by Drew Brown
“He will be in the aeroplane soon, Becky. But he has to help make it ready first.”
The little girl remained inert, refusing to be moved.
“Go with the nice lady, Snot-nose. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Even after Budd’s words, Becky remained stationary for a few seconds, staring intently at him. Finally, she allowed Juliette to lead her to the Beech King’s hatch.
Budd gave her a little wave as she climbed inside and then he continued over to Father McGee. “How we doin’?”
“Everything’s going well, my son,” Father McGee said with a pat against the fuel truck’s side. “I’m just topping up the fuel. I went through the pre-flight checks. I believe the aircraft to be in good working order.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. How much more juice will she take?”
Father McGee raised his bushy white eyebrows at the question. “I’m sure we have enough to reach France.”
Oh yeah, France. With Andy and Sam dead, I’d have to be the bearer of bad news. Again. But not yet…
“You keep filling ‘til she’s full, got it? Let’s not take any chances.”
“Whatever you say.”
Almost as the priest finished speaking, the sound from the compressor changed as it cut back to its idling speed. The tanks were full. “Fantastic,” Budd said. “It’s ’bout time things started goin’ our way. You disconnect this thing and I’ll get my stuff together. In less than five, we can blow this joint.”
Father McGee nodded and then got to work. Budd turned to Sanders. “I need my rucksack, chief.”
Sanders pressed the button on his earpiece. “Bogey, do you read me? Over.”
Budd chewed his left thumb’s nail as Sanders waited for a reply. There was dirt trapped beneath it.
“We’re almost done. We need the rucksack. Over.”
At the hangar door, Bogey appeared through the murk. He jogged across to them and handed Budd the rucksack.
“Thanks.”
“We better cover the entrance,” Sanders said to Bogey, and the two soldiers ran to the opposite sides of the hangar doors.
“I’ll holler when we’re ready,” Budd called after them.
44
Budd climbed the rolling metal steps into the Beech King and made his way up the central aisle to the cockpit, hunching over as the low cabin prevented him from reaching his full height. The fuselage was narrow, with only a single row of seats on either side of the aisle, which were arranged back-to-back in pairs divided by small mahogany drop-down tables. There were only nine passenger seats in total—ten including the unused co-pilot’s chair. He smiled at Juliette, who’d strapped herself into one of the stone-colored leather seats and was sitting opposite Becky. Across the aisle, Jack and Annabel were in the other pair of seats behind the cockpit, and the young man fixed Budd with an icy stare as he approached.
Unconcerned with Jack’s antagonistic presence, Budd slipped through the open cockpit door and sunk into the pilot’s chair. He took a small two-ring binder from his rucksack and flicked through his flight plans, searching for the correct maps and navigation schemes. Skimming the relevant papers to refresh his memory, he took out the pages and attached them to a clipboard that was tucked into a compartment on the side of his seat.
He looked out of the cockpit windows and saw Father McGee maneuvering the fuel truck away from the aircraft. The old priest parked the vehicle and took a swig from his flask.
With a quick inspection of the cockpit, Budd flicked the battery switch and hit the buttons for the two engines. The auto-starts worked; the engines revved up and then idled, filling the hangar with noise. One by one, he went through the final pre-flight checks. His last action was to tap the glass screens of the two fuel gauges.
Just for luck, you know…
A hand came to rest on Budd’s shoulder and he turned to find Father McGee in the cockpit doorway. “I’ve pulled out the chocks, my son. All is ready,” the old priest said.
Budd recoiled from the smell of whiskey. Gradually, the small part of Father McGee’s face that could be seen behind his giant white beard changed from one of optimistic relaxation to one wracked with worry. “Oh, my…”
Slowly, Budd turned his vision from the elderly priest to look out the window. At the front of the hangar, Sanders and Bogey were falling back towards the Beech King, firing out of the massive open door as they came.
“Everybody buckle up,” Budd shouted into the passenger compartment. He shoved Father McGee out of the cockpit. “Things are gonna get bumpy.”
With a deep breath, he released the brakes and nudged forward the throttles so that the Beech King moved away. He used the rudder pedals to steer the heavy aircraft towards the center of the hangar doors, trying to focus on his own job and not the battle raging outside.
Sanders and Bogey were giving ground, retreating across the hangar floor and edging closer to the airplane. The ninety-foot space between the soldiers and the plane quickly shrunk into nothing, and the two soldiers ducked under the wing.
Budd glanced from his instruments out into the fog. Countless shapes were running from the murk, all dressed in suits or assorted nightwear. He recognized them from the mansion.
If I hadn’t been so frightened, or maybe if they weren’t so damned unpleasant—what with trying to eat us all the time—I’d have admired how determined they were.
They’d always score high marks for effort…
Budd eased the throttles further forward; he saw no other option.
As he’d hoped, the attackers parted around the aircraft, fearful of its noise and propellers. He looked out at their faces, which all seemed to be staring right back at him. There were more than a hundred, and they ringed the Beech King as it progressed, their once expensive clothes worn untidily and their eyes sparkling beneath the hangar’s electric lights.
