Chaos anw-1

by John O'Brien

  “Yup,” I reply pushing the throttles forward. The engines respond to my request and the 130 begins to pick up speed, the nose of the aircraft forcing the things outside to part to one side or the other. “I wouldn’t look as it’s not going to be pretty.”

  A change in the pitch and drone of the engines occurs as we head down the taxiway and onto the runway accompanied by a series of soft slaps against the sides of the fuselage behind us. The things outside closest to us try to back away from our advance but are slowed by those behind them. Some try to get away to the side only to be caught by the outside engines. In the middle of the runway, I start turning the aircraft around, the light we cast turns with us and illuminates the outside by degrees, picking up the things outside coming back at us, first in singles as we turn, and then in groups as we complete our 180 degree turn. The lights clearly show our previous path. Small and large clumps of shredded clothing and bloodied body parts are strewn on the taxiway with a clearly defined path down the middle.

  Some are now coming toward us from in front with more from the sides as we start down the taxiway to where we were parked just moments ago. Some of those in front scatter to the sides and away at our approach but a few keep coming blinded by the intensity of our lights. There are a couple additional buzz saw-like sounds and meaty slaps against the sides as we turn left and proceed down the main taxiway paralleling the runway. The main ramp area opens to our right and I swing out onto it, doing yet another 180 degree turn at midfield. I bring the throttles back and step on the brakes bringing us to a stop. The lights pick out an immense horde of things running after us down the taxiway and in the grass between the taxiway and runway.

  “They’re persistent, I’ll give ‘em that,” I say watching them close.

  I push the throttles up holding onto the brakes, the nose bows downward compressing the nose gear strut, waiting to be released. “Won’t this damage the props?” Robert asks as we all look at the well-lit group hurtling towards us.

  “Should be okay. Those are thirteen foot props turning at over 1,000 rpm. Rocks and such will put nicks in them but I doubt they’ll even notice flesh and bones.”

  “Dad, do we have to do this?” Bri asks.

  “Hon, we don’t have the fuel to fly our next leg nor do we have enough to just fly around all night. Plus, they’re just pissing me off. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  Here we sit, stopped on the taxiway, the deep, steady, strong drone of the engines, the propellers turning at high speed, lights blazing out into the darkness, and the approaching horde steadily closing the distance, drawn by whatever it is in their heads that leads them to this chase.

  When the mass is about 75 yards ahead, I release the brakes, the nose launching upward as the aircraft is finally released from its blocks. We start down the taxiway, picking up speed as we near the horde, our closure rate increasing as we add our speed to it. We close to within a few yards and the ones in front of us start separating from our path to the sides. And then, just like that, they sweep behind us, the outboard engines catching a couple of them as we pass them by.

  I taxi to the end of the ramp and taxiway, turning around once again, “Okay, let’s try that a little differently,” I say bringing us to a stop.

  Once again, the horde has turned around and is pursuing us. This time, I wait until they are only 50 yards ahead before releasing the brakes. We surge ahead and draw closer to them. They separate in the same manner and I turn to the right with them, maneuvering to bring the nearest edge of them close down our right side. Our lights ahead show the ramp clear of obstacles other than the running horde. Our engines plow through them, raw, meaty slaps against the fuselage barely heard over the roar of the turning props. Slap…. Slap, slap… slap, slap, slap, slap… slap… slap… slap, slap.

  “Oh my god,” Nic whispers sickly and with horror through the headset as the lights shining ahead on the right turns a pale pink.

  My anger at them turns to a sickness deep inside that rests in the pit of my stomach. I gain a little distance and turn the aircraft around. “You’re kidding,” Robert says as we stop for the third time and see the mass, although diminished, has turned around and are after us yet again.

  “Dad, can we just get out of here?” Bri asks.

  “I wish we could, babe,” I answer back. “I am really sorry, hon.”

  I hear a heavyish sigh over the helmet speakers; I think from Michelle.

