by Mark Tufo
“Bulkers!” he warned.
“They’re trying to climb on the wings.” Stenzel was traversing the plane, looking out both sides.
I ran up to the front and banged on the door. “Major, fuck your pre-check! Get this thing moving!”
He was aware of some of what was going on as the engines wound up. It got loud enough inside that having a normal conversation was out of the question. We were pulling away; the plane was bouncing as we ran into zombies not willing or able to get out of the way. I thought for a moment that this could be a game we won. Drive far enough away down the runway, the major could set up shop, do some repairs; we’d hold them off for a little bit, then repeat the whole process. Then the realization hit me: yeah, with an unlimited supply of fuel we sure could do just that. I had to think that while we were out on our mission, the first thing the major had done was top-off the bird, if fuel was available and hadn’t gummed up. Had no clue if airplane fuel gummed up like the ethanol crap we used to put into our cars, but I didn’t see why not. Worst case scenario would be we needed to be airborne to get one of those ass-clenching refuelings where the planes flew close enough to smell each other’s exhaust in greeting. We were picking up speed. By now I was thinking we had left the zombies behind.
“Got some clingers.” Stenzel was riveted to her window. I went over to look. Three zombies had not only somehow found a way onto the wing, they were hanging on for dear life as we rumbled down the runway. “They going to mess up the flying?” She didn’t look up at me; something about those three zombies had her attention rapt.
“Not flying.” That got her to break the locked gaze.
“Huh? We’re going pretty fast not to be about to. He’s not planning on banging a turn going this fast, is he?”
“Hadn’t even thought about that.”
“He’ll drop the wing right on to the pavement and whatever fuel he has in there will light up like a roman candle and sir, I love the 4th of July just as much as the next person, but I’ve never in my life wanted to be inside a firework.”
“You sure we can’t make that turn?”
“There should be limiters in the gearbox that prohibit the major from doing it, but I’m not sure what he’s got in mind. We’re still accelerating and this runway is only two miles long. If we’re not taking off, what’s the alternative?”
“There a fence on the far side of the runway?”
“You think he’s planning on going through it? This isn’t a four-wheel drive vehicle! He can’t go plowing through fields.”
“Give me your headset.” She did so quickly.
“Major.”
“Little busy here,” he answered curtly.
“Looking for some direction. Do we need to brace for impact?”
“It’s going to get bumpy. Grab a seat and get buckled in.”
“Shit. Everyone in your seats! Buckles on!” I was moving quickly through the cabin.
Yeah, there were a lot of worried stares, but when you’re in a moving plane and someone tells you to get your seatbelt on you tend to do as your told and ask questions later–provided there is a later. The engines began to throttle down; I felt a modicum of relief, right until I felt us turning.
“Umm.”
“I’ve got this, Talbot. You just worry about your squad and the civilians,” Eastman said.
“What the fuck is going on?” BT asked. He was strapped in tight and holding on to the seat.
“I think he’s going kamikaze.”
“Kamikaze means to self-sacrifice,” Eastman clarified. “The only ones doing the dying will be them.”
I got it. He was going to drive into the horde; I was worried about what kind of punishment the plane could take. Would it fold in on itself like Tracy’s Jeep did, seemingly a decade ago? I mean, this thing was only a flying aluminum tube. Sure, it had twenty, six-foot props revolving at rpms I couldn’t even imagine, but still, they weren’t immune to damage. I turned over my shoulder as we came broadside to the zombies still pursuing and then they were out of sight as we were heading back down the runway.
“This is your fault.” BT let go of his seat long enough to point at me.
“I’m sitting next to you; how is this my fault?”
“It’s that cloud of crazy that you live in! Anybody walks through that haze of insanity, they pick it up. You transfer it like some psychoactive Typhoid Mary!”
Eastman thrummed up the engines again; we could hear the props straining as he sent more juice to them. Sounded like a blender on high. At first, there was nothing, then we began to shudder and there were loud knocks. Going back to the blender analogy, it was like a few large bananas had been dropped in, followed by a whole chicken. All sounded relatively normal until jets of bone, blood, hair and clothes flew past our windows in the gale force winds caused by the wash of the props. Then the sound took a turn for the worse as if an entire avocado, pit and all, had been mistakenly dropped in the macabre mixture. There was a distinctive whomping sound as Eastman continued his crusade. Us getting out of this particular jam was looking more and more dour, and even if we did, we now had the unenviable task of doing it over the highways and byways.
“I wouldn’t do this,” I told BT, and I meant it.
“Bullshit. I could see you standing on top of the plane, holding on to a rope like a wing walker. Probably be whooping it up, swirling your cowboy hat in the air like a rodeo rider.”
“None of that even makes sense; I’ve never owned a cowboy hat.”
“That’s what I’m saying. The only part you balked at was the Western wear.”
Eastman was cutting swaths through the zombies, who had finally figured out that facing the behemoth machine head-on might not be the best strategy. They were trying to get away. The ones on the outer edges were somewhat successful, but the ones packed in tight, dozens heading towards hundreds of them, were being pureed all the way down to their thighs. It had happened so fast for many of them that their legs were still standing, though their bodies had long ago been reduced to shredded goo.
