We made it to the CDC in Atlanta well into the morning. Our encounters with others, either alive or otherwise, was limited. Nothing seemed to make sense. Visible people on the streets were almost non-existent, aside from the abnormals – it was as though the survivors were holing up somewhere, avoiding the creatures that seemed to have only one purpose.
The guard gate at the entrance to the Center for Disease Control complex of buildings was far more fortified than the flimsy bar we’d breached to enter the parking lot at the police building back in Tallahassee. As we approached the barrier and small building, we saw a man inside, slumped over his keyboard, the back of his head and neck raw meat and being worried by a swarm of flies. Hemp and I got out of the truck and cautiously approached the open door. One of the abnormals was on the ground with a hole in the back of its skull, apparently caught in the act of feasting on the guard.
“Wonder if the head shot was lucky, or from experience,” Hemp pondered.
“Bothers me that the radio is dark now,” I said. It had been nothing but static and canned music from automated stations for the last two hours. “That means that as far as these radio towers can transmit, life has changed.”
A sound came in the distance. A high-pitched, yet deep shriek.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked, and Hemp answered, the engineer that he was.
“Airliner!” he shouted.
It grew louder and louder as Hemp and I turned and looked all around us. The deep, rumbling sound became ear-shattering, a deafening roar. We instinctively ducked down and ran back to the truck, our knees bent and our eyes scanning the sky. Over the horizon from behind the gate entrance, an enormous Japan Air passenger plane came into view, no higher than half a mile off the ground, losing altitude fast. The trajectory had it coming right over the top of us, but we had no idea how fast it was dropping.
“What the fuck?” yelled Gem through the open window. She had no view of the sky from inside the Suburban, but turned in her seat and saw the plane looming larger than life through the rear window, and heading straight for the truck.
“Jesus Christ!” she cried, and instinctively threw herself over Trina as they both tucked down, pressing their bodies into the seat. The enormous Boeing 777, now no more than five hundred feet above, thundered directly overhead, beginning to angle sharply to the left. The left wing cut through the top of the guard building we were just in, and it shattered into a million pieces that blew into the sky, mostly following the trajectory of the plane itself.
Hitting the guard building did nothing to the plane’s momentum or angle, insignificant as it was in size and construction. Hemp and I had dropped down onto our stomachs beside the truck, our necks craned as we watched the plane rocket overhead slanting to a greater and greater degree. The whooshing jet blast kicked a torrent of dust and gravel up into our faces, sandblasting the truck, and nearly blowing us beneath it, even as it rocked the entire vehicle on its suspension. Then, within an eighth mile, the tip of the huge wing punched into the paved drive ahead, sending chunks of asphalt as big as Volkswagens flying into the air.
The huge plane with its nearly 200 foot wingspan cartwheeled three times before exploding in a ball of flame and searing heat that blasted our dazed faces even from that distance. Its speed ensured forward momentum, though, and it eventually slammed into the solid concrete CDC building identified with a large sign as Building #1. The walls collapsed into a fiery mishmash of stone, metal and bodies as the aircraft finally came to rest, now unrecognizable in its complete destruction.
Hemp and I shook off the dust and dirt as we slowly got to our feet, unable to take our eyes off the devastation. Then I thought of the girls.
“Holy shit,” I said, pulling open the door of the SUV. “You guys okay?”
“Had to happen,” Gem said. “Pilots aren’t immune, are they?”
“He was probably headed to land at Hartsfield-Jackson,” said Hemp. “Didn’t quite make it.”
We all knew, but didn’t really discuss the fact that there was more than one possibility. Either the pilot had become infected or the co-pilot had metamorphosed and had attacked him. The other scenario is that while the flight attendants were accessing the cockpit, multiple passengers overtook him or her, and all hell ensued.
“Well, we can scratch that building off our list,” I said.
“Not too big a deal,” said Hemp. “It’s mostly administrative. “I mean, it would not be where people would go if there was an outbreak of some kind. The buildings with secure airtight bunkers are deeper within the complex.”
“Did you spend a lot of time here?” Gem asked.
“Absolutely. I did quite a bit of work here during the swine flu scare, as well as some pretty intense research on some other viruses that were never shared with the public.”
“Doesn’t keeping epidemics from the public defeat the purpose of the CDC?” I asked. “Aren’t they supposed to tell the public how to avoid contracting diseases and viruses?”
Hemp looked somber. “Flex, there was no preventing the ones I’m referring to. It only would have served to send people into a panic. But that said, the one that seems to have gained a footing – this one – is more devastating than any I saw. If not for us, I’d call this one a world-ender.”
“If not for us?”
Gem interjected. “I think Hemp means that with us alive and uninfected, there’s a chance this thing runs its course. People like us will be left to repopulate and rebuild.”
“It remains to be seen how long these people last once they’ve become infected. I won’t know anything until I’m able to study some of them; learn about their new physiology, heart, lungs, brains, motor skills, communication skills, if any.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think there are any communication skills. Just body language, and that’s always the same. I’m hungry, and you’re food.”
Gem smiled at me. “Flexy, was that a joke?”
“Fuck, don’t I wish,” I said. “Let’s get through this barrier and past that mess and see what we find in these other buildings. Hemp, lead the way, brother.”
“First things first,” he said. He walked over to the automatic barrier and analyzed it for a moment. Then he removed a plastic cover, pulled a lever, and the gate unlatched. A moment later he was rolling it open.
“You are an engineer,” Gem said.
It had taken him under sixty seconds.
“Yes, I am,” he said, smiling.
The heat from the blazing aircraft could be felt through the side windows of the Suburban as we drove past the tangled wreckage. There were torsos, trunks, arms, legs, and various other unidentifiable body parts strewn among the seats, metal and burning plastic chunks. We had to skirt over a hundred and fifty feet to the left just to get the Suburban past the debris.
“That was close,” Gem said, hugging Trina to her side. “You okay, baby?”
Trina looked up at her and nodded. “Yeah. But I’m hungry.”
“We’ll get some food when we stop. Want more Cheerios?”
“I guess. Do we have any milk and sugar?”
“I’m afraid not, sweetie. Maybe Gemmy will stop and get us some. It might not be that cold, though.”
“Okay,” Trina said.
I was a bit worried about her. She seemed to be in shock. I was no expert, but wouldn’t be surprised. I was even happier to have Gem with her. Trina loved Gem.
“Pull up here, to Building #3,” Hemp said. “If their emergency systems are up, then they’ve got cameras and should be able to see us at the entry. There are two large bunkers beneath this building, with storage garages, and laboratories are on the upper levels. We should be able to achieve whatever we might expect right here.”
“And what do we expect?” I asked. “I don’t think I really had any idea. Just seemed like the place to go.”
“Equipment, maybe some explanations, too. If anybody
here is still . . . well, human.” Hemp shrugged. “And you’re right. It’s our best bet.”
Dead Hunger: The Flex Sheridan Chronicle Page 17
