Day by Day Armageddon

by J. L. Bourne

  Once again, John and I stepped up to the tower doors. John covered me as I carefully turned the steel handle opening the door. It was dark inside. I switched on the flashlight on my weapon and began clearing the stairwell. No sign of blood, no sign of struggle. The tower was abandoned.

  As we neared the top of the tower, the feeling of dread soon left us. It was empty. Being inside the control tower brought back memories of our escape. That seemed like years ago. There was no power inside the tower, although I could see that an exterior light was on at the hangar. Must have been a tripped breaker. I never bothered to find out.

  Our next order of business was to check the hangars, as more than likely the tools and materials we were after were inside. It was approaching 1400 hrs, and it was exceptionally hot that day. With complacency set in heavy, John and I lackadaisically approached the first hangar. I signaled John to cover me and I slung the door open. It was then our lazy attitude almost killed us.

  A rotted corpse in a white apron and undershirt came barreling out of the doorway with hedge trimming shears clamped in its left hand. It had no idea it was using them as a weapon as it charged John, seemingly oblivious to my presence. The thing stumbled quickly and fell onto John, gnashing its rotting teeth. The cutting shears cut John’s cheek. I could hear the sound of some other movement inside the hangar. I kicked the creature off of John and spun around to the open doorway that was devoid of light. I thought John was fine, but apparently the fall had knocked him out. The thing that I had kicked off of John now had a new target in mind me.

  Again it charged in a slow stumble toward me. It was too late. By the time I reacted to the familiar gurgling sound it made, it had already inadvertently stabbed me in the ribs with the trimming shears. I spun around in red-hot anger. After kicking the thing in the chest, knocking it to the ground very near John, I trained my sights between the eyes and neutralized it. The brains looked like blue cauliflower right before the dust adhered to the sticky mess. The shears were still in the creature’s hand, as I assume they had been for months and now will be forever.

  I knelt down near John and slapped him in the face a few times. His blood was all over my hands. Although my wound was worse than his, he seemed to be bleeding more. I checked the shears. They seemed dry, other than our fresh blood. A sound from the reminded me of the other danger we could be facing. I wasn’t going to leave John knocked out.

  I kept slapping him until he finally woke up. I helped him to his feet and told him to keep a look out. The light I had seen previously on the hangar was above the open door. Two large hangar doors were on both sides of the open doorway. I planned to enter the hangar and hit the door switch, bathing the inside with sunlight.

  As I entered the doorway, I caught a glimpse of one of them. I had no choice but to take it out. My muzzle flash revealed more of them. The flash was bright and it temporarily burned the image of six other corpses into the back of my retina. I reached over for the switch and hit it. No joy. I tried the one below it and heard the rumble of the “garage door” sound.

  I made for the door with my back to John, pointing the weapon ahead of me into the dying darkness of the hangar. Looking over my shoulder I could see that John was very light headed and leaning on his rifle. I yelled at him to get back with me. It was game time. I readied my rifle and waited for them to come. The first one made the roll call. I killed her with one shot. More soon followed, excited by their first sight of food in months. With outstretched arms, they gave chase. John was trying to shoot, but missed every shot. I finished most of them in one shot, however two of them I missed twice. The last creature fell four feet from where I stood.

  There were eight expired undead at the bay doors and on the dirt in front of the hangar. I had killed them all. I checked my magazine and reloaded. John was regaining his composure, and the bleeding on his cheek had stopped. He nodded to me that he was ok, and that we needed to get these bodies out of sight, because the dead were not the only ones that could have heard those gunshots. We both knew what the other was thinking the crosses.

  We dragged the bodies inside a corner of the hangar, cutting shears and all. After looking around for a few minutes we found a blue tarp to disguise their demonic presence. I forgot about my wound until John stumbled across a first aid kit mounted next to a fire extinguisher.

  Using my knife to break the seal, I commenced to taking out what I needed. I took out the iodine, the medical tape and the gauze. I unzipped my flight suit and pulled it to my waist. I could see the dark blood clearly through my dark green undershirt. I was afraid to pull up my shirt Slowly, I slid the shirt up over my left rib cage, and saw that it wasn’t that bad, but it definitely needed first aid. I shook the iodine, opened it and then liberally applied it to the wound. It was cold and stung a little. It didn’t need stitches. The iodine turned my skin bright orange. I applied the gauze and tightly wound the tape around my rib cage until I was satisfied.

  Checking the fence, John and I noticed that in the distance gathered a group of three undead. They were drawn to the sound of the gunfire. They were too far away to see us, but it was still an uneasy feeling knowing they were there and reacting to our audible presence.

  After finding numerous supplies, i.e. hacksaw, wrenches, fuel siphon, spray lubricant and an old leather bomber jacket, we proceeded to look through the publications room of the hangar. Inside we found numerous Cessna checklists, some of them outdated but they would work in this situation. Also of importance was a maintenance manual covering the Cessna 172 and the 152. John and I took our bounty and headed toward the aircraft. Now there were four at the fence. We were at the aircraft and I immediately began to run the aircraft checklist to see if it was even operational.

