeped in from beneath the bathroom door, but Oliver felt the words being screamed into his ears. His skin was sore to the touch. The bitter taste of the deconstructed breakfast sandwich lingered in his mouth.
"Hey, buddy, how much longer?"
Oliver became possessed with rage. There was no reason to be mad. If he were on the other side of the door, he would feel the same way. A strange pang of hunger followed the rage.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" Oliver asked, looking into the mirror. Staring back at him was a blurred version of himself. He rubbed his eyes as he did many days after spending too much time in front of the computer. Another glance in the mirror produced the same results. Maybe more blur. Oliver blinked fast, hoping to get a clear glimpse of himself. His right eye cleared enough to reveal the horror. Oliver's hair was matted with sweat. His skin was pale, almost translucent. A thin, milky film hid his left pupil. Oliver's top lip trembled.
"Are you okay in there?"
A female voice. Probably a stewardess. Oliver turned on the faucet and caught a pool of cool water in his cupped palms. He doused his face as if he were extinguishing a fire. The cold sensation felt good against his burning flesh. Oliver rubbed his eyes again. His vision was getting worse. He ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to pry it from his face. He coughed and took a deep breath before opening the door. Two figures stood in front him. Oliver had a difficult time making them out. Flashes of blue and white resembled uniforms the stewardesses were wearing. The other figure was much taller.
"Buddy, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, just a little airsick," Oliver said.
"Let me get you some ginger ale and a Dramamine," the stewardess said.
Oliver nodded and used the corners of the seats to guide him back to his seat.
"Jesus Christ. You look dead," the older woman who was sitting next to Oliver said.
He could no longer see her. But he could smell her. The scent overwhelmed her cheap perfume. Oliver couldn't pinpoint it, but the aroma fueled the hunger gnawing at his stomach that was pushing him to eat.
The scream breached the noise-canceling headphones. Katie's eyes sprang open. Her heart fluttered at the horror happening to her left. The sick man was on top of the women seated next to him. He held the woman's arm above her head and sank his teeth into her forearm as if it were a turkey leg. He shook his head, ripping her flesh to the bone.
A younger man sprang from his seat in front of Katie and grabbed Oliver's shoulder.
"Holy shit, dude, what the fuck are you doing?"
Oliver pulled away from the woman. His face was a crimson mask highlighted by his white eyes. He lunged, mouth gaping, and sank his teeth into the younger man's neck, hitting the jugular. Blood spewed like water from a broken hydrant. Oliver gnawed and gnashed, nearly decapitating the man.
Katie froze. Oliver dropped the man. He locked on to Katie and reached for her ankle. She broke free and kicked Oliver in the forehead before crawling over the seat and onto another passenger.
"Is it a terrorist attack?" the passenger asked.
Katie positioned herself so she wasn't on the man's lap. "No, he's eating people." The words were ridiculous. Zombies did not exist.
"Like Night of the Living Dead zombies?"
Katie didn't answer, but she thought, There's no way this is like Night of the Living Dead zombies. He's probably high on bath salts or something.
"What do we do?"
"We have to find a way to stop him." Katie said. "What's in your bag?"
The man dug into his backpack.
There was another scream. Oliver moved away from Katie and was attacking a woman in an aisle seat.
"Hurry," Katie said.
"I don't think I have anything in here. You know how strict security is."
"Give me your laptop," Katie said.
"It's brand new."
"Are you serious?" Katie asked.
The man shook his head and handed the laptop to Katie. She crawled over two passengers who were crouching and bumped into a woman in the aisle.
"I'm a nurse," the woman said. "I'm just trying to check on the injured."
Katie nodded. The nurse sat next the Oliver's first victim. She tried to hide the horror of seeing the woman's arm torn to the bone.
"Hang in there. I'm Beth. You're going to be okay. I need to try to stop the bleeding. What's your name?"
"My...rt...le." The woman barely got her name out between moans.
Beth pulled a sweater from around Myrtle's shoulders and tied it to her arm at the elbow.
"I have to make it tight, Myrtle," Beth said.
The woman moaned.
"I know it hurts, but if I don't do this, you'll bleed out," Beth said.
Beth bent forward to strengthen the knot in the sweater. Myrtle lurched forward, biting Beth's cheek. She screamed and pushed away, falling back into the aisle. Oliver lunged for Beth. Katie saw an opportunity. She channeled her college softball days and hit Oliver over the back of the head with the laptop. The force shattered its casing. It didn't stop Oliver from tearing at Beth's throat. Katie kicked the side of Oliver's face, splashing a row of empty seats with a mixture of Oliver's and Beth's blood. He continued to feast on Beth.
