Flight 3108

by Mikeworth, Sharon

  As Mason tried to absorb what had just happened, there came the faint sound of something popping and sizzling, and then the acrid smell of smoke.

  Hesitantly all of them except Peter, who stayed back, approached the counter, and leaned over to have a look.

  The woman that almost certainly was not a woman lay on her back where she’d fallen, and though her head was certain to have impacted the floor, no blood was spreading out around her. Incredibly, her fingers were still pinched around the truffle, now smashed and oozing chocolate sludge. Her eyes, though, had lost all trace of color. Any doubt that this was indeed some kind of android was removed by the sight of those unseeing, soulless dark eyes.

  As if in unspoken agreement, Mason and the boys turned and started away, heading back down the concourse at a rapid clip. Peter stared resentfully after them for a second and then began to follow.

  “I say we go back and regroup,” Rocky suggested, falling into step with Mason. “Because I don’t know about you, but this whole situation is starting to freak me out.”

  “I second that,” said Juan behind them.

  “Okay, hang on,” Mason said. “I know all of this is crazy, but we’re so close. Let’s just take a quick peek over at the last terminal and make damn sure there’s no one around, and then we can double-time it back. Because right now, I think what we need is information. And that’s where it might be.”

  8

  NONE OF THEM were keen on taking the road all the way around when there was a perfectly good walkway connecting them to the parking garage directly across from them, which was in turn connected to the terminal they needed to reach. And so, first tentatively and then swiftly, they walked out onto the elevated pedestrian bridge leading from the second level and crossed over to the garage.

  The emerged on the top level into the misting rain. Mason followed Dustin out, with Rocky and Juan bringing up the rear.

  Moving away from them, Mason made his way over to the handrail.

  The terminal buildings and surrounding roads looked even dingier under the overcast sky.

  Nothing moved. What few vehicles there were, along with the nearby structures and the planes grouped around them, sat motionless, empty, and silent—fast on their way to becoming rusting, decaying derelicts in a once thriving city.

  Dustin joined him after a moment, and they gazed out together at the desolate scene. What did it all mean, this reality they could clearly see with their own eyes that should be impossible but somehow wasn’t? Our world isn’t the only one, Mason thought, staring at the proof before him.

  Dustin shifted away from the railing. “You ready? We need to get moving.”

  Mason released his breath and nodded. “The others will be starting to worry.”

  “Hey, I was thinking.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This parking complex is pretty big. Maybe we should go down and glance around this garage at least on our way over.”

  The walkway they needed extended to the right over the road where it continued straight on that side. If they descended and then went across the bottom level, it wouldn’t be too much out of their way. Although why anyone would be lurking in a parking garage eluded him. Still, it was one of three large structures they had yet to step foot in.

  Reluctantly he nodded. “Straight down, across, and back up again. We need to get this show on the road.”

  “You got it.”

  Though Rocky and Juan didn’t seem thrilled with the idea, and Peter seemed downright disgusted, none of them made any objections as they moved past the useless elevator and entered the stairwell.

  They continued making their way down, briefly pausing at the next two levels, until they eventually reached the ground floor.

  There by the light shining in, Juan proposed they take a small break. “I know we need to get back, but I got blisters on my blisters and I could use a minute.”

  Privately Mason was beginning to feel the pain of all their walking as well. He gratefully lowered himself down until he was relaxed against the concrete section behind him.

  They rested for the next few minutes without speaking—Dustin and Mason with their backs to the wall, Juan with his elbows on his knees, Rocky, eyes downcast, arms wrapped around his legs, and Peter, away from them slightly, propped against one of the thick, square columns.

  Finally, Rocky roused himself enough to request the backpack from Peter so he could get out some of the distilled water and snack mix they’d found.

  This time Mason accepted a handful of the dried fruit. After picking out the remaining banana chips, which were truly awful, he poured the rest into his mouth, accepted one of the bottles from Rocky, and washed it all down, hoping he wasn’t going to regret it.

  After they’d quenched their thirst and eaten their fill of the stale fruit, they painfully got to their feet.

  Weaving their way around the remaining cars, they advanced through the bottom level staying mostly where the light was, only venturing part of the way into the darker interior once, before gravitating back over to an outer lane blocked off by yellow-and-black barriers that had probably been used for the airport shuttles.

  “Shall I give a shout?” Peter asked, directing the question at Mason and again using a tone he didn’t appreciate.

  Mason gritted his teeth and shrugged.

  Snorting, Peter cupped his hands around his mouth and in a pseudo British accent, called out, “Helloooo!”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dustin muttered not far away.

  Peter opened his mouth and Mason thought he was going to do it again, but this time he merely yelled a normal greeting. “HELLO! Is anybody here?” Here … here echoed around them before dying away.

  “I guess not,” said Peter in the silence.

  The rest of their trip across the garage was just as uneventful and soon they were climbing their way to the top again, for once with Peter in the lead.

  He’s taking it for granted, Mason thought, that there’s no one around—no one that was human, anyway—and that we’re wasting our time. But there could be for all they knew, and they had to try. They had to make an effort to look for someone or something that might give them a clue as to where they now found themselves and what had happened before their arrival.

