by Kirk Withrow
Exhausted, each of them took a turn keeping watch that night, while the others tried to get a few precious moments of sleep. As John’s head settled down on the cool, soft pillow, his mind whirring amidst a fusillade of thoughts, he scarcely imagined he would find any sleep at all. When a fulgent beam of light seared a path across his visage causing him to open his weary eyes, he realized the unyielding light was that of the early morning sun. The slightest smile creased his face, and he thanked St. Elijah for the first night of decent sleep he had in weeks. How strange that I managed to get a little sleep on this of all nights?
Rising and feeling fairly well rested; John trudged out of the room to join the others. He found them in the kitchen, and it seemed as though he was not the only one afforded the small blessing of a few hours of quality sleep. The glorious smell of instant coffee and something savory cooking on the small, portable camping stove Ethan set up in the room bombarded the olfactory centers of his rejuvenated brain. The wonderful smell seemed all at once familiar yet completely out of place compared to the smells of MREs and canned food that had become the norm in the last couple of weeks. As his three companions turned to greet him, John caught a fleeting glimpse of something he had scarcely seen in the last two weeks: happiness.
After a meager breakfast, they gathered their gear, rechecked the loads of their weapons, and reviewed the plans they hashed out for their trip to Atlanta. To begin their journey, they intended to commandeer a vehicle from one of John’s neighbors, as he and Reams had already taken Rebecca’s truck, and John’s vehicle remained at the airport.
Standing at the end of his driveway on Hood Street, possibly for the last time, John stared off to the east as tears obscured his vision, robbing him of his view of the perfect sunrise. Nearly strangled by the burgeoning lump in his throat that seemed hell-bent on his asphyxiation, John thought of the marked incongruity between the wonderful, peaceful life he and his family had lived here, and the violent demise it ultimately met. He thought of all the things the unrelenting plague had done and would likely do to his world. He wondered whether Lin even made it to Atlanta, and if she truly possessed the fortitude and knowledge to carry out the impossible charge. Replaying the broken phone call in his mind, John even considered the possibility that he misinterpreted the message altogether. It seemed as though it had been a lifetime ago.
John felt the weight of his horrible decision pressing down upon him like the weight of the sky upon Atlas’ shoulders. While he wanted more than anything to spend the rest of his days searching for Ava, he knew in the depths of his soul that was the selfish path. Lin asked for his help, and he believed that if anyone were capable of ending this godforsaken blight it would be her. He desperately wanted to believe Ava was alive but couldn’t completely silence the realist within him that told of another fate. Recalling Kate’s words, John vowed to hang on to hope like a life jacket in a furious storm. He rationalized that while he was abandoning his search of the immediate area, he would not abandon hope that she was alive and well somewhere in this ruined, new world. He also knew that if Ava was alive, her life would mean nothing if whatever remained of it had to be spent like that of a troglodyte—merely scrounging to subsist all the while trying to avoid becoming the means for subsistence for someone or something else. John knew he and his ragtag group of survivors could help Lin and, above all else, that should be his priority at that point. Head hung low, he did not know what else to do.
“You guys seeing this?” said Reams as he walked tentatively toward the west, finger pointing to the horror blooming on the distant horizon. Like a fuming army of ants, the mass of dark shapes bumped and banged making the horizon appear to writhe with the unremitting movement.
John, Ethan, and Kate all stopped what they were doing and turned to see what was troubling Reams. Almost in unison, their faces went slack as the realization of what they were seeing registered in each of their minds. In the distance, moving in their direction from the west was a herd of revs so large it seemed to envelop the derelict landscape like a molasses tidal wave as it flaggingly surged forward. The slow, relentless, crushing force of the oncoming mass called up images of a steamroller in John’s mind: unquestionably fatal, yet achingly slow.
When the survivors approached Hood Street from the south the previous day they had not seen any indication that such a group was in the area. As Atlanta was east of their current position, the languid horde did not pose much of a threat to them at its present distance. Despite this, John could not help but wonder why a group that appeared to be over five hundred strong was amassed there in the first place.
Knowing they were safe as long as they did not wait around for the revs to come knocking on the door, the group quickly gathered their gear and readied themselves to set out on the 250 mile trek to Atlanta. Before falling in behind the others, John took one last fleeting glance at his old home, and then stared out across the sea of the vacant faces ambling randomly toward him like so many leaves blown by the wind. A thousand feral eyes stared longingly at him and the departing forms of his companions.
Beyond the seemingly infinite ocean of infection, hidden from view, crouched another lone set of eyes; different because of the brightness and intelligence they held. They, too, stared longingly at the retreating backs of the survivors and at the one man who stood defiantly facing the swarm. A glimmer of uncertain recognition fluttered through the eyes, and the associated mouth clamped down hard on its tongue, daring not utter a single sound for fear of calling the ‘bad ones’ back. Instead, the calculating eyes moved discreetly with the slow, cautious coordination of a hunting feline, having learned to move quietly and skillfully amongst the infected things. Wanting more than anything to race full bore toward the solitary man, the eyes had seen enough to know that course of action would prove fatal. Instead, the circumspect eyes bided their time, sliding stealthily through the shadows, and drawing ever closer to the departing survivors. Unfortunately, the gap between the unhindered survivors and the besieged eyes grew steadily despite all efforts to close the distance.
