Johnson took a right turn away from the empty buildings and drove on a different route I hadn’t been on the last time we were inside the base. The Humvee snaked around a bend in the road and Milner let fly with another burst of machine gun fire at a swarm of zombies in the center of the road. The vehicle plowed through the pile of dead bodies littering the blacktop, bones crunching and diseased, rotten flesh squelching under the wheels.
“Where are we headed?” Smith called to the military personnel in the cab.
The female turned her head and answered. “We’re going to the air traffic control tower to see how things are progressing.” Her dark eyes flicked between Smith, Batfish and I as though she was studying us for any signs of infectious bites.
“What things?” Smith asked.
She replied but her words were lost in the rattle of a new burst of machine gun fire from Milner in the turret. I wasn’t in any hurry to be told our intended destination. I trusted Milner; he was one of the good guys. They wouldn’t be leading us into any kind of bad scenario. Smith, Batfish and I had previously suffered a bad experience at the hands of a bunch of military renegades six months ago at Newark Airport in New Jersey. Smith had suffered gunshot wounds and I’d been injected with a large dose of mescaline, which I was convinced had caused my horrendous hallucinations and bouts of severe depression.
No, Milner and his crew were the good guys and had put their lives on the line last time we met, helping us collect Jerry cans from the fuel dump on the base.
Johnson swerved around an abandoned vehicle in the center of the road and took a left through the labyrinth of narrow side streets. A female zombie launched herself at the side of the Humvee and we heard the nauseous crunch of bone striking metal.
“These fuckers don’t give up, do they?” Johnson bellowed to no one in particular.
He slalomed right, then left around a small building and I saw we were on the outskirts of the actual airfield itself. Johnson put his foot on the gas and increased the speed onto the vast concrete based expanse. I craned my neck to look through the windshield to see where we were headed. The silhouette of the air traffic control tower loomed from the darkness. Johnson headed straight for the tall, conical shaped structure and I wondered why we were not returning to the squadron buildings.
A cluster of orange flashing lights to the left of the control tower caught my gaze. I noticed a ring of military vehicles with their mounted heavy machine guns facing outward towards the spread of the airfield. The vehicles surrounded a huge, gray aircraft that was the size of a ten storey apartment block lying on its side. Red and white striped barriers with flashing orange lights on top stood between the military vehicles. A service ramp hung open at the rear of the aircraft’s main body and around thirty military personnel surrounded the sloping incline, loading boxes onboard. Yellow light from the aircraft’s interior swathed the line of combat fatigue clad figures passing boxes between them. Orange lights flashed on top of a fork-lift truck that carried a wooden pallet on its front, veered up the ramp between the military guys into the belly of the aircraft. The situation gave the impression that these guys were moving out of the airbase.
I gave Smith a nudge and pointed to the gigantic aircraft. He’d already noticed and was surveying the scene.
“That looks like a Hercules, only a newer version,” he muttered. “And it looks as though they’re getting ready to ship out.”
The wiry guy twisted around in the front seat to face us. “Actually, that aircraft is a C-17 Globemaster three. The best military air-lifter in the business.”
Smith opened his mouth to speak again but Johnson swung the steering wheel hard to his left to knock down a lone zombie trudging across the airfield. The motion caused Smith to lurch off the seat and face first into the cardboard boxes. We felt the truck jolt and heard the snapping of dry bones as the zombie folded under the impact of the front crash bars.
I grabbed Smith’s arm and pulled him back to his sitting position. He dabbed his nose with his fingers and checked for a bleed. Any kind of bleeding wound could heighten the zombie’s senses and cause them to swarm into a frenzy, like sharks surrounding an injured fish in the sea. We were relatively safe with all the firepower around but the large amount of zombies lurking on the base could cause a problem if they all descended on our position in one huge mass.
Johnson swung the Humvee to the left so we were parallel with the front of the control tower and facing the aircraft. He brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt around ten feet in front of the control tower. The three military personnel leapt out of the front seats, moved around to the rear and opened the back doors to let us out. Milner climbed down from the gun turret and motioned for us to climb out of the vehicle.
“What’s going on here, Milner?” Smith asked, as we shuffled by the boxes towards the exit.
Milner grinned crookedly and removed a pair of work gloves. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Oh, yeah? Where you headed?” Smith asked, as we stepped down from the vehicle interior onto the airfield.
I felt the cool night breeze blow into my face and welcomed the freshness. The Humvee interior still had the faint whiff of diesel and stale sweat inside.
Milner followed us out of the vehicle, still with a broad grin on his face.
“We’re shipping out to Europe,” he said.
I felt my world had suddenly taken a turn for the surreal.
Chapter Seven
“Europe?” Smith repeated. His face screwed in disbelief. “What the hell is in Europe?”
“Listen, I’ll let Chief Cole explain everything,” Milner said, flapping his hand at us. “He’s up in the control tower.” He pointed at the building in front of us. “Come on, I’ll take you right up.”