Before I’d ever left my twenties, I had seen so many things I never thought I would. Figured I was desensitized to some of the worst things imaginable. When the zombie apocalypse started, I added on to that pile, in fact, I nearly replaced it. Early in, I absolutely knew without a doubt I’d borne witness to every horrific thing imaginable. But as I stared out at the tarmac, now covered with ribbons of meat, miles of intestines, lakes of blood and baskets of bones, I knew how fundamentally wrong I’d been. There was always going to be room for more in that crowded space, as if the walls would ever expand to accommodate the horrors.
Chapter 11
Mike Journal Entry 9
Eastman was turning the plane when we all saw the first signs of something amiss. I know, I know, everything about this was amiss; this was amisser, and I don’t give two shits if that’s a word or not, and, anyway, it is now because it exists in this journal. Smoke; thick, black smoke was pouring from one of the engines on the far side of the plane. I’d like to think that some of the zombies had begun to combust, but that was too much to ask for. I knew the four-prop plane could fly with three working engines; how far was the major going to push it? The plane was vibrating even more than it should have been, given the circumstances. Like maybe the engine that was smoking had thrown its bearings and the prop was turning unevenly. I didn’t know much about planes other than I was happy when they landed and I got off the fucking thing. But if the prop was jacked and not running true, could it wobble off and fly into the plane? It would cut through the shell like a fillet knife through a fresh fish. I’d do the hot knife through butter analogy but that one has been overplayed. There were nervous stares from my entire squad. BT was still glaring at me.
The zombies had dispersed, not completely, but they were keeping a respectable distance away, Eastman didn’t chase them or turn the engines down. I was waiting for the order to cover them while they raced out to work on the tail. It didn’t come. He must have
been shutting down the bad engine, or it was seizing up, because the bounce in my eyes was subsiding. Then all of the engines began to slow. The door to the cockpit opened.
“The major wants to see you.” Major Jackson pointed at me.
I unbuckled and headed that way; I felt like I was being called into the principal’s office. Not sure why I always felt guilty about something, but there it is. The Catholic runs deep in me, and let’s be honest, I’ve usually done something worthy of a berating. Chloe and Holly followed; I was happy for the company.
“Could you shut that,” Eastman asked as the three of us stepped in. He took a look at the dogs before talking. I missed the first few sentences as I was busy staring out a windshield that had been covered in zombie gore. The windshield wipers were doing their best to push the material to the side and off, but were failing miserably. The blades of the props were dripping blood to match that of a Kosher slaughterhouse’s instrument of choice. The nose of the plane was a deep crimson color, so much so, that the tiny spots of shiny metal that shone through looked out of place like diamonds in the mud.
“Lieutenant,” he said loudly to snap my attention to him.
“Yup, I’m here,” I told him, though I’d yet to look his way.
“Look over there.” He was pointing to the engine that was still smoking; thick wisps roiled off of it. At first I thought it was a trick of the eye, then I saw the tentative licks of flame.
“Shit. Now what?”
“I’m going to get the plane moving again, but I’ll be dumping the fuel, otherwise we’re just a rolling bomb. There’s a freeway past that greenbelt up ahead; I’m going to drive as far as this old bird lets me.”
“Any guess on how far that might be from them?”
“Could be two miles or as many as five; after that there’s an overpass we won’t fit through. I wanted to ask you if you would prefer the distance or my attempt to kill more of them.”
“Get this thing moving. You kill another ten or hundred doesn’t matter; they’re like Fritos.”
“Fritos?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’ll make more.”
He could only shake his head. Not sure how thrilled he was that his survival was now so tightly intertwined with mine.
“Get us the distance so we can make our next move.”
“Buckle up again–not sure how friendly the terrain in that greenbelt is going to be.” He reached back and petted Chloe’s head; she licked his hand. Holly nudged the other on the hindquarters as I was leaving to let her know they needed to go.
“Go lay down, you two.” I pointed to their makeshift bed as I sat back down, they decided instead to crawl under mine and BT’s seats.
“What’s going on?” BT asked as the engines throttled up.
“I’m not telling you shit. You’ll just blame me for it again.”
“Tell me or I’ll start going into great detail about this role-playing thing your sister and I do.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“She likes to dress…”
“Fine! We’re on fire. Happy? Eastman is going to dump all the fuel while trying to get us on the freeway where we will once again be hoofing it in an attempt to get away from Dewey.”
BT’s head sagged.
I was worried for him, but even more so for the dogs. Yeah, they were survivors, they’d proven that point. But fast, fleet of foot, and tons of stamina were all things they did not possess. They’d relied on smarts. Tommy could carry them for days, but was it right of me to ask him? I looked over to the boy, who gave me a thumbs-up like he knew what I was thinking. Not sure how they would react to it, as they were still getting used to being around people again, but one thing at a time. We were moving down the runway, although this time, a lot slower.
I was thinking the fence wasn’t going to be much more of an impediment than what I was used to seeing in shows and movies; cars generally blew through those like they were made from wet, used toilet paper. Not sure why I went down that road; maybe because most of the events of the day were shitty. Should have known Hollywood got it wrong, given how many other things they had taken liberty with. My head swung back and forth violently as we crashed through. The grating sound and the jarring collision made for some very disorienting moments.
