The Terminal

by Amber Fallon

  Giving it one last shot at its intended purpose, I propped one of the wide doors open with the cinder block and drove the golf cart through.

  Once I had the cart in the hallway, I grabbed the cinder block and sat it in the seat beside me. Then I pulled out the map again and got my bearings. It looked like this hallway would take me back towards the shopping pavilion, which was only a hop, skip, and a jump from where I needed to be to set the real plan in motion.

  Along the way, I passed more dead bodies, strewn around like gory Christmas decorations. Deck the halls with severed limbs, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

  After a few minutes spent navigating the bloody obstacle course, I reached another door. I hopped out of the cart and went to open it, only it wouldn’t budge. Undaunted, I tried harder, this time managing to get it to move a scant couple of inches. Fuck. I really didn’t want to try navigating around in the dark trying to find another way out of this maze, especially when where I needed to be was so very close. So I put my back into it and really gave it all I had.

  The door moved slowly, half inch by half inch, until it suddenly swung wide, knocking me on my ass in the process. I immediately located the source of the blockage. I was sitting in him. What remained of a large man had been pinned up against the doors by one of those big flat trolleys they use to transport luggage. He was missing everything from the chest up. Gore covered the tile floor in all directions. And my $150 Lucky Brand jeans.

  I got shakily to my feet, and then slipped two more times in the poor man’s remains. On my third attempt I managed to right myself, then I nudged the corpse over as far as I could so I could hopefully get the golf cart through without further incident.

  Sadly, fate had spurned me and I ended up having to drag the guy around the corner into the airport proper. It was no small, or quick, task and the end result was a thick red trail leading from one set of doors through the other, but it got him out of my way.

  The airport remained eerily quiet. What had happened to all the aliens? I crept around the corner, scanning all directions for signs of them...and then I saw him.

  One of the big nasty aliens leaned against what was left of a display window in front of a jewelry store. His eyes were closed but his chest heaved in the slow, steady rhythm of an exhausted child. He was asleep.

  Assholes got all tuckered out causing the end of the world? What would it take to wake them up, exactly? Was this Rip Van Winkle type sleep? In which case, I wouldn’t exactly be able to lure anybody anywhere. Or maybe it was lighter sleep and they had actually just worn themselves out running around the airport. I tried to think back to the biology classes I’d taken in high school and before I’d dropped out of college. Not that they’d help me much, as I hadn’t signed up for Alien Fuckface Anatomy 101. Was this perhaps some sort of metabolic thing? Dear god, what if it was the start of some kind of hideous transformation? Could these assholes be like caterpillars? I sure as hell didn’t want to be around to see what broke free of those cocoons. But maybe I was getting ahead of myself again.

  Sleep or no sleep, it was probably best for me to keep going with the original plan. John probably was, after all. I couldn’t let him down. I had to do what I came in here to do, even if the only reason I’d done it was to avoid telling him about Hannah. I glanced back at the sleeping alien. It smacked its lips and adjusted its posture a bit, still snoozing peacefully. It might almost be sweet if I hadn’t seen firsthand what those fuckers had done to humanity. Would it wake up when I zoomed by in my golf cart of doom? Did that matter? After all, I was supposed to lure them all towards their explosion fueled demises, right? But what if he was faster than a golf cart and he caught me?

  I went back and got the golf cart, choosing to nudge open the door with the cart itself rather than chancing waking the alien up and being caught flat footed.

  I made it just around the corner in the opposite direction from Sleeping Beauty, when I heard one of those horrible roars behind me.

  I glanced back over my shoulder as I laid on the gas. The asshole was most definitely awake, coming straight at me, tiny jewels still sparkling from where they’d stuck to his skin. And he was gaining on me.

  I swung wide around a statue and a trash can, then cut a corner tightly to the right, hoping to shake my tail. No such luck. If I could somehow wedge the cinder block down on the gas pedal while I was driving, maybe I could pull the old tuck and roll while the golf cart careened towards Concourse D. That seemed like a pretty solid course of action, so I grabbed the brick and jammed it down under my foot with my free hand. Sadly, that left one hand for steering and map holding and I just couldn’t do both at the same time no matter how many texts I’d sent while driving. The map escaped my grasp and drifted somewhere behind me, never to be seen again. Farewell, my friend. You’ve served me well.

