Finest Hour

by Dr. Arthur T Bradley

“They have a leader?”

  “An army officer, I think.”

  “Was he like them?” Mason said, looking back at the dead guard. “Disfigured and crazy?”

  “He was disfigured. But he spoke real calm and clear, like he still had his wits about him.”

  Mason wasn’t surprised. While it was true that many of the infected had become consumed with an irrational rage, others had managed to keep their sanity. It made sense that those who retained their intellect would rise to positions of leadership. Such was the case with Erik, the infected man who had helped him to save the town of Boone from a gang of convicts.

  “We’ve got to get out of here before they come back,” Cantor said, trying to pull away.

  “Don’t worry, we will. Go join the others, and tell them I’ll be out in a minute.”

  The cadet nodded and hurried out.

  Mason took a moment to study the room. Other than the stove, potty bucket, and food scraps, there wasn’t much to see. Bowie had discovered something in the corner and came over with it in his mouth.

  “What did you find, boy?”

  Bowie dropped a crumpled military jacket that one of the soldiers had been using as a pillow.

  Mason picked it up. Based on the rank and awards, it had to be the Commandant’s. There were a few small bloodstains, but none that suggested he had suffered a mortal wound while wearing it. He placed the uniform jacket back on the floor and stepped out of the office.

  Cobb immediately said, “Those creatures took the Commandant.”

  Mason nodded. “I heard.”

  “So, what now?” said Rodriguez. “Do we go looking for him?”

  Once again, the question was not as easy as it seemed. The addition of four cadets would ordinarily have made the team stronger, but these four were in no condition to fight. If anything, they would likely prove to be a liability.

  “You, Cobb, and Bell are going to get these men back across the bridge.”

  “I’m not leaving the Commandant.” Rodriguez nudged the dead man with his boot. “Not to these monsters, I’m not.”

  “You’re going to do exactly as I say.” Before Rodriguez could argue, Mason added, “Besides, we’re not abandoning the Commandant. I’m going after him.”

  “Alone?” Rodriguez said with a cynical smile. “You think you’re some kind of superhero?”

  Mason whistled, and Bowie hurried over to him.

  “No, not alone,” he said, patting Bowie.

  Bell suddenly shouted from the front door.

  “Marshal, we’ve got company!”

  Mason and the cadets hurried to the door and peered out. At least two dozen infected men and women shuffled across the open field, moving in their direction. All of them were in uniform, and all carried bayoneted rifles. Cantor’s description of an army of the undead suddenly made a lot more sense.

  Bell looked to Mason. “Orders, sir?”

  Mason spun and did a quick assessment of the room. Shelves filled the left side of the building, most of them stacked with five-gallon buckets of paint. The back of the room had several industrial paint shakers, as well as racks stacked with paint rollers, trays, extension rods, and other painting equipment. There were four small windows along each side wall as well as the service and rolling bay doors. The walls themselves were standard sheet metal, capable of being taken down with little more than a can opener. Of all the igloos in which to get cornered, a paint shed had to be one of the worst.

  “Listen up!” he shouted. “Enemy inbound. I need everyone outside.”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  “Now!” He shoved one of the cadets through the doorway, and the others quickly followed.

  Mason estimated that they had maybe sixty seconds before being completely overrun. Even if they could maintain that same lead as they ran back to the truck, it would be a tossup as to whether or not they would have time to load up and drive away. He had been forced to drive a truck through a mob of the infected once before, and he had no desire for a repeat performance. If the cadets were to have any chance of escape, he would have to give them a little more time.

  He called Rodriguez, Cobb, and Bell closer to him.

  “You three get everyone to the truck. And I mean everyone. No one gets left behind. I’ll give you as much time as I can.”

  “What about you?” said Cobb.

  “I already told you. I’m going after the Commandant. Now go!”

  “Marshal…” Bell’s voice was thick with worry.

  “It’ll be fine. Bowie and I will give them something else to chase. If it works the way I hope, you should have plenty of time to load up and get back across the bridge before they know any better.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then you’ll have a race on your hands.”

  “Come on, Bell!” Rodriguez cried, tugging her by the arm. “We got our own shit to deal with!”

  Mason stared at Rodriguez for a moment, reminded of a hundred other soldiers just like him. Each and every one had been a prick to be sure, but they were also the ones who typically came out of a firefight in one piece.

  He nodded to Bell. “He’s right. Go!”

  The cadets turned and ran across the field as one big group, Cobb leading the way, and Rodriguez and Bell taking up the rear.

  “Bell!” Mason called out.

  She slowed and looked back over her shoulder.

  “You’re in command.”

  She hesitated. “Sir?”

  “That means you have permission to shoot Rodriguez if he gets out of line.”

  A brief smile tickled her lips.

  “Yes, sir.” She wheeled around and raced after the other cadets.

  Mason flipped the M4’s selector switch to semi-automatic and brought the weapon to his shoulder. He took aim and squeezed off a quick three-round burst. One of the infected fell, but it hardly made a difference. He stood his ground for another ten long seconds, swinging his rifle from left to right, dropping those leading the pack. Bowie stood beside him, growling, his back hunched and paws scratching at the dirt.