  Mason, exiting the stairwell, had to sidestep Peter where he had inexplicably come to a halt in front of him. He moved on around him, then paused and looked back.

  Peter, still in the same spot, curled a lip and carefully lifted one of his shoes—leather dress shoes that had to be killing his feet by now—and inspected the sole.

  In his eagerness to be first now that he believed there was no danger, Peter had blundered out onto a large section of the concrete floor that had been stained a dark red-brown.

  Peter, carefully stepping back, moved off the stained part as the rest of them gathered round to examine it.

  “I… think that’s blood,” said Rocky.

  “Yep, that’s what it looks like,” agreed Juan, rubbing a hand across his mouth.

  Dustin, giving a faint shake of his head, looked over at Mason, then down at the bloodstain again. “I’m no expert, but it doesn’t look like it’s been here very long to me.”

  It didn’t to Mason, either. Once again he was thankful to have the Beretta on him. Lifting his head, he scanned around them, across the top of the garage, over at the building they were about the enter, and down onto the road beneath them, listening and searching for any movement, any sign of other people.

  “Can we go,” Peter inquired, his voice tight, straining toward the elevated walkway on this end but clearly no longer wanting to lead. “I don’t even think that’s recent.”

  Taking a last look around, Dustin turned and started for the walkway.

  Mason, and then the rest, silently followed, crossing over the pedestrian bridge and emerging into the upper level of the last terminal building.

  After pausing to listen and scan the immediate area, they moved on in, proce
eding slowly, until they were near the center of the two concourses branching out.

  “What do you think?” Dustin asked, nodding toward the one ahead of them. “Forward? Or down the other one?”

  “Let’s check over here first, then we’ll head down the middle.”

  Since their encounter with the candy shop droid, Mason had been noticing other things that were slightly ahead of their world’s technology, or at least more deeply integrated into the mainstream. Stacked under one of the outer displays of a shop that carried novelties and other items halfway along the wider thoroughfare, he spotted some boxed robotized vacuums called Zoombas that looked nothing like the Roombas he was familiar with. He noticed them because they made him think of Jess. She had always said she wanted one. During their relationship, the price tag had been a bit too steep for their budget, but he’d promised himself that someday he would surprise her with one. Instead of round and black, these automatic cleaners were silver, slightly bigger, and almost triangular-shaped. And they featured “WideNet” connectivity, which he assumed was some version of Wi-Fi, that apparently worked with the model’s artificial intelligence.

  And in a store featuring various electronics they briefly explored, there were holographic phones and augmented glasses that overlaid objects and information on the real world alongside virtual reality headsets, as well as thin, light screens you could roll up and carry with you anywhere.

  But even more unsettling was the toy store they passed with an entire wall of “Happy Helper” dolls with spooky sparkling eyes just like the candy shop worker’s. Happy Housekeeper dolls in neat black-and-white uniforms, Happy Servers in checkered dresses and frilly aprons, Happy Secretaries in short, tight skirts that would have done a Barbie proud—all of them staring out with their brilliant, glittery eyes. And there were male versions, too. Creepy-eyed Happy Baristas with black vests, Happy Pilots in crisp blue uniforms (shudder), and Happy Barbers complete with tiny styling tools.

  “There’s no one here,” Dustin declared, coming to a halt.

  They paused with him and did a slow turn, staring up and down the large, weirdly desolate corridor, which was as silent and lifeless as the rest of the airport.

  Now what? Mason thought. Did they branch out on foot, or try flying farther north? “We should head back soon,” he said.

  “How about we go over there first?” Peter suggested, pointing ahead of them. Without waiting for a reply, he took off toward a long, narrow eatery against the other side.

  Reluctantly they followed, Dustin heaving a sigh and Juan rolling his eyes.

  Judging by the island décor of the place—the wooden rafters, ceiling fans, and exotic artwork—the place had once offered tropical-style food and beverages.

  Peter, already on the other side of the bar that ran behind the few tables and chairs, pulled open the glass door to a cooler by the back counter and grabbed one of the cans of beer still filling the shelves.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Rocky.

  Which of course Peter ignored. Popping the top, he turned it up.

  Almost immediately he dropped his arm and grimaced. “It tastes like water. Flat, skunky water.” He set the can down beside a stack of plastic cups. “Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.” He stepped over and grabbed one of the numerous bottles of liquor lined up by the register.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea, Peter?” asked Dustin, making no move to sit down.

  Peter looked over at him. “Do you think I’m going to get drunk? Gentlemen, I’m used to three-martini lunches followed by after-work cocktails and wine with dinner at the finest restaurants. I assure you, I can handle my own.”

  The man hadn’t had a drop to drink yet and he was already obnoxious.

  “Let me see that,” Juan said. “No, not that, the tequila. The gold.” He saw Mason and Dustin’s look. “Two shots,” he said, holding out two fingers. “For medicinal purposes.”

  Mason nodded. He’d earned it. Hell, they’d all earned it. “What else you got there, Peter?”

