by Barry Napier
“What about other countries?” Paul asked.
“As bad as it sounds, other countries aren’t our concern at this point. But there are no flights leaving the US, not even from the West Coast.”
“That’s why Joyce’s father is in Minnesota. He was there for work and the last we heard, he’s stranded at the airport and can’t leave. I don’t know if they won’t let him leave or what, though.”
“The government probably has the airports locked down. Anyone that happened to be in an airport when this thing started, is probably still there. And it’s likely one of the safest places you can be. Plenty of food, restrooms, wide open spaces.”
“The men outside told us we’d get help in getting in touch with Joyce’s father. Will you stand by that?”
“I will. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t already someone working on it.” After saying this, Jolly extended his gloved hand to be shaken. The gesture took Paul by surprise, but he shook the offered hand and looked Jolly in the eyes.
“Anything you need, come to me,” Paul said. “Don’t be bothering Olivia and Joyce.”
Jolly nodded, but the idea of Joyce having to get her finger pricked was already in Paul’s head and he felt almost sickened that he was not there with her. It was odd, but now that Joyce was not in his sight, he felt a much stronger connection to her. He’d been protective of her ever since they’d escaped New York together but he now felt it tumbling around inside of him like some long-buried instinct.
“Of course,” Jolly said. “And as soon as they’re done over in their side of the building, we’ll make sure the three of you are reconnected. Now, if you’ll follow Sergeant Hinkley, he’ll take you to your room.”
Sergeant Hinkley was apparently the second armed man on the other side of the room; at the mention of his name, he stepped away from the wall and came over to their little medical area. “This way, sir,” Hinkley said.
Paul followed the soldier through the room, around the other little partitions separated by the clear fiberglass. He gave Doctor Jolly one final look before he was led to another of the thin tunnels and further back into the maze of makeshift rooms and buildings.
***
The tunnel came out in what was clearly a souped up trailer of some kind. If Paul had to guess, he thought it was little more than a trailer that would be hauled behind a freighter truck, hundreds of thousands pulled along the highways at any given moment of any given day. Only this trailer seemed to have been custom made with a situation exactly like this in mind. There were small doors—little more than hatches, really—installed alongside the far wall and both ends. There was one door at each end, and five rooms along the facing wall.
“What is all this, exactly?” Paul asked.
“This is what it looks like when the military has to organize in a hurry, throwing a plan together with hope and duct tape. It’s not the Hilton, but it’s not bad for being tossed together in under a day.”
Hinkley led Paul to one of the hatch-like doors against the wall in front of them. To Paul’s surprise, the door was much more high tech than he’d assumed. There was a key-reader installed along the side of the door, the sort that looked like a credit-card reader at a grocery store. Hinkley pulled a card from his pocket, slid it through the reader, and the door opened. It popped open with a hydraulic hiss. While it was almost perfectly rectangular and had a small window high off the center, something about it reminded Paul of every depiction of a submarine he’d ever seen or read.
Hinkley stepped aside to allow Paul entrance. He still held his rifle across his chest as if he were protecting some great government property or secret. Paul stepped to the doorway and looked inside. There was a cot, a small table, and a generic electronic tablet sitting on the edge of the cot. The place was about eight feet from side to side and maybe ten feet long. Everything was white and steel colored.
“What size clothes do you wear?” Hinkley asked.
The question seemed so absurd that it took Paul a moment to understand what was being asked. “Extra-large in a shirt, thirty-eight-thirty-six jeans. Why?”
“We’ll see to it you get a change of clothes in the next few hours. There are shower facilities, but they aren’t the best. Restrooms as well. But if you need one, let us know.”
Paul had still not stepped into the room. He gave it one last look before turning his attention back to Hinkley. “Where are Joyce and Olivia staying?”
“Another trailer, about fifty yards away. “Same set up. Once they’re given their rooms and checked in, I’ll come and take you over there. If not me personally, then one of the nurses.”
“What’s taking so long with them?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. I can check on it.”
Paul still hesitated to enter the little room. With his eyes still on Hinkley, he said: “I watched you unlock this door with a key card. Does that mean once I walk in and you close the door behind me, I can’t get out?”
“The doors only open from this side, that’s correct.”
“Then you understand why I’m not thrilled about going in there.”
“Sir, I assure you that there’s nothing to—”
“I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge here. A captain or whoever your leader is. I’m not letting you just trap me in this room. And I’m certainly not going to let you do it to Olivia and J—”
Hinkley acted so quickly that Paul never had a chance to defend himself. He brought the stock of the rifle up and forward with incredible speed. The stock struck Paul squarely in the solar plexus before Paul even had a chance to raise his arms. He was knocked off of his feet and landed hard on the inside of the little room. The wind went rushing out of him twice—once when the gun struck him, and again when he slammed into the floor.
The pain in his chest was immense. He gasped, trying to draw in a breath as he attempted to scramble to his feet. Hinkley stood in the doorway, hands on the rifle but not pointing it at Paul.
