These words, which should have been enough to break through to any soldier no matter what was going through their mind, seemed to make no impact on Georges. He just kept trying to get closer to anyone who was near him. Close enough to bite.
Chapter Three – Fly the Friendly
Gary reached out and snapped his fingers at Charlie and Matt, who, against Gary’s better judgment, were sitting next to each other. Whatever they were talking about, and Gary couldn’t hear them over the noise of the C-130s engines, Charlie’s face was starting to head towards anger again.
Matt gave the sergeant a shrug that said he wasn’t making trouble, and Gary sighed. He was really going to have to have a talk with the young specialist when they got back to base. Matt was very good as his job, but he also seemed to entirely lack any amount of common sense or ability to judge the impact of his mood and actions on the mood and reactions of his fellow soldiers. It would be enough to end his career early, sooner or later.
Probably sooner if Matt kept on like that. Charlie was the one who, so far, got the most worked up over Matt, but others were irked as well. Gary didn’t need the headache, but it was one of the million and seventeen things sergeants were expected to handle.
He glanced away as Charlie folded his arms and stared up at the overhead of the aircraft. The C-130s seats were not what one would call comfortable, but they’d been airborne for about twenty minutes by Gary’s watch. If he understood how long it was supposed to take to fly to Atlanta correctly, they should be there in maybe another ten.
He had no idea how long it would take to actually land – Hartsfield was one of the busiest airports in the world – but he assumed a military flight would have priority. Not because it was military, necessarily, but because it was military during a massive outbreak of civil disturbance.
Gary wished he could smoke, but settled instead for drumming his fingers on his shoulder straps. They’d gotten a little more information before the plane came in and the company of MPs had hurriedly boarded. The plane’s engines hadn’t even stopped turning; just sort of idled while two air force crew chiefs stood ready to head off any soldiers who were stupid enough to go near the wings.
Whatever was happening in Atlanta, it was widespread and bad. Real bad. Bad enough to have units flying in from several bases all over the state. Gary didn’t have anything against National Guard, but it was unusual to be moving them around so quickly in a crisis like this. Normally it took days before units would redeploy several hundred, or more, miles from their usual staging areas.
Hell, it normally took most of a day just to get a National Guard unit assembled. Especially on a Friday, which was not only a work day, but also the beginning of a weekend. And this one was a holiday weekend at that. If anyone were to do a pop census survey of the reservists today, Gary wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest to find out at least a quarter of them were off on fishing trips or visiting relatives or otherwise traveling.
Now, they were not only pulling formations together out of that jumble of personnel, but they were cramming them into trucks and aircraft and rushing them to the state capital. That couldn’t be a good sign. And as many active duty units as they could scrape up.
Gary hoped it was just a massive over reaction. It would, in his considered opinion, be the mother of all over reactions, but that would be okay. Better than the alternative. He really didn’t want to find out things were worse than the quiet little voice in the back of his head was whispering they might be.
Someone grabbed his arm, and Gary turned his head to see what they wanted. He saw Kevin was looking at him, and started to lean closer so he could hear better. The C-130 was not designed for passenger comfort. Equipment didn’t care about unmuffled engines and uninsulated aircraft. Soldiers were barely, just barely, above gear on the Army’s list of things to give a shit about.
There was a look on Kevin’s face. Gary couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t honestly say he’d really noticed and placed it, but something about it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He leaned back just in time to avoid the snapping teeth as Kevin tried to bite him.
“Fuck!” Gary blurted, instinctively shoving at the private. Kevin rocked back from Gary, his head wobbling atop his neck like he was drunk or stoned or something, but he was strapped in the same as Gary. He couldn’t go far.
Gary slapped at the quick release on the straps that held him in the uncomfortable seat. Just in time, they released, and he stumbled out sideways, away from Kevin as he tried to hold on and bite again.
Heads were turning, most of the bored soldiers having noticed the sudden movement. Gary stared as Kevin, instead of undoing his own straps, instead turned and grabbed for Morris, who was seated on his other side. Morris was caught off guard, and he was only able to get his arms up to protect his face and neck. Kevin didn’t seem to care, and Gary saw Morris’ face contort with pain as teeth sank into his forearm.
A hand grabbed at Gary from behind, and he turned to see Jimenez trying to grab at him. His face was as blank of expression as Kevin’s was, as Georges’ had been, and Gary stumbled back away from him without stopping to think about it.
Soldiers were popping their seat straps up and down the lines of seats, standing and starting to move to assist. Everyone in the company knew what Georges had done, and knew Nelson had died because of it. It had shaken them badly, but Captain Roberts refused to abort their takeoff. That had been the main thing that Gary had taken to understand how bad whatever was happening in Atlanta was.
Most of the soldiers in the company, those who paid attention anyway, knew it too. These were the ones who were moving the quickest. However, by the time they were able to get Morris and Jimenez restrained, four more had abruptly started acting the same way. Three of the four were ones who had unstrapped to try and help. They turned on the would-be fight-breaker-uppers and started biting.