Batfish flashed me a bewildered expression that asked the question – ‘What the hell is going on?’
I shrugged and followed behind Smith as Milner led the way to the control tower. He turned back as we reached the glass fronted double doors, guarded by two guys holding assault rifles.
“Hey, Johnson,” Milner called out. “Don’t worry about unloading the Humvee. That mother is coming with us. You can drive it straight onboard the bird.”
Johnson duly nodded. He closed the rear doors then walked with the wiry guy and the Hispanic girl back to the vehicle’s cab.
The guards by the doors let us through as Milner led the way. Smith gave both sentries a nod before we entered the building. The control tower lobby was spacious with a navy blue carpet covering the floor space.
“We’ll have to take the stairs, I’m afraid,” Milner said, turning slightly. “The elevator isn’t operational.” He pointed to two sealed, chrome elevator doors on our left. “We’ve only got limited power when we’re running on the back-up generator and they need all the juice for the control tower facilities.”
A wide staircase inclined to the right of a vacant security and reception desk. The desk itself was cluttered with a blank computer screen, keyboard, a gray plastic phone and reams of scattered paperwork with a solitary, bloody hand print in the center, bonding the sheets together in a matted clump. Milner led the way up the staircase that zigzagged up the floor levels.
“Those guys guarding the door wore Air National Guard insignia,” Smith muttered. “Where the hell did they come from?”
Milner either didn’t hear or deliberately didn’t answer. He strode up the stairs two at a time, Smith kept pace a few steps behind but Batfish and I struggled to keep up. I huffed and puffed and again silently vowed to give up smoking, once again.
Eventually, the staircase leveled off into a large circular shaped area with a set of double doors in front of us. Milner led the way through the doors and we found ourselves at the summit of the glass covered, domed summit of the control tower. The room was dark except for a blue hue generated by various control panels positioned in rows across the floor so the user could sit behind them and still be able to attain a view of the airfield.
“Hey, Chief,” Milner called over.
Chief Cole turned his head and waved us over. We tentatively approached the desk that Cole and the other three men were huddled around.
“We found who sent up that white flare,” Milner said. “Look who it is…”
Cole stepped a few paces away from the desk and scowled at us standing in the gloom. His face suddenly changed to a look of pleasant surprise when recognition set in.
“Smith, Wilde,” he croaked and turned to look at Batfish. “You found your friend, I assume?”
Smith proffered his hand and the Chief shook it vigorously. “Good to see you again, Chief. Yeah, we went through hell in New Orleans but still successfully completed the mission. We got Batfish out of there.”
I shook the Chief’s hand and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Batfish returned with a brief handshake and an even briefer smile.
“Batfish? As in U.S.S. Batfish?” Cole beamed a smile.
Batfish nodded. “My dad was a submariner in the Navy and he served onboard. He gave me a cap when I was little, a bit like the one you’re wearing.” She pointed to Cole’s headgear. “I always wore it and the name kind of stuck with me.”
Cole nodded, still grinning. Somehow he didn’t look right with a happy expression. It was as though his facial expressions were destined to always be serious and stern.
“We saw the red flares going up, Chief and wondered if you were in trouble,” Smith explained. “We were passing along on the river and came to see if you needed a hand after you and your guys saved our asses last time.”
Cole shrugged, his mouth still hung open but the grin slipped from his face. Deep furrows appeared in his forehead as he raised his eyebrows towards the peak of his cap.
“Ah, we weren’t in any kind of trouble here,” he sighed. “We were just lighting up the airfield a bit so we could see if we had a clear path to refuel and load the C-17. As you can imagine, the bird attracted a bit of attention when it landed.”
“What’s going on here, Chief? Why all the sudden movement?” I asked.
“And what was Milner talking about when he said you were heading to Europe?” Smith cut in.
I turned to look for Milner but he had slinked away and out of the room at some point. I noticed two young looking military personnel, a man and a woman, sitting at separate control consoles. They both wore black headsets with the narrow frames pressed over the center of their heads. They talked softly into the microphones in hushed tones.
“Okay, guys, let me explain.” Chief Cole rubbed his hand across his chin as though he was at pain to tell us what was happening. He pointed to the three guys still huddled around the desk. “This is Captain Remmick, First Lieutenant Novak and Major Capaldi of the Air National Guard and the flight crew of that big old bird out there on the runway.” Cole pointed to each one in turn as he recited their names then gestured towards the window at the aircraft outside.
The three men moved slightly away from the desk and nodded in acknowledgement but showed no expression of welcoming emotion. Their faces remained grim and determined, as though they were slightly frustrated at our distraction.
Capaldi was the oldest of the three men, around his mid-forties. He was tall and thin with a prominent hooked nose between hooded eyes and a shock of gray hair. The Major looked as though he hadn’t slept for a month.
