“Excuse me, gentlemen, would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”
They turned at the sound of my voice, and I had to stifle a laugh. The surprise at seeing this pair of giants look down on me with freckled baby faces was nearly too much to keep inside, but I managed it. “My name is Kevin Turner. I work at the Marin Gazette, and I’m writing a story about what happened yesterday,” I looked into their blank faces and said, “Do you think you could help me out?”
The guards weren’t identical twins, but they came close with their matching short red hair and freckles. There was a moment of silence before the one on the right said, “Well, I don’t know what you want to know. Me and my brother didn’t see how it started.”
I had to fight the urge to act surprised at hearing that they were brothers. But I am a professional and instead asked, “Can I get your name?”
“Sure, my name is Ben Morgan. That’s my brother Berry.” Berry Morgan and I shared a nod.
“Thanks. Now Ben can you tell me what you did see?”
Ben was quiet for a second and then words seemed to spill out of him, “Buncha crazy freaks! I never saw anything like that. Just to start goin’ off and bitin’ people like that. I mean, what the hell is that?” It was clear that the big guy was picturing the incident, and it was not a pleasant picture.
“Drugs,” Berry offered. “It had to be drugs. I mean, what else would make people go all psycho like that? They were completely whacked out!” I got the clear im-pression that the big guard had been up most of the night thinking about what he had seen and now had little desire to describe it further. However, description is precisely what I needed from both of them.
“I’m getting the idea that what happened was very unusual. Could you describe it more specifically? How many people were involved?” I turned to the right and asked, “When you say ‘just to start going off and biting people like that’, can you tell me exactly what you mean?”
I could see a look of relief from the left guard, Berry, that I had asked a question of his brother rather than him. Ben looked like someone who had smelled something very bad. He took a long drink of his coffee before answering.
“Well, I dunno exactly how to say it.” He looked over at his partner for some support but only got a blank stare. “I guess there were about ten people all together. I don’t think I ever saw anything that bad.”
“You got that right, Ben,” Berry commented while shaking his head. “Half that woman’s face was bit off! Did you see that?”
A nod from Ben showed he had seen the woman. “How about the guy flopping around on the floor with blood spraying out of his throat?” He shook his head and closed his eyes as if trying to get rid of the memory.
“I’m sorry to bring all of this back to you,” I apologized with such sincerity I surprised myself. “Is there a supervisor or someone like that with whom I can speak?”
“The head of security is Mister Travers,” Berry answered sounding relieved at the chance to pass the buck. “His office is on the third floor near the elevator.”
I thanked the pair and left them silently drinking their coffees. The signs led me through the unusually quiet airport to a bank of elevators in the back corner of the terminal. As I waited for the silver doors to open, I was struck by the silence of the airport. The quiet had anything but a calming effect. It was more like a sense things were very wrong. The feeling of dread only grew as I stepped inside the elevator and rode up to the third floor.
As the elevator doors opened, I saw a place which appeared absolutely deserted. The silence was unsettling. I hesitated for just a second before stepping off the elevator. Truth be told, the eerie silence was enough to make me consider stepping back and just waiting for the doors to close once more. Instead, I walked off the elevator and into a big reception area with a counter holding ledgers for signing-in visitors. Behind the counter were several vacant desks. It was a place which certainly should have been filled with activity at ten thirty on a weekday morning. The fact that it was deserted made me curious. As I was contemplating possible reasons for the emptiness of the place, the silence was shattered by the roar of coughing. Actually, this coughing was certainly not any louder than other coughing, but the silence surrounding it amplified the sound.
I headed slowly in that direction. Before I had gone more than a few steps, I tentatively called, “Hello?” My voice was answered by more violent coughing. I slowly continued on a few more steps before repeating, “Hello?”
Again coughing was the reply. Suddenly, a very tall, very thin man with very short brown hair stepped out into the hall just a few feet in front of me. He looked straight at me as he blew his nose into an orange paper napkin which looked as if it had already been used for the same purpose. When he was finished, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
I watched him tuck the napkin into the pocket of his white shirt before saying, “I’m looking for a Mister Travers.”
“That would be me, Steve Travers.”
“Mister Travers, my name is Kevin Turner, and I’m a reporter for the Marin Gazette.” My connection to a newspaper clearly did not please Travers. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about an incident yesterday afternoon.”
Travers obviously knew just what I was talking about but feigned ignorance for a few seconds before saying, “Oh, you must mean the problem we had with the drunken passengers at Gate Eleven. I keep telling the lines they need to stop serving alcohol on these long flights at least two hours before landing. I damn sure don’t need a load of drunks being dropped on my airport. These passengers go off the flight pretty well lubricated and didn’t feel like waiting in line.” He stopped as if he had said enough on the matter. The idea I might have further questions did not please him.
“Really, the whole incident was just a few unruly drunks? From what I’ve heard, it was a whole lot more serious.” I glanced at my notes. “About ten people involved. Some with very serious bite wounds.”