Myrtle reached over the back of her seat and pawed at a child who screamed. The child's father grabbed Myrtle by her gray hair and slammed her head into the side of the plane. She crumpled back onto her seat. He sprang to the aisle and made eye contact with Katie before jerking Oliver away from Beth. He pushed Oliver forward until he pinned him against the door to the cockpit. He shoved his forearm underneath Oliver's chin and crushed his throat. Oliver kept trying to bite the man.
"Hit the bastard with something," the man said to a stewardess who crouched in a corner.
"With what?" she said.
"Anything."
The stewardess swung a pot of coffee at Oliver, connecting at his temple. Hot coffee splashed onto the man restraining Oliver, causing him to loosen his grip. Oliver pushed him the floor. Another stewardess stabbed Oliver in the temple with a knife. Oliver fell forward onto the man.
Myrtle stood again and reached over the seat for the child. Katie leaped over Beth's body and onto the woman's back. She ripped clumps of Myrtle's hair as she tried to protect the little boy. Myrtle jerked back, sending Katie into the ch
air in front of her. The back of Katie's head smacked the corner of a seat. Everything went dark. She tried to hold on but lost consciousness. Myrtle turned to bite Katie, but her forehead met the blade of a knife. The stewardess shoved it deeper until the woman stopped moving.
The boy's father pushed by the stewardess to grab his son.
"Are you bitten?" the stewardess asked, still clinging to the knife as it dripped blood onto the floor.
"No. Thank you. I'm Shawn."
The stewardess smiled. "I'm Alex." She looked around the plane. "Is anyone else hurt?"
Katie moaned. Alex drew the knife back.
"She tried to save me. That woman knocked her out," the little boy said.
Katie opened her eyes and focused on the woman standing over her with a knife. She backed up against the seat.
"It's OK. I'm Alex." Alex put the knife on a seat. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Ten
"Sir, there is a call from China."
Mitch minimized an article discussing the possible origins of the new flu. He lowered the volume on Mozart's "Piano Sonata No.16." He took a sip of hot tea and answered the call.
"Mitchell Ashe."
"You said it would be contained to the United States. That is the only reason I agreed to The Judas Project."
"Xhang, Merry Christmas, if you celebrate the holiday."
"I'm serious, Mitch. I have a plane quarantined. One of the passengers became violent and began attacking people. You said there was no threat of the virus spreading. That is obviously not the truth."
"Calm down, Xhang. Judas spreading overseas is no benefit to the project. Are you sure this is Judas?"
"You tell me," Xhang said.
A chime alerted Mitch to an incoming video on his MacBook. He maximized the screen again. The quality of the video was poor. It was taken on a cell phone. Most of the action was blocked out by plane seats and the visible parts were vomit-inducing due to a shaky camera hand.
"I don't really see anything here that points to Judas," Mitch said.
"Pause it at the forty-eight second mark," Xhang said.
It was brief, but a man could be seen biting a woman's forearm. Mitch rewound the video and watched again. At the one-minute-and-twenty-second mark, the woman he bit could be seen lunging over the back of her seat.
"Where is the plane now?" Mitch asked.
"Quarantined near Wuxi."
"Is anyone else presenting?" Mitch asked.
"It appears two were infected. Both are deceased. Three other victims who were attacked perished. Several passengers are injured, but are not sick," Xhang said.
"I need the passenger log and everything you have on those infected."
"You lied to me, Mitch. This isn't contained to Black Dog. The new flu that's all over the news is Judas, isn't it?"
"As I said. It is not beneficial to the project for Judas to spread overseas."
"I am going to call for a ban of all flights originating from the United States. This cannot spread in China," Xhang said. "And what about this quarantined plane?"
"I'll wire you enough money to take care of them until I can send a plane to bring them back. I'll throw in a little extra for your trouble."
"Thank you, but what do I tell the families and the people looking for these passengers?" Xhang said.
"I'll take care of it," Mitch said.
Eleven
Liz continued to sing the chorus to Rick Springfield's "Love Somebody" as the song transitioned into the call letters for the radio station. She went silent when the DJ came on with a breaking news report.
"I hate to do this while everyone is still on a holiday high, but we're getting news from China of a plane crash. The flight originated out of JFK yesterday. The plane has not been recovered and no survivors are expected. I don't know how to segue back into the rock after spreading that news, but they say music calms the soul, so here's 'Rockin' the Paradise' by Styx. Hug your loved ones."
"That's horrible. And right after Christmas. This will ruin so many holiday seasons," Liz said.
Alan agreed with Liz with a nod. He knew Judas would be the cause of much more tragedy than the downed plane on the holidays. Liz didn't grill Alan over his role in ARMA. It surprised him. She always was the "I told you so" kind of person who never let someone forget a mistake.
"How are you feeling?" Alan asked.
"Like I've been making some bad choices since you showed up at my house," Liz said.
"I had to come. I couldn't let you..."