Novak was probably the youngest, maybe in his late twenties. He was shorter than Capaldi and his bright blue eyes seemed alert as his gaze flicked between Cole and the three of us opposite him. First Lieutenant Novak had short brown hair and a closely cropped full beard and moustache.
Captain Remmick looked as though he’d been a football jock in high school, with a big square jaw and military style buzz cut that I always associated more with the U.S. Army or the Marine Corps. He wasn’t what you’d term tall but still maybe close to six feet but he was broad-chested and the sleeves of his greenish military fatigue shirt strained against powerful biceps and forearms. Remmick was probably in his early thirties and had the grizzled demeanor of someone who was permanently pissed off with the world.
“These guys are from the 172nd Airlift Wing Squadron, based in Jackson, Mississippi, not too far from here,” Cole continued.
Capaldi took half a pace forward. “We only just had enough aviation fuel to travel the distance here,” he said. His voice was soft and nasal. “It was only around 160 miles but we really struggled. Our airbase at Jackson is completely overrun. We had a tough time even getting up in the air. The whole operation took months of planning and we lost many good guys trying to even reach the fuel dump. We landed here a few hours ago in the hope we could find some more gas. That’s when we bumped into Chief Cole and the rest of his people.” He jabbed a thumb in the Navy Chief’s direction.
I racked my brain and tried to remember where I was a few hours ago and why I hadn’t seen the huge aircraft overhead. I realized I was probably half drunk in some sleazy nightclub in the center of New Orleans at the time. They may have flown around and bypassed the city’s airspace anyhow.
“There are only eighteen of us left from Jackson,” Remmick interjected. His voice was deep and loud as though he’d been used to speaking to large numbers of people. “While we didn’t have much fuel, we did have communications still up and working. Incoming messages were sporadic but we finally managed to keep regular comms with an air traffic control center in Scotland.”
“Scotland?” Smith repeated.
“Yeah, a British Royal Air Force base called Prestwick in Ayrshire, Scotland,” Capaldi continued. “They said it took them a long while, but basically they’ve managed to clear the infected personnel from the country. They’ve locked down the border with England and keep the major ports well guarded.”
I thought of Lazaru and his fragile barriers guarding what remained of the uninfected area of New Orleans. It didn’t take much for the undead to break down those protective blockades.
“We explained our situation to the British military and they said they would welcome us to Scotland, if we can get there,” Remmick said.
“That’s a very big if,” Smith sighed.
“You got that right,” Cole said. “It’s a logistical nightmare but we think we can do it. We’ve managed to just about fill the C-17 tanks with all the aviation fuel we have but it’s not going to be enough.”
I felt a sudden jolt of excitement and hoped these military guys were going to ask us to tag along. I didn’t care where I lived as long as the place was free of zombies.
“How far is it from here to Scotland?” I asked.
Remmick took a glance back to the desk. I followed his gaze and saw the desk surface was crammed with spread out maps and aviation charts. He turned back to face me. “It’s around 3,800 nautical miles, if we fly in a straight line.”
“And how far does the aircraft fly on a full tank?”
“Approximately 2,400 nautical miles,” Capaldi answered.
I quickly calculated the math. “Fourteen hundred miles short,” I sighed.
My throat went dry, my guts lurched and my newly acquired excitement evaporated almost immediately.
Chapter Eight
“So what are you guys thinking?” Smith asked.
“Come over and look at this chart, Smith.” Cole waved Smith over to the desk.
Smith and I shuffled over towards the lamp light and bent over the desk either side of Cole. The three Air Force guys leaned over our shoulders behind. Batfish stoo
d to the side of the desk.
“We’re here.” Cole pointed to the New Orleans Airbase on the map. “We need to refuel someplace. My thinking was we try, Halifax in Canada.” Cole moved his finger upwards and placed it on the eastern tip of Nova Scotia.
“And what’s the distance from Halifax to Scotland?” Smith asked.
Cole stood up straight. “That’s the risky part,” he sighed. “It’s slightly over 2,300 nautical miles as the crow flies.”
“That’s some fucking crow if it can fly across the Atlantic,” I spluttered.
Nobody else found my attempt at humor slightly amusing. Everyone else in the room stood in grim silence and I felt my face redden. I expected a wind rush to blow through the control tower to further my embarrassment.
“Hmm…not much margin for error,” Smith said, rubbing his chin.
“The only other option is to stop and try and refuel in Reykjavik, Iceland after Halifax.” Novak spoke for the first time since we entered the control room. His voice was gravelly and had a Southern drawl. “That route takes us off course a little and we’d have to make another stop but it would guarantee us enough fuel to get to Scotland.”
“Of course, that’s assuming you have the facilities and the opportunity to refuel at these locations,” Smith said. “What about ATC comms?”
“Extremely limited at best,” Novak sighed. “We’re hoping we’ll get a clearer broadcast from the UK once we’re over the Atlantic.”
The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Page 4