  Peter’s eyebrows went up, then he spun around and began snatching bottles. “We’ve got rum, spiced and one fifty-one.” He clanked them down on the bar where Mason and now Dustin were. “And we’ve got vodka, and more rum, silver and aged dark.” He thumped them down. “And we’ve got—”

  “Give me the vodka,” Dustin said.

  Mason slid it over. “And I’ll take the dark rum.”

  Dustin pushed it over, and Mason lifted the bottle and twisted the top off.

  “Wait,” Juan said. “We need shot glasses or something.” He craned his neck. “Get those other cups.”

  Peter walked over and grabbed the stack of smaller ones he’d indicated and brought them over.

  Mason said nothing, smiling to himself. He saw right through Juan. He was afraid Mason would try to stop him after only two swigs instead of the two full shots he had bargained for.

  Peter began measuring out portions, using a heavy hand. But only he threw back nearly all of his while the rest of them merely sipped at theirs.

  Peter immediately refilled his, again pouring too much, and then grabbed the vodka and went to refill Dustin’s.

  “Not yet,” Dustin snapped, placing his hand over the cup.

  Peter set it down, snatched up the tequila, and held the bottle out to Juan next, who was holding his drink. Juan, clearly ignoring him, kept his gaze downcast and didn’t acknowledge him.

  A shadow flickered across Peter’s face before he masked it and turned away and carefully placed the bottle back on the bar. He picked up his drink and in two quick swallows, finished it, and banged the cup down, wiping his mouth.

  Mason glanced at Dustin and caught Juan on the other side of him reaching for the bottle again.

  Eyes wide, Juan stared back, arm still outstretched, until he saw Mason wasn’t going to object, then brought the bottle over and poured a small amount.

  The men sipped their drinks, mostly lost in thought, saying nothing when Peter poured himself yet another shot.

  Mason finished his first one and allowed himself one final splash, swallowing it all at once, and relished the burn of the alcohol.

  Peter had been rummaging through everything on the other side, pulling things out and reading labels in between sullen glares and sips of the whiskey he had chosen. Mason didn’t bother trying to puzzle out whether Peter was irked because he wasn’t getting his normal amount of kissass regard, or whether he was merely reacting badly to finding himself in a situation where he was powerless, where his money, his connections, and his position made no difference.

  “So tell me, Mason,” Peter asked, as if he knew what Mason was thinking. “What did you do in our theorrretical”—he slurred the word ever so slightly—“other life?” He took another sip of his drink, staring belligerently over the rim at him. “How did you make a living?”

  Mason had no intention of answering him and then watching him sneer. He placed his cup on the bar, and climbed down off his stool.

  Dustin also slid off when he saw, and Juan and Rocky, a little slower, followed a moment later.

  “You ready, boys?” Mason asked, turning away.

  “Don’t you fucking ignore me,” cried Peter.

  Mason slowly turned back around, taking in Peter’s flushed face. Was he really going to go there? “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.” He knew it was wrong to goad him further, but he’d also had a couple of drinks and didn’t feel inclined to restrain himself. “I think you might not be able to hold your own.”

  Peter’s face went blank and he turned white with fury. “Fuck you.” Twisting around, he reared back and viciously hurled his drink into the wall behind him. “You goddam little wannabe.”

  Mason watched the brown liquor drip down over the words “A Taste of the Caribbean” painted beneath the dark flatscreen mounted at the top, and considered whether or not it was worth it.

  Dustin twitched as if to go after Peter, but
Mason stayed him with a touch and shook his head. “Forget it.”

  Without another word, they turned and started away, toward the part of the concourse they hadn’t traversed yet.

  They hadn’t gone far before Mason began to feel bad about leaving Peter. No matter how he was acting, it didn’t seem right. He came to a stop, and turned around. “Are you coming, Peter?” he shouted, his voice echoing.

  “I’ll come when I get damn ready,” immediately floated back.

  Juan tried next, maybe feeling a little guilt of his own. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  Peter didn’t bother answering this time.

  They waited another minute, shuffling around, then shrugged at each other and set off again.

  “He knows where we’ll be,” Mason said.

  Dustin glanced back once more. “He better hurry.”

  “He’ll follow, or go back to the others, if he has any sense.”

  It wasn’t long before Mason began regretting the rum. The faint buzz he’d gained had passed, thanks to Peter, and now his empty stomach was beginning to protest all the alcohol.

  “Hang on,” he told the boys, realizing his bladder was full as well. “I need to use the little boys’ room.” The water probably wasn’t working, but it would have to do.

  He hustled his way over to the men’s restroom across from them, not realizing the others had followed until he went to start in.

  He clicked on his Maglite, propped it on one of the sinks, and moved over to the urinals.

  The place must have been cleaned sometime near the end, because other than a film of dust and some mildew in the cracks, it was spotless and he could detect no odor.

  Mason tried one of the faucets after he’d done his business and as expected, nothing came gushing out. He picked up his light and went to start out of the restroom to wait on the boys outside, when his stomach gave a nasty cramp.

  Damn. Wincing, he put a hand on his abdomen and waited, thinking he might have to visit one of the stalls, but thankfully it passed after a moment.