Travers also glanced at my notes and wanted to ask about them but probably realized the futility of asking about my sources. Instead, he said, “Well, I can simply tell you that your information is incorrect. It was a minor event involving a group of inebriated and disorderly passengers.” It sounded like he was reading from the soon-to-be-written official account of the incident.
I saw no sense in questioning Steve Travers any further. Most likely, the only thing that would have gotten me was tossed out of the office and restricted from the airport. Instead, I thanked him for his time and said “bless you” when he sneezed as I was leaving the office.
Like any good reporter, I spent my time in the elevator reviewing what I had learned at the airport thus far. There was some sort of brawl in the customs area while processing arriving passengers from somewhere in Europe. According to the security guards, around ten people were involved. People had severe bite wounds. From the waitress, I learned that she saw “some really weird people running around”. Naturally, Travers, the head of airport security, downplayed the whole thing as “a minor event involving a group of inebriated and disorderly passengers”. In my limited experience as a reporter, I had learned that the truth usually rested somewhere between the extremes of what people told me. If such were the case here, the incident might be worth a little more of my time.
Once I got off the elevator, I stood in the quiet hallway and called into the paper to let my editor, Carole, know what I was doing. I was surprised when after about six rings the recorded message came on. “You have reached the Marin Gazette. Thank you for calling. You have called either outside of regular business or all of our operators are busy with other calls. Please leave a message after the tone, and we will return your call as soon as possible.”
I checked my watch to find it was just after eleven and wondered why no one was answering the phones at the office. After the long tone, I said, “Carole, this is Kevin. What’s with the recording? Anyway, I am at SFO. My nine thirty appointment didn’t show, but
I spoke to some other folks here including the head of security. Surprise, the accounts of the problem yesterday don’t match. I’m going to see what else I can find out. Be in later this afternoon.” I pushed 624 on the phone to be told that my voicemail contained “no new messages”. This was another surprise since I had been following several stories and typically had at least ten new messages every time I checked the voicemail.
I decided to head back to the coffee shop and sit down to plan my next move. I also realized that I had failed to get the waitress’s name, which I would need if I used her quote.
Like every other part of the airport, the lack of people in the coffee shop was striking. In fact, it was deserted. I waited at the counter expecting to see someone pop out of the backroom and apologize for making me wait.
After a minute or two, I called out “hello” but got no response. I walked from one end of the counter to the other trying to see if anyone was in the backroom. I saw no one. Finally, I pushed through the little gate which separated the customer area from the area behind the counter. Even given the strange circumstances, I felt a twinge of guilt at trespassing into an area forbidden to me. I walked slowly passed the silent coffee makers and empty glass coffee pots.
At the other end of the counter, I found a swinging metal door with a small square of glass. The glass was yellowed and scratched, but it revealed more than enough of the room on the other side.
I could see someone sprawled out on the white tile floor. I could not be certain whether or not it was the waitress from earlier or not, because someone in blue airport coveralls leaning over the body blocked my view. At first, I thought that I had stumbled upon some romantic tryst and started to turn away. Far be it for me to intrude upon young love. However, just as my eyes were leaving the small window, I saw the blood. It was spreading slowly out from underneath the body.
I have never considered myself much of a hero, but I was ashamed of myself for briefly considering slowly and quietly backing away from the door and simply leaving the airport. Instead, I pushed open the door. Just my luck, the door squeaked, and the figure in the blue airport coveralls turned at the sound.
Inside the blue airport coveralls was a pale young man with curly blond hair, glasses and a bushy, untrimmed beard. All of him covered in blood. Seeing me, he stood up and appeared to be shocked to the point of being unable to speak. His mouth moved, but no words came out. After a few seconds of this, his ability to speak returned, and he bawled, “I found her like this!” He saw me looking at his clothes and seemed to suddenly notice that he was covered in blood. As if to negate what he saw, he yelled more loudly, “I found her like this!”
In a voice I had not used since I was a teacher, I assertively said, “Let’s just take it easy.” I looked at the name etched in dark blue lettering above his right breast. “I believe you, James, but you need to sit down and quietly wait for the police.”
The young man in bloody, blue coveralls looked at me as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Suddenly, he lunged at me, and I thought I was dead. Fortunately, James was more interested in getting out of that room than doing harm to me. He threw me out of his way and ran out the door.
I watched through the still-swinging doors as he scurried like a wild man around the counter and out of the coffee shop. Then I turned to look at all of the blood. The place had obviously been the scene of a massacre. I doubted that James could have done all of this by himself and that all the blood was from one Asian waitress. The thought occurred to me that the people who did this could be coming back. It was a thought which put me on edge as if I hadn’t already been there.
I jumped at the sound of scratching and moaning from just outside the door. I am certainly not proud of this, but I immediately lunged for a nearby cabinet and moved inside. It was a tight fit, but I shut the door and could just see a little of the room through the small slots of a vent. It was not a good vantage point for observing whatever went on in the room, but it got considerably worse when something suddenly slammed against the door and blocked the vent. I huddle there in the dark for what seemed like an hour although I could not actually say since I was too afraid to move even to check my watch then and it did not occur to me to wonder about time until much later. There was lots of banging and grunting and sounds of things sliding. In a surprisingly calm voice, a man said, “I have to catch my flight.”