  When Mason had given the cadets as much of a head start as he dared, he lowered his rifle and bolted toward a thick outcrop of trees. Bowie seemed surprised by the sudden retreat, but it took him only a moment to catch up to his master.

  “Don’t worry,” breathed Mason. “Our fight is still coming.”

  Chapter 16

  Having passed the South Hangars and skirted around Terminal A, the unique Cesar Pelli arches of Terminals B and C came into full view. Three mile-long runways crisscrossed the field to form a triangle that lined up almost perfectly with the air traffic control tower. Dozens of commercial airplanes remained docked at the terminals, flights that had been canceled when people realized that the virus could not be escaped. Luggage carts lay toppled over between planes, leaving suitcases of every size and color spread in front of the terminal viewing window.

  Several of the larger airplanes had dumped sewage onto the tarmac, the blue sanitizer mixing with human waste to form sickly green puddles that buzzed with flies.

  “Do you hear that?” Samantha asked, stopping and turning her head to one side.

  “The flies?”

  “No. Listen.”

  Tanner stopped and listened.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  She studied the sky. “It sounds like an airplane.”

  “You’re hearing things. There’s no way—” He cut himself short as he heard the unmistakable rumble of an engine in the distance.

  “You were saying?”

  He scanned the horizon. “Do you see it?”

  She squinted and stared off to the south.

  “There!” she said, pointing.

  Tanner could hardly believe his eyes. A small private airplane was approaching above the tree line.

  “Crap.” He turned and looked for a place for them to hide. Short of crouching down behind an airplane tire or luggage cart, there wasn’t much
cover on the tarmac. His eyes settled on a set of stairs leading up into one of the jet bridges.

  “Tanner,” she said, catching his gaze, “you said we shouldn’t go in there.”

  “No choice. Come on!” He grabbed Samantha’s arm and ushered her up the winding staircase. At the top was a plain white door with a small observation window. He tugged on the handle and breathed a sigh of relief when the door swung open.

  Pushing Samantha in ahead of him, Tanner took one last look at the incoming airplane. It was a small craft, probably only a handful of people onboard. By the markings, it didn’t appear to be military. Government officials, perhaps? Whoever they were, it was better that he and Samantha go undetected.

  He stepped in, closing and locking the door behind them. The jet bridge was fairly well lit thanks to two long rectangular windows along its side. To their right was a small extendable platform that butted up against the open hatch of a Boeing 747. To their left, the jet bridge led up to the gate and, beyond that, the larger terminal.

  Samantha leaned forward and peered up the ramp.

  “Whew!” she said, pulling her scarf up over her nose and mouth. “Whatever’s up there smells worse than your socks.”

  “What are you doing smelling my socks?”

  “Believe me, it’s not by choice.”

  He grinned as he looked around, quickly weighing their options. Their best bet was probably to stay put until the incoming airplane passed.

  “Let’s go watch them through the airplane windows,” he said, turning toward the open hatch.

  “You think it’s safe in there?”

  “The bulkhead isn’t bulletproof, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I meant… do you think there are any zombies?” She opened her eyes real wide and made a scary face.

  “Sam, I’ve told you a hundred times—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you say tomato, I say potato.”

  He tilted his head. “Huh?”

  “Tomato… potato…” She leaned forward expectantly, waiting for him to get the joke.

  He shrugged.

  “They sound alike, but they’re different,” she explained.

  “Yeah, but that’s not—”

  Samantha turned and walked into the airplane’s forward service galley.

  Tanner let out a sigh and followed after her.

  At the center of the galley sat a spiral staircase, sealed off by wraparound curtains. To either side were metal cubicles stocked with rolling food carts, spare storage bins, and coffee decanters. The remains of a stewardess lay on the floor of the galley, the intercom phone cord wrapped tightly around her neck. Based on the stains of dried fluids surrounding her, she’d been dead for several weeks.

  Neither of them gave the body a second glance. Instead, Samantha began rifling through the storage bins. After a quick search, she lifted out a small case of bottled water. Without saying a word, she tossed a bottle at Tanner, and it wasn’t a gentle lob either. The bottle bounced off his burly chest, popping off the cap and landing with a big splash on the service galley floor.

  “Why in the world did you do that?” he said, reaching down and snatching up the bottle before too much water spilled out.

  “You’re always telling me to be ready for anything. I was testing to see if you were.”

  “And?”

  She shrugged. “You’re obviously not ready for flying water bottles.”

  He shook his head. “You, dear, are what’s known as a troubled teen.”

  “Correction. I’m only twelve.”

  “Your troubles are obviously starting early.”

  She turned to look up and down the long aisles. The first-class cabin was to her left, complete with seats that folded down into individual sleeping compartments. The economy class to her right was far less luxurious, with passengers forced to sit eight across in stiff upright seats.

  Tanner pushed past her and looked out through one of the cabin windows. Before he could tell her to check the other side, he saw the small plane touch down in the distance. It took only a few moments for it to slow and begin taxing in from the runway.