  “If this is too much for anyone, just head into the back. You can stuff bits of clothing in your helmet to drown out the sounds and you don’t have to watch. Hell, I might even join you,” I say watching the diminished horde draw closer, most of them directly in front of us but a few scattered groups and single ones off to the side, looking almost like a flanking maneuver.

  “I’m okay,” Bri says behind me.

  “Me too,” says Nic.

  “I’m doing alright,” Robert answers.

  “I’m fine,” Michelle speaks out.

  “Well hell, I’m not. This is disgusting as hell,” I say.

  There is a simultaneous “yeah” from everyone.

  When they are again about 50 yards away, I release the brakes and the aircraft leaps toward them. I stay to the right side of the taxi way with the ramp to my left as the horde and we begin another joust. They separate as before and I head toward the left group trying to take them down the left side this time. Rather than angle outward, they then turn a direct 90 degrees away from us attempting to get far away from our path, the ones off to the sides turn towards us, attempting to run around behind us. We catch fewer of them. Slap…slap,slap..slap….slap,slap,slap..slap.

  We draw to the end once more turning around. Our lights illuminate the ramp and taxiway showing the asphalt littered with scraps and chunks of clothing, body parts, and pieces of flesh and bone. An absolutely disgusting sight that makes me want to flick the lights off but I need them. The things hovering at a distance, milling about, and some lean towards us with their mouths open, obviously emitting those loud shrieks. The only sound coming to us is the continuous droning of engines and heavy breathing in our helmet speakers.

  “What the hell is that!?” I say into the microphone.

  “What?” Michelle asks.

  “Listen,” I say and then hear another faint thump; more felt than heard. “There, that.”

  “It sounds like it’s coming from behind us,” Robert says turning around.

  There must have been a group of them that waited while the rest of them ran towards us knowing we would turn around and stop here.

  “Well, they’re apparently not overly dumb,” I say as we feel and hear more thumps from the rear of the 130. They are apparently coming in directly behind us avoiding the wind from the propellers. Luckily, we are in a secure aircraft but I note their quick change in tactics each time and do not like the ramifications.

  I release the brakes and head toward the crowd a ways down the tarmac, taxiing over the mass of body parts and clothing. The milling about of the horde ceases as they become completely still, all focused towards us and our ever closing lights. They then, almost as one, turn and run, most of them heading towards the buildings sitting on the edge of the ramp, the others directly away from us. I head across the ramp in an attempt to cut off the ones running towards the buildings.

  “Daaad, they’re running away,” Bri says over the intercom. “Please don’t.”

  “Honey, we can’t feel sorry for them. Ever!” I say but turn the aircraft away nonetheless slowing our taxi speed.

  I head on the taxiway to the end and close to the edge of the runway, just as we parked before except at the other end of the runway. I will want to inspect the aircraft in the morning but have no intention of doing that in the mess we created at the other end. I shut down the aircraft and we settle in once again for the night. It takes us a while to get to sleep after the events of the evening with vivid images still floating through our minds but we eventually drift off one by one and are not bothered
for the rest of the night.

  To the Beach

  I awaken to the sound of soft snores echoing throughout the cargo interior. Teens, they can sleep the whole day away. Of course, I can as well and remember the days when noon was a normal wake up time for me in the summer months. I lay quietly thinking, nestled in my bag on the deck of the pitch black cargo bay with my head resting on the small, white pillow, not knowing how in the world we are going to be able to stay alive with these things absolutely everywhere. There is no reasoning with them or calling a time out. There can be little to no mistakes on my part. I can’t let my emotions overcome common sense.

  Those little snores remind me that I have to be more responsible and adept at analyzing situations; the choices I make mean more and have greater ramifications. I have been fairly proficient at making good spot choices in various situations in the past and so I can’t be second guessing, but on the same hand, those choices have to be the right ones. We would most likely have been just fine last night, if not a little more tired, if I had just left things alone. However, we are all still alive and, like a landing, any one you can walk away from is a good one.