“Oh, fuck it,” Sanders said as he climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. His voice was difficult to hear over the engines and so Budd pointed to a set of headphones that were hooked to the chair. The two men slipped on their respective sets. “We’ve shut the hatch. All you have to do is get us in the air.”
The Beech King’s wheels rolled onto the grass as they departed the hangar. Almost immediately, the cockpit submerged into the gray luminance of the fog. Budd looked from left to right; on both sides the monsters were jogging along with them, matching the Beech King’s taxiing speed.
“If they attack, this bird won’t fly,” Budd said with a shake of his head. He steered the airplane to the right. All of the fast-movers on that side moved away, reacting to the change in direction. The ones on the left followed the adjustment closely.
“How far do we taxi?”
“Half a mile, give or take,” Budd said, pausing to examine one of the glass-fronted instruments on his console. He eased the pressure on the rudder pedals. “Straight in this direction: thirty degrees north.”
“Can we go faster?”
“Did you inspect the taxi route? Or the runway? If I go too fast and there’s something in the way, we’ll all end up crispy giblets. Do you think the zombies like barbecue food?”
Sanders leant over to the window on his right-hand side. “They’re getting nearer,” he said.
Have you ever flown a bird? Yeah? Well, that’s good, ’cause it’ll make this easier to understand. I reckon the visibility was somewhere between one-hundred-and-twenty and one-hundred-and-fifty-feet, and we were on a taxi route and then a runway that hadn’t been inspected since before the end of the world.
No kidding.
Would you wanna bound along at the fastest speed you could and still stay on the ground? I mean, let’s face it, with its tiny front wheel, the Beech King isn’t the most stable bird to be drag racing across a bumpy grass taxiway at the best of times.
I don’t mind telling you, I could see it all ending in tragedy.
But then, Sanders had a good point as well. If those zombie-creatures decided to jump on the fuselag
e and start tearing bits off, it wouldn’t matter that we weren’t gonna explode into a fiery death, because we were gonna be lunch instead. And that wasn’t very appealing either.
So, despite my years of pilot know-how, I decided to take my chances at attending the barbecue, rather than the raw-meat buffet…
Bit by bit, Budd eased forward the throttles to let the engines release more of their power to the propellers. The Beech King accelerated and the ride grew increasingly uncomfortable as the aircraft bounced on the uneven turf, threatening to reach for the sky prematurely. He adjusted the flaps and ran through his other operations, fulfilling the tasks without much thought.
I didn’t like looking into the fog. I was frightened ’bout what I’d see. Sure, the path seemed clear, but one thing out of place and we’d be toast.
The engines were my other concern—working ’em so hard on the ground wasn’t a great idea. Both of the gauges read a little above 1200°F.
Just another hundred degrees or so and I’d have to throttle them back…
“We’ve lost them,” Sanders said, staring out of the cockpit window.
“They won’t be far.”
A dotted line of red lights cut across the path they were taking, glimmering through the grass. “What are they?” Sanders asked.
Budd slowed the engines. “The edge of the runway,” he said and pointed to the left. On the edge of their vision a wooden pole rose into the air. At its top was a bright orange wind-sack. It was hanging down, utterly still. “We can take off either way.”
The Beech King crossed the line of red lights, which were spaced every fifteen feet and embedded into the soil to protect them from the trundling planes. Budd turned the aeroplane perpendicularly to the line. When that was done, a second line of red lights could be seen though the left-hand windows.
They were in the center of the runway.
“Right, everyone,” Budd said, leaning over to call back into the passenger section. With a smile, he opened the two throttles. “This miserable country can kiss our butts. We’re outta here!”
45
The Beech King accelerated along the runway.
Despite the increased velocity, the ride was better than it had been on the taxiway, simply because more work had been done over the years to keep the strip flat.
As Budd concentrated on the take-off procedure, a lone figure appeared in the middle of the runway. There was hardly any time before the man disappeared around the side of the aircraft, but Budd was sure he recognized the blue-pinstriped suit and gangly stride of the person outside.
Chris had found the airfield.
At a time like this, when someone you dislike is in such trouble, and—most importantly—you’re not, there’s only one thing any self-respecting man can do. Put his thumbs in his ears, wiggle his fingers, stick out his tongue and chant “Ner, ner, ner-ner, ner.”
What? You thought I’d shed a tear?
Ha…
Budd was chuckling when a hand gripped his shoulder. It made him jump in his seat. Turning his head, he found Father McGee behind him. The priest bent down to talk and Budd slid forward the right side of his headphones. “You must slow down, my son. I’ve just seen Christopher. We must let him come aboard.”
“No chance, Beardy. This is a one-way ticket to freedom,” Budd replied with a look at his instruments.
I wasn’t just being a jerk.
Well, not completely.
We were approaching V1, the critical speed after which take off can’t be aborted for fear of not having enough runway for the heavy, fuel-laden, bird to stop. And I knew what would be waiting for us.
Trees.
Fiery explosion.
Zombie barbecue.
But we weren’t at V1 yet. Not quite…
“We must save him; it’s the Christian thing to do. No one can be left to such a fate.”