“I truly didn’t want to do that,” Hinkley said. “We will see to it that you are able to see the two you came in with. And someone will bring you fresh clothes soon. Food will come sometime in the next few hours. If you need anything, there’s a button by the door.”
Paul managed to get to his knees and moved forward, but Hinkley was already pushing the door shut. When it closed, there was a metallic thud and then a slight whirring as something mechanical moved inside the walls. The final noise was a very loud clicking noise and the lock engaged.
Paul leaned against the wall trying to calm himself so he could focus on his breathing. As his lungs slowly started to take in air and the pain in his chest became more tolerable, he made it to his feet. He looked around the room and saw no hope of getting out. There was only the door. From what he could tell, the table and cot were bolted to the wall and the little window on the door was barely the size of his hand. A single halogen light shone from above, making the slightest of buzzing noises.
Paul walked to the door. There was no handle on his side, only that little window to look out of. He looked out into the trailer and to the two thin tunnels leading out of it.
Hinkley had told him it had all been thrown together very quickly. But if that was the case, that meant the majority of this set-up was pre-made. The idea that the government had mobile set-ups like this ready to assemble at a moment’s notice was both impressive and terrifying. But more terrifying than all of that was the idea that Olivia and Joyce were currently somewhere in this intricate design and likely didn’t yet know the lengths these people would go to in order to get their job done.
Paul already had a sore chest to prove that these people weren’t messing around. He just hoped Olivia and Joyce wouldn’t learn the same lesson in a similar way.
Chapter 10
At roughly the same time Paul Gault and Doctor Thomas Jolly were discussing the potential safety of airports, the two thousand one hundred and eleven people that had been confined to Philadelphia International Airpor
t were starting to buckle under the pressure. All flights had been cancelled two and a half days ago and since then, no one had been allowed to leave the airport. This was a measure that was being enforced by a small military unit and as many available policemen as the city could throw at it. Airport security was also lending a hand but it was clear that most of them were uncomfortable with this newly assigned duty.
There had been a handful of attempts by stranded travelers to overcome what they saw as a hostage situation. The first had happened nearly half an hour after men in military uniforms blocked the exits—reinforced by a barrage of military vehicles waiting outside. However, these fights and attempts at overthrowing these new security measures had come to a stop almost as soon as they had started.
Six people had been shot and killed. Another dozen or so had been arrested quite violently in front of a large group of people. Without giving any eloquent speech or updates on what was going on outside the airport walls, the security forces had made one thing very clear: they weren’t screwing around. They one hundred percent would use lethal force if they had to. The question, of course, was: why?
Ray Rutger had watched it all go down. He’d viewed it all with a detached sort of acceptance, observing during that first day as a cop dressed in makeshift riot gear had blasted a woman of about thirty-five right in the chest. Her body had then been hauled away, pulled out of sight by some poor schmuck working airport security, leaving a trail of blood and screams of fellow trapped travelers behind her. Ray had also watched as two military guys (Ray wasn’t sure which branch, nor did he care, really) dropped an over-eager twenty-something man by slamming him into the baggage claim, busting his nose and sending teeth flying.
Ray may as well have been watching a movie. He watched, but it did not really affect him. He was still hung up on his flight being cancelled. On the day the airport had been shut down—about twenty-four hours after things started falling apart in New York—Ray had gotten to the airport early. He’d grabbed a chai latte from Starbucks and sat at his gate, reading the newest Stephen King novel even though he was pretty sure the ending was just going to irritate him. He watched flights come and go all around him, people waving and hugging and kissing their loved ones goodbye and hello. But as the time for his flight’s departure neared, he’d given up on his book and had turned his attention to the TVs hanging from the walls. Naturally, all of the coverage was coming out of New York City. Ray could remember thinking it was probably not the best choice to be broadcasting such imagery into an airport in a city less than four hours away.
The first lines of police had started swarming through the concourses about fifteen minutes before flights were cancelled. Five minutes later, the army guys had started showing up. Ray still saw their arrival as the moment everything came to a stop. No more than five minutes after he saw the first armed military member, an announcement on the overhead PA informed everyone in the airport that all flights would be suspended until further notice. Ray had been irritated, but even more so when he saw that the call had been made less than half an hour before his flight was scheduled for takeoff—a flight that should have taken him back home to Jacksonville.
Ray, like so many others, had stormed towards the customer service lines only to be intercepted by armed military personnel. That was when Ray saw the first arrest. It had been an overweight man wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. He’d tried pushing past the armed men and when he got a little too aggressive, he was slammed to the floor. A knee was then planted into his back and he was handcuffed in front of roughly five hundred people.