  My quandary is like that of any parent; how to keep your children protected yet still let them learn to make good choices. We are in a new world order and some of the lessons they learned growing up to this point may not apply. Normally there is a gradual integration of ideas and lessons but this is not the case now. There are different lessons to be learned; survival skills of a different order. I have a lot I can teach them and hopefully I can do so in a somewhat controlled environment. I am not going to be able to do everything for them forever. Ugh! This is making my brain hurt. Enough early morning philosophizing. One day at a time, I think, unzipping my bag and crawling out.

  I open the curtain to the cockpit and find it illuminated by the early morning light streaming in the windows. I step into the cockpit windows and look out. The eastern horizon is the pale blue of a just risen sun transitioning to a darker blue as the eye travels westward across the cloudless sky. The shadows of the trees lining the air station cast long shadows across the green fields surrounding the runway. Looking out the windows to the other side, the two gray runways ahead of us and the paralleling taxiway behind us stretch away westward. The ramp opens up off the taxiway with several tan buildings abutting against it. Several P-3 Orions are parked on a ramp angling off the main ramp, looking a lot like a C-130 but with low wings and the engines mounted upside down. There’s not a thing moving anywhere that I can see. The indications of last night remain scattered on the main ramp and taxiway; colored bits of clothing littered around but are tiny from this distance. In the early morning light, several crows hop around the strewn body parts.

  I climb out of the cockpit and open the front door, light streaming in as it lowers to the ground. Cool morning air replaces the warmth of the interior, cooling my cheeks as it passes by; the smell of a fresh summer day rides the currents. I peek out of the door gazing at the motionless, monstrous propellers, their blades feathered with the edges facing forward, as if completely unaware and not caring what they faced the night prior or the carnage they were involved in.

  Stepping down the stairs to the asphalt taxiway, I look along the side of the aircraft. It is there that the evidence reveals itself. On the fuselage, directly in line with the propellers, a thick line of dark red runs vertically down the aircraft with streaks reaching back toward the rear; the darkened streaks dripping down like paint that was put on too thickly. The darkened color is close to the same hue as the olive drab of the 130 and almost blends in. With the sun now fully above the horizon to the east, I do a walk around of the aircraft to check for damage. With the exception of the new paint job, the aircraft looks in good shape. Unless these things figure out how to open the doors, the 130 offers a good mobile sanctuary. The light of the sun begins to warm the air and the sight and sound of birds flying around the distant trees, on whatever errand calls, makes last night and the events of the past few days seem surreal

  I finish my walk around to find Robert standing by the bottom of the stairs. “Quite an interesting past few days eh?” I say stepping up next to him as we both gaze across the fields to the north.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” he says turning his gaze along the side of the aircraft.

  “Wow!” He comments as his eyes reach the darkened streaks.

  “Yeah,” I say in response.

  “The girls up yet?” I ask after a moment of once again studying the dried blood pasted along the side.

  “They were getting up as I left. Are we taking off soon?”

  “As soon as we refuel,” I say looking over at the ramp. “Let’s start ‘er up and taxi over while the girls are getting up.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Robert says and starts up the stairs.

  We settle into our seats and begin our checks. I reach up to set the electrical panel. “Ah crap. Really!” I say noticing a low reading from the batteries.

  “What?” Robert asks.

  “Low batteries for some reason. We’ll use the cart but we’ll need to figure out why the batteries are low. Let’s go hook up the cart,” I say as we head into the cargo bay.

  “Morning, Dad,” Nic says sitting up in her sleeping bag.

  “Morning, babe.”

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “Getting the start cart out. Something’s up with the batteries.”

  “Need any help?” She asks climbing out of her bag.

  “Sure, hon.”

  “Morning,” Michelle says as she climbs out of her bag, descends the small ladder and joins us as we walk to the back.