  It took me a few minutes to accomplish, however, after three attempts at engine start, the prop finally turned over and it sputtered to life. I got all the systems running and checked the fuel. I was sitting at half capacity, or two hours of airtime. I calculated that Hotel 23 was only about a twenty-minute flight, so fuel wasn’t the issue. The undead quickly growing in numbers outside of the fence was. I shut down the engine and John and I proceeded back to the hangar to get a fuel can so that we could siphon fuel from the 152 to the 172. There were now ten at the fence. They were not trying to get in, but they were milling about, drawn to the noise of gunshots and aircraft engines.

  John and I grabbed the can and proceeded to accomplish the tedious task of siphoning twenty-two gallons of fuel to top off the aircraft. After twenty gallons, the 152 was bone dry. Oh well. Doing quick math in my head, I knew we had roughly three hours and forty-five minutes of airtime before she glided out of the sky. We loaded up the back seat of the aircraft with our equipment. We also stuffed ever nook and cranny of the avionics bay with everything we could fit. I also took some oil for the aircraft from the maintenance hangar, as you just never know.

  As a final preparation, I took the battery out of the 152, and squeezed it into the pile of supplies in the back seat. We were running heavy, but I had experience with that and this time we had a real runway, not a dirt track. It was getting late. There were only thirteen of them at the fence, so I doubted that they would breach it. As we performed our final preparation on the aircraft, we heard faint automatic weapons fire in the distance. Upon hearing this sound, many of the creatures gave up at the fence and wondered off toward the new sound.

  Who was it? John and I had no idea. Worst case, (and it probably was worst case) it was the crazy fuckers that crucified those poor bastards in that field a few miles north of Hotel 23. John and I prepped everything we could and retired to the control tower for a restless night of sleep.

  I woke up the next morning to a shooting pain in my ribs. John’s face looked much better, but my cut was getting infected. I cleaned it again, and applied clean dressing. It was 1000 hrs that morning before I felt like leaving the tower. There was no sign of undead at the fence now, and John and I did not hear any gunfire the night before. Now came the obvious probl
em. How the hell were we going to fly the plane back, land at the grass strip next to H23, get out of the aircraft and then climb the fence without getting eaten?

  John and I thought on this for a few hours and narrowed down a night approach with night vision goggles as our best option. I expressed my concern that the loud noise of the engine would draw them to our position regardless of night or day. It was then that John asked, “Well, can you land it with the engine off?” I laughed at him, and told him that I didn’t know and that I had never tried to land an aircraft with the engine cut except during flight training under controlled situations. I thought on this for a good while before agreeing that it might work.

  John and I patiently waited for the night to come. It wasn’t until 2050 hrs on the 18th of April, that we decided it was time to go home. That night, as we loaded up our bedrolls and random gear from the tower into the aircraft, we heard gunfire again. This time the weapons fire was closer, much closer. John and I could also hear something that sounded like vehicle engines between the gun bursts. We hopped in, locked our harnesses and I proceeded to get our asses home. I knew that we would easily be able to find H23 because of the security cameras. Using the NVGs I was able to see anything that shined in the infrared wavelength, just like it were a beacon.

  We instructed William to make sure the cameras were on and infrared capable before they retired to bed each night. This was our failsafe, our breadcrumb trail that would lead us home. I taxied her to the runway, careful to skip the step that turns the landing lights on. No strobes, no lights, nothing to give away our position.

  As I centered her nose wheel on the centerline of the runway, I could see grainy green images of numerous human figures on the other side of the fence. Neither John, nor I wanted to find out if they were friend or foe. I released the breaks, and at fifty knots indicated airspeed, I pulled her nose up and we were once again airborne. Using the air navigation chart, I began to point the nose of the aircraft in the direction of H23.

  Just as we cleared the end of the runway, I could see automatic muzzle flash on the ground below. I had no idea if they were shooting at me, or if they were defending themselves. Thinking back to the crosses, I leaned toward the former.

  It wasn’t long until I could see the glow of the numerous security cameras in my NVGs. I made one circling pass to get my bearings, and then I climbed to 2,500 feet and began my circling approach. At 2,500 feet, I reluctantly cut my engine, and knew we were going to be on the ground whether we liked it or not. I didn’t know how to air start this plane. This was a one-way ticket back to sea level. My right wing was parallel with the western fence (two western corner cameras). I kept checking my altimeter, and airspeed. Eighty knots, 1,500 feet.

  I circled again, this time with a steeper angle of bank, because I was too high. I bled off some altitude and came around on final approach at six hundred feet. We were definitely falling faster than I was comfortable with. I could see H23 off my left wing. The NVGs were shit for depth perception, so I had to keep my eye on my altimeter. (I set it to sea level before I took off). Three hundred, two hundred, one hundred, 70 knots

  At ten feet, I flared the aircraft back to soften the landing. The prop was still wind milling as my main gear set down, followed too quickly by my front wheel. We slammed down hard, and loose shit flew everywhere inside the cockpit. I kept her straight as I slowly applied what was left of the hydraulic brakes to slow our speed.