Far across the impenetrable distance, with a sigh of resignation, John managed to croak a single, nearly inaudible phrase before turning to join the others.
“I will always love you, Ava.”
Epilogue
October 2, 2015
Stomach roiling and sweat beading on her tense forehead, Dr. Lin San sat with white-knuckled grips on the armrests of the Embraer KC-390 as it passed over the coastline of the continental U.S. Though the turbulent air that mercilessly assaulted the massive plane for the last couple of hours of the nine-hour flight had abated, Lin’s body still quaked with its nauseating memory. Reluctantly, she gazed out the window at the night sky, but was unable to discern any details of the land passing far below the clouds. I wonder what conditions are like on the ground? Surely it can’t be that bad or it would have been all over the news. To Lin, the worst part was simply not knowing what to expect. Apprehensively, she diverted her attention back to perusing the data given to her by General Montes.
Meanwhile, the two-man crew of the KC-390 worked diligently on the business of flying the plane to its intended destination— Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, GA. Their orders were to transport the personnel directly from Brazil, with a single in-flight refueling along the way. Though a military transport would not typically utilize a civilian airport, they were granted special clearance to do so, given the nature of the situation and the airport’s proximity to the CDC labs. A U.S. military detachment was scheduled to meet them upon landing to ensure the safe ground transportation of the personnel to the CDC facilities.
As they came to within fifty miles of the airport, the copilot thumbed the radio switch, and said, “Atlanta center, Brazil National KC-390, fifty miles south, inbound for approach to ATL.”
After waiting several minutes and receiving no acknowledgement from the air traffic control center, the copilot again called, “Atlanta center, Brazil National KC-3
90, approximately forty miles south, inbound for approach to ATL. Do you copy?”
Both the pilot and copilot stared at the radio with growing concern at not having confirmation that the ARTCC associated with the busiest airport in the world had them on radar. With notable fear in his voice, the pilot said, “Why the hell isn’t Atlanta center responding? Given the number of aircraft in the airspace over Atlanta at any one moment we’ll be lucky if we avoid an in-air collision!”
The pilot’s comments only served to further unnerve the copilot, generally ratcheting up the level of tension relentlessly nudging its way into the cramped confines of the cockpit. As they flew closer and closer to Atlanta International, they began their slow descent while still desperately awaiting a reply from Atlanta center, or anyone on the ground, for that matter. Dropping below 14,000 feet, the copilot dialed the frequency for Atlanta control, the terminal radar approach control facility in charge of the immediate airspace around Atlanta International.
“Atlanta approach, Brazil National KC-390, twenty-five miles south, inbound to ATL, no contact with Atlanta control—I repeat—no contact with Atlanta control.” Though they slowed the big plane considerably, they knew they would be over the airport in less than five minutes. While they anxiously awaited a reply from approach control, the two men nervously began their preparations for an unauthorized landing.
As they continued their descent, the copilot took in a sudden, sharp inhalation that reverberated painfully through the pilot’s headset. “Damn it! What the hell was that about…” the pilot roared. Dauntless of his anger, his words crumbled as he peered out the window in the direction of the copilot’s gaze. The impossibility of what he saw left him utterly speechless. Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport was burning.
The main terminal building, once home to more than 200,000 passengers per day, was engulfed by a blazing inferno indubitably ignited by the smoldering wreckage of the Boeing 737 that had its nose half buried in the side of the building. All five runways were enveloped by a gridlocked tangle of aircraft of all sizes. The only runway not obstructed by a large commercial airliner was rendered just as useless by a small, single engine Cirrus inexplicably parked at an angle on the middle of the tarmac. While many of the aircraft appeared intact, the copilot could see at least one ground collision that left two runways blocked.
Just north of the airport another conflagration raged, presumably the site of one or more downed aircraft from the looks of the surrounding devastation. Given that the airport is the busiest in the world it came as no surprise that it was quickly consumed by pandemonium as soon as Atlanta center and approach control went offline. Realizing that landing at Atlanta International was not an option, the pilot instructed the copilot to scour the maps for an alternative airport while he tried unsuccessfully to raise anyone on the radio. What is going on here? Where the hell is everyone?
“I found it!” exclaimed the copilot as he pointed to the map. “Dobbins ARB is just twenty miles north of Atlanta and has a runway large enough to accommodate the KC-390. I only hope we can get someone on the radio before we violate the restricted airspace over the base.”
Nodding his head in approval, the pilot keyed the speakers in the plane’s cabin and informed the passengers of the situation on the ground, as well as their intention to divert to Dobbins ARB. Even from within the insulated cockpit, he could hear the sudden increase in volume as the passengers reacted to the direful announcement.