I huddled there in the dark listening to the strange sounds and expecting the door to be thrown open at any moment. But the door was never opened. Instead, whatever was blocking the door finally moved away and everything was silent. Even so, it was a while before I gathered enough courage to slowly push open the door. Given the surroundings, the creak it made sounded like a roar. I stopped pushing and waited a while for some reaction to the sound. When there was nothing, I again pushed gently on the door.
This time I managed to push the door completely open. Before moving out of the cabinet, I listened for the sound of the people responsible for this bloodbath. There was only silence. Eventually, I managed to unfold myself from the cabinet and step outside. The first thing I stepped in was a wide puddle of blood. The entire cabinet door was covered in blood and, as I discovered to my horror, so was my hand.
All of a sudden, getting my hand clean of the blood became the only thing that mattered. I scrambled to the back of the room and over to a big wash basin, which was clearly used for cleaning the coffee pots as some were still piled next to it. I flipped on the tap and was thankful for the scalding hot water that shot out. I scrubbed my hand with a brush that had been next to the tap. After my hand was raw from the brushing and the hot water, I felt some calm returning to me. I grabbed a dish towel and was drying my hands as I turned to survey the scene.
The young waitress was on her back with her hips twisted one way and her head unnaturally twisted the other way. As I moved closer, I could see that her eyes were open and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. I caught myself about to reflexively look up to see what had captured her interest. The absurdity of my action brought a stupid grin to my face which was a particularly inappropriate expression given the situation. Any further expression of humor was immediately wiped away as I caught just a twitch from her foot inside her blood-stained white tennis shoe. The movement did not fit in the scheme of things. Everything I saw signaled a corpse. The still pool of blood beneath her, the sightless eyes, and the grotesque angle of her head all painted a picture of a violent death.
My logical mind managed to explain away the movement as simple muscle spasms, and that explanation satisfied me until she tried to get up.
The young woman moved from side to side and raised her head. Her neck was still bent awkwardly to the left. I was struggling to make sense of what I was seeing when she spoke.
“Wha … what … hap … happened to me?” She stuttered and slurred, but her words could be understood. Her eyes were still glassy as she slowly turned her head to look at me.
I took me a few seconds to reply. Replying to someone who was just a moment earlier to all appearances dead has a way of taking your breath away. Eventually, I managed to say, “Well, I don’t really know, I ... uh ... came in and there was a guy in ... airport coverall named James and-”
“I f-feel cold,” she muttered very slowly as if she had not heard me. Sluggishly and with difficulty, she raised herself at the waist. She looked down at her bloody body surveying the damage. Until this point, I had not noticed that her right shoulder looked as if a bite had torn away a chunk of the flesh and her left cheek had four parallel deep scratches as if fingernails had ripped down the side of her face. I could not see other wounds, but blood covered most of her light green uniform making it look black.
“You shouldn’t move!” I yelled. “Don’t move! I’ll go find an airport doctor!”
I was standing a few feet from her, but somehow she managed to twist around and reach my leg. I felt her hand grab hard into the skin of my calf.
“No, s-s-stay here,” s
he hissed as I yanked my leg free and backed away.
“You need a doctor!” I cried out as I spun around to leave.
When I reached the doorway, I looked back at her. She was still struggling to stand even as she slid her body toward me. A trail of smeared blood stayed on the floor behind her. “Stay,” she hissed again, but I was already out the door.
Don’t miss Bloom’s Desk by Jeffrey Littorno.
Available at Amazon.com and other booksellers.
Chapter 1
Glen Davis didn’t believe in ghosts. But ghosts believed in him.
However, at this moment, such profound philosophical issues had no place within his mind. With his eyes clinched tightly closed, Glen was focused upon the banging of the MRI machine. The dull thuds did nothing but kick off a new round of the tooth-rattling throbs in his forehead. These headaches were part of the reason he had come to the doc-tor’s office and then to the MRI machine. Next came the loud blaring of what sounded like a truck horn and the machine gun clack-clack-clack seemingly designed to twist his spine.
At thirty-seven, Glen had enjoyed relatively good health with only the scattered bouts with the cold and flu. Most of the other teachers at Theodore Roosevelt High School suffered more from the constant stream of ailments students brought into the classrooms. He had been teaching sophomore and junior English at the high school for six years and had no plans to leave.
Finally, the slab under him slid out of the machine, and the nurse came back. “Looks like we’re all done.” She said trying to force cheerfulness into her voice that only sounded like forced cheerfulness. She was a fifty-ish, tall, unattractive woman who brought with her perfume that had a slight vanilla smell. Rather than having a pleasant effect on Glen’s senses, it only made him aware of the room’s other odors.
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