There was hardly enough room in the C-130 for a proper fight, much less a full on brawl like had developed in just seconds. The noise made it hard to shout orders, but it also prevented the screams from being quite so disturbing. At first anyway. By the time everyone was unstrapped and out of their seats, there was enough screaming ongoing to be audible even over the drone of the engines.
Gary saw Captain Roberts, hands on with Zapatta as he tried to restrain the specialist from the biting he was trying to do, abruptly fall over. The captain didn’t get bit, didn’t get shot; he just suddenly collapsed. Zapata turned slowly and gave the inert form on the ground a brief look, then grabbed for Smith who was approaching from the other side to see what was wrong with the company’s CO.
Then Captain Roberts sat up and reached out to Smith’s legs as the corporal struggled with Zapata. Smith looked down, then fell over with Zapata on top of him. A second later, blood flowed as Roberts and Zapata both started biting. Zapata working on one of Smith’s elbows while the captain gnawed contentedly on one of the man’s ankles.
“What in the hell . . . ” Gary whispered, frozen with shock. In less than a minute the interior of the plane had transformed into some sort of . . . he didn’t know. Horror movie war zone. Nightmare scene. Whatever.
They needed to land. Top had told them there was some sort of epidemic spreading through the country, and it was obviously here. It had to be. It was the only explanation for the insanity he was witnessing. Over half the company had turned aggressive, and they had their hands and teeth on the others. All except Gary. He was the only one not being actively attacked.
He turned and raced forward, heading for the front of the plane. Just behind the cockpit, separated from the main hold of the aircraft where all the MPs were, he found the two crew chiefs fighting with each other. No, that wasn’t accurate. One was fighting, and bleeding.
The other was eating.
Gary grabbed the handle on the cockpit door and went through, closing and locking it behind himself. He didn’t think there was anything he could do for either of the crew chiefs, and
instinctively wanted whatever protection the cockpit door could provide against the others aboard the aircraft.
“What are you doing up here?” one of the pilots, a captain by the rank insignia he wore, said as he turned to look at Gary.
“How long until we can land?” Gary asked without preamble.
“Sergeant, the flight time is the flight time.” the captain answered.
“Get on the radio.” Gary said, taking one moment to try and order his racing thoughts. Panic was ripping at the edges of his concentration, but he forced himself to think through it. What was the best way to handle this? That’s what they needed to do. What was that though?
“We need security teams standing by when we land. Cops, airport security, military – it doesn’t matter. Anyone.” Gary blurted. More help would do for an initial plan. Lots more help.
“What’s wrong?” the other pilot asked.
Gary swallowed. “Do you know anything about what’s happening in Atlanta?”
The captain frowned. “We’ve heard a little about it on the radio. Some sort of riot.”
“Yeah, well, it’s happening back there too.” Gary said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the back of the plane.
“What?”
“The entire company’s fighting with each other.” Gary said urgently. “Killing each other. So are your crew chiefs. We need to land now and we need some security waiting when we do.”
“Why aren’t you helping to stop it?” the captain asked.
“I can’t restrain over eighty men by myself.” Gary half-snapped in response.
The other officer, the one flying the plane, was adjusting controls, and now spoke into the microphone suspended from his headset. “Hartsfield Tower, this is Air Force flight 4923.”
The captain turned partially away from Gary, his suddenly unfocused gaze making it clear he was paying attention to his own headset. Gary looked at the first one, who was perversely also a captain, and waited.
“Request clearance and direct routing to land on first available runway.” that man said after a moment. “In-flight emergency.”
Gary didn’t have a headset, but even if he had, he probably would never know what the response would have been. The captain, the one who wasn’t flying the plane, abruptly lunged across the short space between himself and the other officer. Gary grabbed for the seat backs as the C-130 lurched to the left and down, the controls being pushed in those directions, or forgotten entirely, as the captain started clawing and biting at his colleague.
“Aarrrggh! Get him off! Get him off!” the pilot screamed, trying to push the captain off himself with one hand while attempting to level the plane out with the other.
Gary reached for the captain’s shoulders and tugged violently, but he could hardly budge the man. Especially with only one hand, as he was using the other to brace himself against the seats so he didn’t fall. The captain wasn’t letting go, and now blood was flowing down the pilot’s shirt. Gary looked around frantically. His weapon was in the back with his pack, and so was his sidearm. He patted his pockets frantically, then pulled out his pocket knife.
It was a folding blade but the entire knife – blade and handle – was metal, and heavy enough to perhaps be of some use. He left it folded and, gripping it in his hand like it was a cosh, hammered on the back of the captain’s skull with it.
The pilot was still screaming, and the captain was still holding him like he was glued on. Gary hit the captain half a dozen times, the last two blows definitely hard enough they should have drawn a reaction. But the captain seemed oblivious. How was that even possible?
Gary frowned, then snapped the blade on the knife open. It was only three inches, but maybe that would be enough. If blunt force wasn’t going to work, he was prepared to kill. It was that or crash – he needed a pilot or he was dead along with anyone else who was still alive. He clutched the knife in his hand in the classic stabbing position, then jabbed down at the back of the captain’s neck.