As the lights of Dobbins ARB came into view, the copilot breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the primary runway appeared unobstructed and usable. Having been unable to contact anyone at Dobbins, the pilot also let out a slow exhalation when he saw no fighter jets being scrambled to intercept the large jet currently inbound on an unauthorized trajectory through the military installation’s restricted airspace.
Overall the base appeared relatively inactive, though neither the pilot nor the copilot knew anything about the base’s current level of operations. Intent on landing the big bird, neither man took notice of the large group of seemingly agitated people amassed around the main hangar and barracks complex. The group, on the other hand, definitely took notice of them as they began their final approach to the base.
Safely on the ground, the pilot and copilot congratulated one another on a successful, albeit unorthodox landing, as the majority of the roughly forty people on board the KC-390 prepared to disembark. Though the jet also carried a variety of sophisticated military and scientific equipment, including some of the most modern and devastating firepower in Brazil’s arsenal, most of it remained stowed as the occupants of the jet hurriedly moved to get their feet on solid ground after the long, nerve-racking flight. No sooner than the big jet had taxied to a stop on the tarmac adjacent to runway 11/29, the hydraulics hissed as they slowly lowered the twenty-foot rear cargo ramp. The nearly thirty Brazilian soldiers eagerly waiting for the ramp to fully open caught a glimpse of several U.S. soldiers and personnel anxiously anticipating their arrival; many more could be seen in the distance moving in an irregular clump toward the steadily opening mouth of the plane.
Just as the door completely settled down on the tarmac, one of the soldiers turned to his comrade, and said, “Do you see that guy on the end? Something isn’t right with him. It looks like the front of his flight suit is covered in blood.” The screaming began before the other man had time to respond.
Everything happened before General Montes, who was seated at the front of the plane with his security personnel and a small contingent from the Brazilian Special Operations Brigade, could intervene.
Dr. Lin San sat nearby watching with concern as the surly General reacted to the tumult unfolding at the rear of the jet. Several volleys of small arms fire erupted somewhere behind her, causing her to flinch involuntarily with each sharp report.
Despite being caught completely off guard by the attacks of the would-be welcoming committee, several of the well-trained Brazilian soldiers were able to fend off the infected attackers, and retreated into the cargo hold. For those men, the close quarters hand-to-hand combat resulted in only superficial wounds, including bites, bruises, and scratches—minor injuries to which the otherwise hardened Brazilian soldiers did not give much consideration.
Standing horrorstruck with mouth agape in the safety of the cockpit, the pilot watched as the inexplicable tableaux played out at the rear of the plane. Turning to the digital display on the flight console, he called up the video feeds from the cameras set to provide external monitoring of the entire perimeter of the fifty million dollar jet. With frightening clarity, he saw what was happening and sensed what the attackers truly were, or at least what they were not. His ashen face was devoid of all color as he turned to the copilot, and said, “We need to get the hell out of here, now! Those things assaulting the plane, they’re…monsters!”
Despite the uncertainty surrounding the last word out of the pilot’s mouth, the unbridled fear it contained was more than enough to spur the copilot into action. Panic-stricken, the two men hurriedly fired up the jet turbines, and began readying the plane for immediate departure. After engaging the rear cargo door control, the copilot watched with wide-eyed terror as the unyielding force of the hydraulics pulled the massive door closed with the speed of a three-legged turtle on Xanax, crushing one rev completely, and pinching another in half as it finally closed. The external camera feed displayed the thing’s motionless legs dangling lifelessly from the rear of the plane like some demented Halloween decoration. What he saw on the internal camera feed, however, was far worse. The upper half of the rev’s body tobogganed down the inclined ramp of the cargo door as if it was on some ghastly slip-and-slide at a mid-summer family reunion in Hell. A putrescent crimson slug trail snaked along in its wake until it slammed onto the flat surface of the cargo hold, with a moist, gelatinous thud like a water balloon refusing to burst after smacking the pavement. Without registering the impact, the half-thing fervently pulled itself toward the few remaini
ng healthy souls on board the doomed transport.
“Corporal Rocha, take two men to the rear of the plane and assess the situation there. The rest of you form up around Dr. San. We’re getting off this bird,” said General Montes as he fixed his resolute gaze on Lin, who stood slack-jawed and frozen in shocked terror. Upon hearing the engines ignite, General Montes stormed off toward the cockpit, cursing as he went. “What in the hell are you two doing?” shouted the General as he glared at the two men busily turning knobs and flipping switches as they completed their pre-flight checklist.
“Sir, we have to get out of here! It’s not safe! No one is safe!” exclaimed the pilot. General Montes calmly and deliberately drew his sidearm, and pointed it directly at the pilot’s head. “We are not going anywhere. We have a mission, and we will complete it or die trying. Is that clear?” asked the General.
Hearing the commotion of Corporal Rocha returning, General Montes momentarily shifted his gaze to peer over his shoulder. In that instant the copilot saw his opening and lunged at the General, simultaneously pushing him out of the doorway and slamming it shut. As the bulletproof door could only be opened from the inside, the General knew there was nothing he could do to stop the crew.