  Hydraulics don’t work well with the engine off line. I could have cared less about the gear we left behind. All I had with me was my rifle, as I left the plane in the middle of the field and sprinted to the fence with John in tow behind.

  We got to the fence and John entered the code. The mechanical clinking sound indicated that the cipher was unlocked. We entered the fence, shut it behind us, and finally, we were safer. I walked through the hatch last night into Tara’s open arms and concerned eyes as she gazed at my bloody clothing. I spent most of this morning resting and getting medically tended to by Jan. She seemed to think that stitches were a good idea and abruptly re-opened my wound. She cleaned it up and proceeded to painfully stitch the laceration. I didn’t argue. I simply took a few shots of Captain Baker’s Captain Morgan to ease the pain.

  April 21st

  2118 hrs

  We spent the day hiding the aircraft with brush and grass, and moving the supplies from the plane to H23. John is vigorously examining satellite photos to try and determine the identity of our ground to air attackers. Tara has stuck close to me since we got back. Tomorrow we will attempt to access the weapons locker with the hacksaw.

  April 24th

  2041 hrs

  All is silent in the hotel. The infection around my rib area is receding. It is itching and feeling hot, vice the familiar soreness of deep infection. Jan tells me that in a week, she will probably be cutting them out for me. To bad for me, she used regular sewing thread. On the morning of the 22nd, William, John and I took turns sawing the huge lock off of the steel weapons locker. I sawed for ten-minutes, the other two did the same.

  We applied lubricant to the saw to keep it from burning up and breaking the tips of the saw blade. It took almost an hour to cut the lock. In my mind, I half expected a gaggle of corpses to come falling out of the locker when we opened the door. Of course, this was not the case. We were in luck. Inside this large locker was a cache of military grade small arms. There were five M-16s, and one of them was equipped with an M-203 grenade launcher. Not being a trained infantry soldier, I had some research to do long before I ever try to deploy the grenade launcher function.

  Also inside our little pot of gold were two military modified Remington 870 shotguns, and four M-9 Berettas. As we started to take the weapons off of their racks and into the control room, I noticed another rifle, semi-hidden in the rear of the locker, behind the ammo cans. Reaching back into the locker to see what it was, I noticed that my hand was about to pull a Russian weapon out of a U.S. missile silo weapons locker. If it were not for the inscription on the weapon, I would have forever wondered what it was doing there in the first place.

  In English, and some Russian the following was written:

  For Colonel James Butler, USAF

  “Cold War 1945-1989”

  Dimitre Nikolaevich

  It didn’t take much for me to have a decent guess at why this weapon was here. Although my Russian is rusty, and never was any good anyway, I still recognized “polkovnik” as Colonel. I knew also that “Voyna” meant war, and the cold war was considered officially over in 1989. This meant that “Khalodny” was probably Russian for cold. This Russian AK-47 was more than likely a gift of good will from one fallen superpower military man, to Colonel Butler. Of course I had no idea who Butler was, but it was probably a safe bet that he commanded this post sometime during the cold war and had encountered his Russian adversary prior to the fall of the USSR.

  This made me wonder what Mr. Butler had sent comrade Nikolaevich in return. I guess I will never know the answer. This weapon looked in excellent shape. I decided to take it to my compartment as sort of a souvenir, a souvenir much more useful than a shot glass.

  We are now well armed with at least one military grade weapon available per person. Unfortunately, the females have no idea how to operate any of these weapons, and this was something that needed to be fixed soon. John and I went out again to better hide the aircraft.

  Now, you would have to be pretty much on top of it to find it. John is still busy figuring out all the various systems of this complex. There is still the intermittent mechanical sound coming from somewhere in the facility, and John and I are trying to isolate the source. After examining literally dozens of photos, we were unable to find any sign of our attacker(s) from the other night.

  I half wondered if (he/she/they) would be good enough to locate us just by the general direction the aircraft was headed. I knew we would have been shot down that night if I had left the strobes and take off lights on. A well-lighted target would have been
easy to hit. The gunman was just aiming at the sound of the engine.

  We are all taking turns monitoring the cameras at regular intervals, and John seems to think there may be a motion sensing function that the cameras are able to utilize with the right commands. For the time being, we have some weapons to clean.

  April 26th

  1954 hrs

  Took some time, but finally cleaned all the weapons that needed it. I wouldn’t mind getting some ammunition for the AK-47, as it requires a different caliber than its domestic comrade, the M-16. I spent the day yesterday teaching Tara and Jan how to load, aim, and adjust for wind with the rifles. I feel that those skills are in high demand these days.

  In a fit of boredom, John and I took some satellite photographs of Houston. We were unable to locate any survivors. At one point, we thought we had a decent lead, as on the roof of one of the taller buildings we saw a hastily made banner that read simply, “HELP.” It wasn’t until John increased the magnification that we discovered that “HELP” had already arrived in the form of the undead. There were four of them on the roof, milling about, probably the same ones that constructed the makeshift banner.