The plane rattled like an angry baby, infused with steroid laced milk and shaking the hell out of its toy. Does that even make sense? I felt like we were in said rattle. I was thankful the dogs had decided to stay with us; the equipment and boxes in the back were smashing against everything around them. Cases of bullets blew open spewing rounds all around the floor. This was another strike against us, as we were going to have to spend some time picking up as many of those as we could before we made a go at getting away. One of the larger crates shattered; wood splintered and intermingled with the rest of the debris. The front of the plane hopped up as we either hit a large divot or finally went up and over the section of fence we were taking for a ride. As if the butterfly riot in my stomach wasn’t enough, I bit down hard on my tongue when the ass end slammed into the ground and forced the front end back to the earth in a concussion-inducing seesaw impact.
A crinkle in the aluminum appeared in an arc near the cockpit from floor to ceiling, and, I would imagine, completely around the underbelly. Safe to say this bird’s wings had been clipped. If this thing ever went airborne again it would crack open like a rotten egg. I’d had my fair share of turbulent flights through the years, but I was going to demand my money back at the end of this ride. If this had been a commercial flight, we would have been pelted by luggage popping out of the overhead bins, and orange cups with bags that didn’t inflate would be dangling in front of our faces. If I had to use the dirty-ass seat that a thousand people had flatulated in as a flotation device, it was safe to say I was going to be ornery. We were hopping around–nothing overly worse than what we had been going through–right up until we hit what must have been a deep culvert. When the front end of the plane hit, it had bent up the props, blew out the glass in the cockpit, and most likely gave me four herniated discs in my back. It was so bad I barely even noticed when the tail of the plane followed.
The worst of it was over as Eastman got onto the road, but even then, it was not a smooth ride; sort of like my Jeep on a barely maintained trail. Rough, but not gut wrenching. Eastman had done enough damage; he was not going to get his security deposit back. I could only hope he took out the supplemental insurance the rental agency offered.
“What do you think the deductible on something like this is?” I asked BT as I tried to regain my bearing.
He didn’t even bother to answer. I wasn’t sure I could stand, as I began to unbuckle. “Harmon, Springer, Grimm, Kirby…get on that brass. I want as much of it picked up as quickly as possible.” I felt like I’d done an adequate job of not swaying too much. “Winters, help Tommy rig up some carrying harnesses for the dogs.”
BT pulled me down by the shoulder to whisper into my ear. “That’s not going to look too suspicious? Him carting around a hundred and twenty pounds of dog like it’s a Pop-Tart box?”
“It’s you or him.”
“I think he’ll wear it nice.”
“Figured you might say that.”
“Rose, Stenzel, start packing magazines. BT, you want to help Gary?”
“Might want to think about rigging a carrying harness for him,” BT replied. My brother was awake, but calling him entirely aware and alert would have been a stretch. He was sick; not zombie virus sick, but he was fighting off an infection and it was going to get worse before it got better. We’ve all at some point in our lives dragged our asses out of bed and gone to work feeling under the weather, but very rarely did that job you secretly couldn’t stand involve life or death struggles. Sitting up in bed to change the channel from Dr. Phil to Jeopardy was usually about the most intensive thing I wanted to do when my throat was on fire. Running from zombies wasn’t really an option; I felt bad for him, but it was what it wa
s. Couldn’t do anything about it.
“Lieutenant.”
“No. Every time you call me up there it’s shitty news, and I’m all shittied out for the day. In fact, I’m probably not going to have any room for shit tomorrow, either.”
Stenzel looked up from her loading duties, unbelieving in the fact that I’d said that to a major. The astonishment was her fault; she’d been around me long enough to know how this goes.
“Lieutenant.” The major seemed more mildly annoyed than perturbed.
“Yes, sir.” I reluctantly went up. Eastman was busy putting on his duty belt holster and his 1911. “I take it we’re abandoning ship?”
He didn’t look up while he was getting ready. “Everyone doing all right back there?”
“As good as they can be after going through the spin cycle.”
“Randing’s coming back.” Now he looked up to gauge my response. “Now before you say anything about his character, I want you to know that he is disobeying a direct order to do so.”
“Bennington told him not to, and he is anyway?”
“Not quite like that, but he was told to return to base immediately once he had the scientists aboard.”
“I know that tactic; better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“Exactly. I don’t think any amount of pleading is going to forestall the punishment he’s going to receive.”
“He coming back for me?”
“I’m sure that’s it.” Eastman was being sarcastic.
“He needs the runway,” I said as I began to piece out where this conversation was going. “He needs the runway clear of zombies. Should draw most of them out here with your little off-roading adventure. We’ll circle and wait.” I was anticipating a response from Eastman. When it wasn’t forthcoming, I was confused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s a crate in the back needs to come with us.”
“What is it?”
“That’s a need to know, Lieutenant.”
“You’re going to pull rank right now? Pretty sure I need to know how big it is, how much it weighs, and if it’s dangerous or not, considering it’s my people that are going to be transporting it.”