The blade went in, twisted and changed angles a little as it skittered off something hard, then sank the rest of the way into the captain’s flesh. Gary flinched violently at the sensation, which was not at all pleasant. He also cringed, expecting a horror movie amount of spurting blood, but there was only a little dribble.
And, worst of all, the captain didn’t even seem to care. He just kept chewing on the pilot, whose struggles were already growing weak. Gary yanked the knife out of the man’s neck and stabbed him again, but it made no difference.
“Damnit!” he shouted, pulling the knife out and stabbing down a third time with a strong thrust and a loud crunch of bone. This time when it went in, the captain abruptly went limp. This time Gary hadn’t been aiming at the neck.
Gary shuddered, horrified at how it had felt, and almost just left the knife in the man’s skull. But he pulled it out, reasoning somewhere in the back of his mind, that maybe he might need it again.
He shoved the captain over and away from the injured pilot, but the man was barely conscious. And ‘conscious’ in this case was a stretch of the definition. The pilot’s eyes were fluttering rapidly, and his head was lolling back and forth down on his chest like he was asleep. There was a gaping wound on the side of his neck, right where his neck turned into shoulder, that showed ragged teeth marks. There was a lot of blood, but not so much coming from the wound now.
Gary reached past the pilot and grabbed for the controls. He had hardly any idea how to fly the plane, but he figured he couldn’t go wrong by trying to get them leveled out. The ground was really close now. He didn’t know how close, but it seemed like they were way too low.
He pulled on the yoke with one hand, trying to emulate what he’d seen in the movies. Back was up, forward was down. The plane’s angle of descent started to flatten out, but the C-130 was still slipping to the left. And the angle wasn’t changing rapidly enough. Gary tried to think. As he pulled harder on the yoke, he felt it starting to straighten out and stop slipping left. Then Gary almost fell as the plane abruptly started leaning right instead.
The ground was getting closer. Gary yanked the stick back as far as it would come. The C-130 leveled out, and he panted in relief. Then he had to change his grip on the seat back as the nose kept coming up, up, up, threatening to spill him backwards against the back wall of the cockpit.
He instinctively knew having the nose that high was not good. The problem was he didn’t have enough leverage to push the yoke back down. The pull of gravity was strong, nearly as strong as he was, as he clung to the seat with one hand and tried to push on the stick with the other.
The C-130s angle was shifting again. It seemed to be tumbling. Gary felt himself being pulled to the left. It was like being on a out of control power swing at an amusement park, whipping in one direction while being hurled in another. Spinning and falling at the same time.
“Oh shit.” Gary blurted, just as he saw the ground rushing up through the forward windows of the C-130. It was some sort of subdivision, a neighborhood. There was a house with a backyard swimming pool directly ahead.
Gary closed his eyes just as the impact began. He was dead before the fireball rose past the collapsed roofs of the houses that were hit by the crashing plane.
###
If you enjoyed this short, you might find Apocalypse Atlanta entertaining. Free samples are available, so why not give it a try?
Also by David Rogers
Apocalypse Atlanta – We’ve all seen it on the news every year. A hurricane, a tornado, a tsunami, a flood. A BAD thing happens, and all hell breaks loose.
Some people are caught in the chaos, others are victims, some run, others wait for help, most sit at home watching for everything to be fixed for them, and a few dive in to do whatever they can.
The thing about a zombie apocalypse is whether or not you’re in that initial wave of people who get hungry and start snacking. And where you are as few turn to many. As we all know, when it’s zombies, s
oon many turns to most. And it’s over when most become all.
Apocalypse Atlanta follows three people as the zombies start eating and bring the world down around them a bite at a time.
One is a retired Marine. The second is a widowed single mother. And the third is a biker.
Are there right or wrong answers when zombies are involved? Do things like morality and decency matter? Is it better to be alive to feel guilty, or dead an honorable? Who decides who’s right or wrong when a single mistake can make you dinner for a ravenous horde of the undead?
The story that started it all, the preceding book to Apocalypse Aftermath.
http://www.amazon.com/Apocalypse-Atlanta/dp/B00D538D6M/
Apocalypse Aftermath – the follow-up to Apocalypse Atlanta, continuing the stories of Peter, Jessica, and Darryl.
When an apocalypse starts, there's always running and screaming. Sooner or later, most of that starts to fade; if only because most of the runners and screamers are dead. Once the end of the world gets going in earnest, the sprint becomes a marathon. You can’t run all the time, can you?
Saving someone is easy. Helping them is what's hard. Heroes happen all the time. After those moments when you become someone's saviour, what comes next? One day turns to two, and then the days are a week. Time keeps ticking by, and if you're going to keep from being ground beneath the clock’s relentless push, you've got to find the essentials for life. Food, water, shelter, safety. Everything else is negotiable.
Apocalypse Aftermath picks up where Apocalypse Atlanta leaves off; following three people, each going in three different directions, all trying to survive the end of the world. The same question faces Peter, Jessica, and Darryl; what’s next? What’s a safe path to follow, one that doesn’t place them and those they’re with at risk of becoming a meal for the zombies? What’s the right move, and how do they see it for what it is in time to act? Which way is the right way?
Better to be Lucky Page 2