  I grabbed my walkie and leaped from the moving golf cart, landing beside a giant stand up advertisement for the Lincoln Park Zoo. My tailbone impacted with the ground hard. I thought it might even be broken. But I dared not cry out for fear of drawing my pursuer’s attention, if I had actually managed to escape it in the first place. Instead, I remained as still as I possibly could, holding my breath and actually praying, before the watchful gaze of an oversized tiger. Within seconds, I heard the alien’s footsteps as he thundered past. Oh thank sweet, merciful Christ!

  I waited for a few minutes until all was silent again, then I hit the locator button on the walkie talkie. From somewhere just distant, I heard another of those horrendous roars. Good.

  Ignoring the pain in my legs and spine, I bolted back the way I’d come. Adrenaline is a truly wonderful thing. Somehow I managed to make it back to the relative safety of the hallway I’d come out of with comparative ease. Sure I still felt like Jean Claude Van Damme had kicked the crap out of me, but I’d made it and that was what mattered.

  I rushed down the hallway towards the maintenance access door I’d come through earlier. As soon as I saw the Security Office door, I hit the talk button on the walkie and shouted into the microphone.

  “HEY ASSHOLES! GET OVER HERE! FOLLOW ME TO A FREE DINNER! IF ANYONE HUMAN AND ALIVE CAN HEAR ME, GET OUT OF THE AIRPORT AS FAST AS YOU CAN!”

  I made my way back down that noisy metal staircase. Then I taunted the alien horde one more time from just inside the exterior door, tossed the walkie talkie away, and jogged out onto the tarmac.

  I saw no sign of Officer Samuels, but I hoped she’d made it out ok. The plane was still where I’d last seen it, the portable staircase still positioned up against the side, but I didn’t see John anywhere. Maybe he was still inside, working on the bomb? I couldn’t just stand here wondering, regardless of how much I wanted to avoid looking the man in the eyes, I had to be sure.

  Cautiously, I climbed the staircase, glancing back at the airport as I did. There was a loud crash and I saw one of the few remaining windows bow outward. I assumed it was due to the golf cart slamming into it, but from here, I couldn’t be sure.

  John sat on the floor outside the cockpit, a mess of wires laid across his lap. He glanced up as I stepped into the door, hand darting for his gun for a second before he saw who it was.

  “Hey, man!” He grinned up at me, “You get ‘er done?”

  I sputtered for a second before I realized what he meant, then I nodded emphatically.

  “Good!” He sprang to his feet, “Let’s blow some shit up!”

  I followed John into the cockpit where he went about pushing buttons and pulling levers and doing whatever else he did to start up the airplane. I almost laughed out loud when the engines roared to life.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I peered over his shoulder as he steered the aircraft. He glanced back at me, handing me a small gray backpack. I noticed that he already had one slung over his own back.

  “Put this on!” He adjusted some sort of dial. The airplane sped up almost instantly. We were now heading away from the airport, presumably to gain enough distance to pick up enough speed to
ram into Terminal D. But what about us? How would we escape? Was there some sort of autopilot system? God, I hoped this wouldn’t turn into a kamikaze mission after all.

  I shrugged into the backpack, glancing around the cockpit and once again avoiding looking too closely at a personal photograph that had been taped to the console in front of John.

  I stumbled and almost lost my balance entirely as John brought the airplane around in as tight a turn as I figured this beast could make. I grabbed the captain’s chair for balance as John let out a whoop of joy pointing out in front of us.

  “Would you look at that!” he shouted.

  Three or four dozen of those pale assed alien fuckers gathered in Terminal D. The one remaining pane of glass in the entire terminal was spider webbed with cracks. I could just make out the outline of the golf cart against it. Go me!

  “Yeah!” I pumped my fist in the air. “Get ready to die, fuckers!”