  “Good morning,” we all say in return.

  We look like we just woke up from an all-night frat party. Well, I do at any rate. Michelle walks up to Robert and they both give each other a small good morning kiss. Okay, now this has to be one of the oddest moments I have lived through. Seeing your son kiss a girl for the first time. It is just, well, startling. I have always tried to keep up with their growth and treat them accordingly, but it is moments like this that make me realize they are more grown up than I realize, another big step in my acknowledgement of his being a man. My legs actually grow a little weak and I stumble over my own feet.

  “You okay, Dad?” Nic asks me, looking up at me with a huge smile painted across her face and a twinkle in her hazel eyes.

  “Um, yeah, just fine,” I respond as she continues smiling up at me.

  “Bri, we’ll be outside,” I call out.

  “Okay, Dad,” a sleepy voice answers on the other side of the fuel tank.

  We lower the cargo ramp and wheel the cart into position. “Okay Nic and Michelle, do your stuff,” I say and they unroll the connector cables and attach the cart.

  Robert and I walk in through the crew door pulling it closed behind us and head back into the cockpit. I switch the power over to external and, after confirming that Nic is online, start up the right two engines — numbers 3 and 4. Switching to internal power, the electrical instruments read fine. Switching the DC to battery, the reading drops significantly.

  “We’ll give them a charge taxiing back to the ramp,” I say switching them back.

  Robert unbuckles and heads back to help get the cart onboard and secured while I start the remaining engines. We really only have to start the outboard ones for taxiing but it gives me something to do while they are stowing the cart. I make radio calls on UHF and VHF guard frequencies but silence is my only response as Bri joins me and buckles into her seat.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” I say hearing the click of her plugging in and finishing up with my checks.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  Moments later, Robert, Michelle, and Nic walk in and settle in and we taxi over to the ramp by the P-3s. I leave the engines running checking on the battery readings. The readings haven’t changed. I leave them running for another twenty minutes with still no indicated change.

  “Crap! We may have to cha
nge the batteries out with one of the P-3s,” I say beginning the engine shutdown procedure.

  “Do we need to?” Nic asks. “It seems to be running fine.”

  “Yeah, we need them. I’m not going to head over the pond with bad batteries. At least, I’m hoping it’s the batteries.”

  “Have you ever changed batteries before?” Robert asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know how?” He asks.

  “Nope,” I say with the engines winding down.

  We shut the aircraft down and search for tools in the storage compartments bringing them to the nose of the aircraft. The one thing I do know is where the batteries are stored in the nose and so, using the onboard tools and a large stepladder we found stored inside, I remove the hatch and look inside. Hooray, first try, I think looking at the batteries sitting on a shelf just inside the aircraft. Looking them over with a flashlight, I notice one of them has a crack in the side.

  “The thunderstorm must have bounced them around a little,” I say showing everyone the damaged battery.

  “Robert, take Michelle, grab that fuel truck over there and meet us over at that P-3,” I say pointing to the Orion parked closest to us.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you two have your weapons?” I say as they begin their trek over to the truck.

  “Yep,” he replies over his shoulder.

  “Let’s gather this stuff up,” I say to Bri and Nic indicating the tools on the ground.

  The sun climbs higher into the blue sky, warming the air further as we start across the ramp towards the other parked aircraft, our hands full with tools, and the ladder. The M-4 is slung over my shoulder and I keep an eye out for movement. Off to our right and behind us, on the edge of the gray ramp, lay the remains of last night, scattered about and looking like someone just dumped their trash.

  We arrive at the P-3 at about the same time that Robert and Michelle pull up. An easterly breeze has sprung up. This is once again the type of day where we would normally be outside getting the Jeep or bikes ready for a day in the sun, listening to the first lawnmowers crank up and the smell of fresh cut grass, to be followed by throwing some burgers on the BBQ. The wafting breeze carries the morning smell of the trees and plants.