Budd’s reply was forming in his mouth when Father McGee yanked back on the throttles, cutting the thrust from the propellers and slowing the aircraft. Budd tried to push them forwards again but Father McGee refused to let go. The elderly priest managed to hold them back for several seconds, all the time decreasing the speed of the aircraft.
“We must help him, we must help—”
The priest’s words were cut short by the butt of Sanders’s MP-5.
Father McGee staggered out of the cockpit with his hands clamped to his bleeding head.
“Damn it!” Budd shouted, thumping his hand against the console.
“What’s wrong?” Sanders said.
“We’ve lost too much speed.”
“So what? Start again.”
“I don’t know how much runway is left before we reach the trees,” Budd said. “There’s probably not enough. We’ll have to turn around.”
“Fuck it.”
Budd looked back into the passenger section. Father McGee was at the hatch. “Stop that crazy old fool before he gets us killed, would you?”
With a grim expression, the soldier removed his headset, unbuckled his seatbelt and stomped after the black robes of the priest.
Alone in the cockpit, Budd pulled back the throttles. He waited as the Beech King slowed enough for him to use the rudder pedals to guide the aircraft off the runway to the left, and then back to the right, making a looping circle that returned the Beech King to the runway’s center, but travelling in the opposite direction.
In front of the airplane, Chris emerged from the fog with his arms flailing as he ran.
Budd looked back over his shoulder to find that Sanders had manhandled Father McGee into the last of the four seats on the hatch-side of the cabin. The priest had a crimson stain across the right-hand side of his head.
Sanders kept him there at gunpoint.
At the back of the cabin, Bogey was standing at the open hatch, leaning out into the passing fog. Budd scanned the instruments again and placed his right hand across the two throttles and his left hand on the flight-stick. His feet worked the rudder. He glanced up in time to see Chris stoop beneath the wing.
In the passenger compartment Budd saw Bogey lean further, his arm outstretched. After a second, the soldier hauled Chris inside the cabin and the two men fell into a heap in the aisle.
“Get that hatch closed,” Budd shouted.
Sanders turned to give him the thumbs-up.
Father McGee, his aim successful, had a smug expression on his face and it was clear that he was content to sit and do no more harm.
Budd turned back to the flight controls. He pushed forward the throttles and adjusted the flaps again, setting them to give as much lift as possible. He watched the airspeed indicator and engine-revolution counter rise, eager to be away from the ground. His breath was held as the moment the wheels would lift approached. Seconds ticked by and they made V1, their speed ever increasing.
Muffled by his headphones, Budd thought he heard a scream.
Juliette’s scream.
The sound of it brought him to his senses. He looked back and saw Juliette, Becky, Father McGee, Jack and Annabel on their feet, spilling into the gangway. They blocked Budd’s view of the events happening at the back of the compartment.
He knew it was too late to abort the take-off. “What’s goin’ on?” he called, but no one answered his question.
In his hand, the feeling of aircraft changed as the wheels left the turf, drawing his attention back to the windshield and his instruments. He eased the flight-stick towards him, overcoming the increased weight, pulling the Beech King into the sky.
The flight-stick fought against him; there was a lot of drag down the right-hand side of the aircraft. As he battled against it he knocked his headphones from his ears. The wind was howling.
The hatch was still open.
The screaming continued behind him and he risked another glance over his shoulder. Through the crowded gangway, Budd thought he caught a glimpse of Chris, blood dripping from his mouth, stalking up the aisle.
There were more screams, p
anic, and Becky cut through the group into the cockpit. She wrapped her arms around Budd’s neck.
“Snot-nose, what’s happening?”
“The new man is bad,” Becky said into Budd’s ear.
He looked beyond her into the passenger section, fearful of what was taking place, but he knew he was trapped in his seat and at the mercy of the others as he struggled with the controls.
I tried desperately not to panic. I was wasting my time…
The central aisle was in chaos.
Juliette appeared in snatches, as did Jack and Annabel, pushing and shoving with nowhere to go. Father McGee staggered back from the group into the cockpit and dropped to his knees, half of him seeming to have fallen into prayer, the other half frantically trying to open his flask.
The huddle of people collapsed, falling to the floor between the seats. It gave Budd a clear view of Chris, whose eyes were open and feral, his legs kicking and arms flapping, hands clawing at the air. Somehow, Sanders had apprehended Chris from behind in a massive bear hug, lifting him from the floor. One of the soldier’s arms was around Chris’s face and Budd saw the beast bite into the black material of the sleeve, piercing skin and drawing blood.
Oblivious to the injury, Sanders kept going, carrying Chris to the back of the cabin.
When he reached the hatch, Sanders hesitated.
Juliette and Jack had scrambled up, the latter helping Annabel from the floor, but Budd still had a good view of the soldier. Their eyes locked for an instant. Sanders managed to keep his expression blank before he turned to the hatch and, with Chris held tight in his arms, stepped outside.
The man and beast vanished.
Budd looked back to the windscreen and leveled the Beech King. On the console, the altimeter read five hundred feet.
I knew from my old military days that it would take ’bout five seconds to hit the ground. Maybe six.