That was a few hours before the first person had been shot. After that, Ray started to tuck away each significant moment like a scene in a book. As a writer, he’d trained his brain to think that way and, no surprise to Ray, it had worked. He’d taken out one of his Moleskine notebooks and jotted them all down. As he wrote, he told himself he was doing it to record it all so that when this was all over, there would be a written record. But deep down, he knew he was writing it all down because it was his way of coping. By the time the second full day of being held in the Philadelphia International Airport had come and gone, Ray had jotted down several brief but meaningful events. He read over them every few minutes to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
Hawaiian-shirt dude arrested / military arrives (what branch?) / airport big wigs and flight officials attempt to assure everyone that all is well / it is announced no one will be able to leave the airport out of fear of the virus / people lose their minds, start rushing for the exits / the military and cops shoot a few people and arrests are made / military bring in cots and blankets; fights immediately erupt over who will get them / someone wises up and finally cuts off the TVs which recently revealed the New York virus heading south / announcement is made that everyone will be given free food from one of four restaurants in the airport / a man commits suicide in one of the restrooms / cell service dies / military dudes give an update on how things are outside and none of it is good; the plan is to hole up in here until the spread of the virus is either stopped or after it has ravaged the city / a whole lot of screaming, arguing, and crying.
Ray had written the last entry twelve hours ago. He’d stopped because he felt it was his duty to go more in depth. He had his MacBook and two more Moleskines on him, so he could do it. But something about it felt morbid. He thought it might be a good idea to survive it first and then write about it. It also didn’t help that he’d spent the last three days or so very disenchanted with the art of writing. It was writing, after all, that had brought him here, to this doomed airport.
Ray had been writing all his life. His first short story, titled “Big, Stupid Cat” was published in his elementary school’s newsletter. The next thing he sent out for publication was another short story, this one called “Our Coasts”, which had been published in a respected literary journal when he was sixteen. Eight short stories, a YouTube channel, and six hundred thousand Twitter followers later, he’d written a novel which had just come out of a bidding war that netted him a three book deal worth a small fortune. He wasn’t even thirty yet—he’d celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday just two weeks ago, and had already snagged his childhood dream. It was a pretty amazing feeling.
He’d gone to New York to discuss his contract and to meet with his agent about the movie rights. He’d left New York, missing the virus by about sixteen hours from what he could tell. He made a pitstop in Philly so he could go see some of the local attractions. A history buff at heart, viewing the Liberty Bell and visiting Independence Hall had always been on his bucket list.
So maybe he should be blaming his love of history for his current situation, not his love of writing. If he’d just taken the direct flight from New York to Jacksonville, he’d already be back home and watching this nonsense unfold on the news.
With no TV and only ambient lighting—which was being toned down around nine p.m. or so as far as he could tell—Ray wasn’t sure what time it was. He’d napped here and there in the chairs by his gate but it hadn’t resulted in any real sleep of any kind. He checked his phone, which he’d just finished charging by one of the charging stations beside the row of seats he’d been sitting on, and saw that it was 11:15 at night. His phone was pretty much only good for being a clock now. He’d tried calling his parents not too long after lockdown but they hadn’t answered. He figured they were out in his mom’s garden or that his father had managed to talk his mother into going to Universal Studios for about the millionth time. He’d tried calling again several hours later but the lines had been jammed up. All service had gone dead about three hours after that.
Ray looked out of the large picture window. Planes were lined up all over the tarmac. He saw one that was parked askew, far out of line with the others. The rumors he’d heard was that it was a flight that had come in from Atlanta and some of the passengers tried to revolt upon landing, hearing the news of what was happening once the service had returned to their cellphones and other
wireless devices. Of course, there were lots of rumors circulating and he had no idea if any of them were remotely true.
Something about staring out into that darkness made him antsy and uncomfortable. He wondered if he’d be able to find a cup of tea somewhere. He knew the four restaurants that had been providing food closed up at nine, but it seemed almost inhumane to have so many people trapped in an airport with no supply of coffee or tea. He got up and stretched, figuring that even if a search for tea turned up empty, maybe a walk would do him some good. He slid his backpack over his shoulders (not trusting the paranoid and scared masses to not resort to thievery at some point) and started walking toward the Starbucks.
There were a few people walking along the concourse, but not many. Ray had noticed over the last twenty-four hours or so that most of these wanderers had gone from nervously nodding or smiling at anyone they passed, to now avoiding eye contact. It was almost like looking at someone else in the same situation made it worse—made it more real. Most of the people, though, were scattered around the gates and common areas. He was glad to see that most of the younger people, like himself, had opted to let the older people have the cots and blankets the military had supplied. This resulted in some people sleeping directly on the floor or in creative poses in the chairs by the gates.
Ray walked for no more than five minutes when he found a line that seemed to be snaking towards the legendary green logo with the smiling female figure, promising a jolt of energy. He fell into the line, noticing that there were two military guys standing up near the front. With faces like stone, they were watching the people in line, probably just there to make sure no one attempted another futile revolt. Ray had never been one to buy into the whole conspiracy theory party-line of how the government was always out to screw the everyday Joe, but the scene the military was setting in the airport made him feel less like he was being saved and more like he was being held captive. Whichever might be the case, Ray was fine with it. If they were actively working to keep them safe and to make sure they weren’t all wiped out like the entire city of New York, Ray would pretty much do whatever they said. Sure, he hated that these very same armed men had gunned down over a dozen people when this madness had started but deep down, he thought he understood it. In a situation like the country was currently facing, you had to take out one or two in order to save a much larger population.