  “They’re coming this way,” he said.

  Samantha took up a position a few rows down, sipping the water as she watched the small plane approach the terminal.

  “Who do you think they are?”

  “Can’t say.”

  As the aircraft got closer, they saw that it was a silver and black Piper Meridian equipped with a nose-mounted turboprop engine, a cool two million dollars, easy.

  “It sure is pretty.”

  “It is that.” Tanner read the tail numbers and compared them to several other planes. “I think they’re flying in from another country.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Their tail number is XB-VGA.”

  “So?”

  “So, the tail numbers on all the other planes start with N. That must be the prefix for US planes.”

  She leaned around to see a few of the numbers.

  “Where do you think XB is from?”

  “Not a clue.”

  The small plane taxied past the Boeing 747, finally coming to rest near the overturned luggage cart. The propeller slowly spun to a stop, and the hatch opened up, folding outward into a set of stairs. Five men unloaded. The first four were obviously hired muscle, thick chests and square jaws. The fifth man was much slighter, standing barely five feet tall and weighing no more than a hundred and forty pounds. Clearly, he was the man in charge.

  All the men had deep tans, thick black hair, and sharp Hispanic features. The guards wore matching tactical vests and baseball caps, and each carried a Spectre short-barreled machine pistol. Their boss wore a pink Polo shirt and white trousers, better suited to spending a day on the golf course.

  The four bodyguards spread out to set up a small perimeter at the base of the stairs. The man in the pink shirt stood at the top, taking a long moment to study the airport. He tipped his nose up, sniffing the air like a hunting dog searching out his prize.

  “They look like Mexicans,” whispered Samantha.

  Tanner nodded. “My guess, too.”

  “Do you think they’re going to be trouble?”

  “Not if we stay out of sight.”

  “That may be hard to do.” She pointed out the window. “Look.”

  The man in the pink shirt had descended the stairs, and the entire group was now walking toward the 747 in quick confident strides.

  “Forty-four gates, and they had to pick ours,” growled Tanner.

  Samantha glanced back at the airplane door.

  “Should we go out and hide in the airport?”

  He didn’t like the idea of getting trapped in a metal tube any more than she did, but the odds were that the men were heading into the airport rather than onto the plane. Once they passed, he and Samantha could slip back out onto the tarmac and be on their way. No fuss, no muss.

  He looked toward the cockpit and then back toward economy class. There were plenty of places to duck out of view, but none that would avoid detection if someone really went looking.

  “What’s in here?” Samantha said, wandering down a small hallway. As she rounded the corner, she discovered a foldout mattress with a pillow belted down in the middle. A phone and a small door were on the wall above it.

  Tanner came around and looked over her shoulder.

  “It must be where the stewardesses sleep,” he explained.

  She pointed to the door.

  “Where do you think that goes?”

  “Cargo hold, maybe.”

  She pulled on the aluminum handle, and the door swung out over the bunk. A narrow stairway led down into darkness. Tanner dug out his flashlight and shined it down into the hole. Below was a web of yellow cargo straps securing large metal containers to the fuselage.

  “You were right,” she said. “It’s a storage area.”

  They heard the Mexicans thumping something heavy against the jet bridge door. />
  “It won’t take them long to break the lock.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Let’s get out of sight.”

  She stepped out of his way.

  “This is one of those times when you should go first.”

  “Chicken,” he said, slipping off his pack and tossing it down into the hold. The pack tumbled down a few stairs before coming to rest. Tanner sucked in his gut and squeezed down the narrow staircase, using the flashlight to light the way. When he got to the bottom, he waved her down. “Come on. It’s empty.”

  Samantha took one last look at the stewardess quarters before reluctantly stepping in and pulling the door closed behind her.

  The air in the forward cargo hold smelled like rubber and felt a good ten degrees hotter than the cabin above. The hold was roughly fifteen feet long by eight feet wide, with the far end tapering down into the nose of the aircraft. Stacks of nondescript metal storage containers filled most of the space, leaving only a small walkway between.

  Before either of them had a chance to look around, footsteps sounded on the floor above.

  Samantha whispered, “They’re inside the plane.”

  “Probably just making sure that it’s clear before going up into the airport.” Even as he said the words, Tanner clicked off the flashlight and leveled his shotgun at the stairs.

  They stood in darkness for nearly a minute, listening as the men moved around the airplane. Eventually, the footsteps retreated until they could no longer be heard.

  “Told you,” he said, turning on the flashlight.

  “How long should we wait?”

  “Let’s give them a few minutes to get gone.”

  She set her pack on the floor and hopped up onto one of the metal containers.

  “How in the world do they get these things in here anyway? They’re too big to go through that little door.”

  Tanner gestured toward the front of the airplane.

  “I think the nose opens up.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “How else?”

  She hopped down and walked over to inspect a seam that ran all the way around the nose.

  “Think we could get it open?”

  “I doubt it. Besides, it’s not like our Mexican friends wouldn’t notice a huge airplane nose folding up. Better that we sneak back out the way we came.”