  John let out a laugh and it was one of the most joyous sounds I can ever remember hearing.

  Just then, there was a loud bang from somewhere in the plane behind us. We both looked back, shocked.

  “Go see what that was.” John handed me his knife. I waived it off, pulling the gun from my waistband, already making my way back into the cabin. I couldn’t expect John to investigate, after all. Someone had to steer the plane and I had absolutely no idea how to do that. So recon duty it was.

  I didn’t see anything in the cockpit, so I made my way to the still open entry door. I grabbed the doorframe and peeked outside.

  Captain Axe stood on the wing, clutching his weapon which was embedded in the metal. Half of his face was burned off, leaving bits of that hideous blood red skull and equally red teeth exposed. I took aim with John’s gun and fired. I missed the alien by less than a foot, but I’d drawn his attention in the process. He glared at me and bellowed.

  “What the fuck is going on back there?” John called from the cockpit.

  “Uh... we have a visitor!”

  “Well, take care of it!”

  Sure, easy for him to say. He was up there in the nice, safe, alien free cockpit. I took another shot and missed again. I wasn’t sure how many bullets I had left, and I didn’t want to keep wasting ammunition, but I couldn’t let him reach the cockpit and I damn sure didn’t want to let him inside the plane.

  I remembered one of those safety videos they show on aircraft before takeoff. Didn’t they say something about an exit over the wing? I thought I remembered something about that. I peeked around the corner to verify. Sure enough, I was right. Less than half a dozen rows of seats away from me was an exit door. From my vantage point, I could just make out Captain Axe’s, well, axe and the well-muscled arm gripping it through the window. Perfect.

  “John, I’m going to go take care of that fucker! Just let me know before you plan to blow us up, ok?”

  “Yeah, just go,” he shot back, sounding impatient.

  I darted back and pulled the emergency lever, kicking the door as hard as I could and sending another lightning bolt of pain up my spine in the process.

  Captain Axe snarled as he saw me, roaring once more for good measure. I pointed the gun at his mutilated face and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I stared at the gun for a second, utterly shocked, and pulled the trigger again. Still nothing, but at least the gun hadn’t attacked me. That was something.

  I stepped out onto the wing, wishing I’d taken John up on the offer of his knife. What exactly was I going to do? Snark him to death?

  The wind tore at me. I don’t know how fast the plane was going, but it was enough to make movement difficult. I widened my stance, and took another step towards my enemy, who yanked his axe free of the fuselage and raised it towards me. I cringed back, preparing for the blow and hoping at the very least that John’s plan would succeed, that my death might mean something.

  Suddenly John stuck his head out the exit door.

  “DIRK! PULL YOUR CHUTE!”

  As he jumped from the plane, a giant sheet of white enveloped him. Then I understood. It wasn’t a backpack after all. It was a parachute.

  I grinned at Captain Axe. He looked slightly taken aback and a bit confused by the gesture. Definitely brawn over brains with that guy. I pointed at the airport behind him and enjoyed an utterly Bugs Bunny moment when I waved before pulling the ring on the chute.

  I felt myself get yanked off my feet and hurled into the plane’s wake, the heat from the engine singing my skin just a little before I crashed to the ground and had the wind knocked out of me. I struggled out of the huge fabric parachute and sat up just in time to see the plane (with a confused Captain Axe still clinging to the wing) collide with Terminal D. A split second later, the world exploded in a fireball of heat and light and a deafening BOOM that knocked me flat on my back.

  I coughed and sputtered as John reached down, grabbing my hand and yanking me to my feet. He cut the parachute free with his knife and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “We did it, Dirk!” He beamed. I couldn’t help smiling back at him as we turned away from the burning wreckage of O’Hare International Airport.

  “We sure did!” I replied, “Now what do you say we go find a drink?”

  The Terminal copyright © 2015 Amber Fallon

  Cover art copyright © 2016 Leif Olson

  Cover design copyright © 2016 Rachel Autumn Deering

  Originally printed in Daughters of Inanna, Thunderstorm Books 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Amber Fallon.