"Oh no. Not with you. Alan, I think you know I've always loved you. The truth is if you had come sooner, I would have left with you sooner."
Alan smiled. Liz leaned forward and kissed him.
"All the sugar and junk food are getting to me. That's the bad choices."
"It's not good for your health," Alan said.
"Neither are you, apparently," Liz said, flashing a smile.
Her dig comforted Alan. He had fallen in love with Liz's sarcastic personality. He missed her giving him hell.
"So we've been in Carolina for a little over a day and no sign of Q or Nick. Is this like one of those shows where they blindly search for gold or do you have an idea where they will be?"
"I don't even know if they are still in Carolina," Alan said. "It's just a hunch."
"Well, it is usually a pretty place to visit when there isn't a killer virus spreading," Liz said. She ran her finger over the cut on his cheek. "It's not too deep. It shouldn't scar."
"That's a shame. I think I'd look pretty good with a scar, kinda like those old G.I. Joe dolls. You know, the ones with the Kung-Fu grip."
Liz turned her nose up. "I played with Barbies." She laughed and started to cough.
"You OK?" Alan asked.
Liz nodded, but continued to cough. A trickle of blood left her nostrils and spread over her hand. Alan pulled the SUV to the side of the road and put his hand on her back.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Liz opened the door and vomited. Water flooded her eyes, smearing her makeup. The trickle of blood from her nose turned to a steady stream.
"Liz?"
Liz vomited again. She wiped the blood from her nose on the sleeve of her jacket. "Shit."
"Are you OK?" Alan asked.
Liz cleared her throat. "Too much candy."
"But your nose is bleeding."
"It does that sometimes when I puke," Liz said.
"I never knew that," Alan said.
"I tried to keep the less flattering things about me from you."
Alan handed Liz a napkin. She pulled down the visor and used the small mirror as a guide as she cleaned the blood from her face.
"That was a lot of puke," Alan said.
Liz laughed and cleared her throat. "I ate a lot of chocolate."
"You sure?"
"Alan, I'm not pregnant. You know how I feel about children," Liz said.
"No, I didn't mean that. Are you sure you not sick?" Alan asked.
"I'm fine now. Let's get going."
Liz felt her temples throb. A dull ache pushed against the back of her eyes. Her throat burned from the acid. A metallic taste tempted her to vomit again. She stared out the window and listened to Foreigner's "Feels Like the First Time." She glanced at Alan. Regret overcame her as she thought about the time she couldn't get back after she left him. She'd loved Alan since college. Liz was thankful to spend the rest of her time with him. She wasn't sure how long that would last. Liz was sick. No, she was infected.
Foreigner segued into "Somebody's Baby" by Jackson Browne. Liz eased her head against the back of the seat, turned away from Alan, and closed her eyes.
The headache wouldn't let Liz rest. All she wanted to do was fall asleep, wake up, and realize this was only a bad dream. She fought the urge to get sick as long as she could, but the virus worked fast. Being a doctor, she couldn't help but be impressed the onset speed of the symptoms. A hunger that Liz had never felt burned her from the inside. She gra
bbed Alan's hand.
"Pull over."
"Are you going to be sick again?" Alan asked.
"Just pull over."
Alan pulled the SUV into the parking lot of a vacant department store with Going Out of Business signs plastered over the windows.
"What's wrong?" Alan asked.
"Do you remember the first time you asked me out?"
"What? Yeah, it was sophomore year right after English class," Alan said.
Liz smiled. "You took me to Pizza Hut for our first date."
"Hey, it was all I could afford," Alan said. "It used to be a lot better back then."
"I wouldn't trade it for anything," Liz said.
"What's this about, Liz?"
"I'm going to need you to do something for me, Alan."
"You're worrying me," Alan said.
"I'm sick, Alan."
"OK. I'll get some medicine. There has to be a pharmacy around here somewhere."
"No. I'm sick. I think I have Judas," Liz said.
Alan lost his breath. He didn't notice it until now, but there was a milky film over Liz's blue eyes.
"No," Alan said.
"It's OK. We got to iron things out. I got to tell you that I still love you."
"I love you too," Alan said.
Liz took Alan's hand and brought it to her chest. "I need you to end this before I do something I don't want to."
"I... can't," Alan said. "Don't ask..."
"If you don't, I will attack you and kill you. Then I'll wander aimlessly. Don't let me do that, Alan."
Alan lowered his head to the steering wheel and softly banged his forehead against the leather. Liz rubbed his back. Her mouth watered as she stared at his exposed neck.
"I can't do this," she said, opening the door and running into the parking lot. She turned to the Cherokee. "Please, Alan, I'm losing myself. Don't let me die from this. End it."
Liz no longer looked like the girl Alan asked out after English class so many years ago. Her pupils were hidden behind a mask of death. She went from crying to growling.
