The madness of the rush of people continued onto the plane. The fuselage was a tumult of activity as people shoved past, or through, one another. Looking to avoid the chaos, Kristen slid through the crew area between business class and economy. A moment later she slid into her seat; row 25 seat F, an aisle seat at the very front of economy class. She was grateful to have found her seat. After a few minutes of watching the frenzied passengers board, a woman moved to the seat next to her. The woman's husband or travel partner sat in the seat directly behind her and the two conversed quietly over the back of the seat. The frenzied scene calmed gradually as more and more people found their seats, stowed their overhead baggage, and finally sat.
“Oh my god, as if I need to see that when boarding a plane!” the woman next to her said, aghast at something.
Kristen sat up a little, peering over her and out the window, to see a pair of coffins being loaded into the cargo bay of the plane.
“That doesn't seem like a good omen to me,” replied the man traveling with her.
“I'll just be happy once we are airborne,” Kristen interjected. “Can't wait to put this mess behind me.”
“If you look at the stuff people in Boston are saying, it's not much better over there,” the woman replied.
“Really?” Kristen asked, growing suddenly nervous. “I was just on the phone with my mother, she didn't say anything about that.”
“My cousins posted some pictures on Facebook, here I'll show you.”
Kristen really wasn't interested in seeing the woman's cousins’ pictures, but feigned interest and looked at them out of politeness. They didn't show much, just crowds of people, it could have been anything from a street performer to a car accident. A moan from beyond the curtain ahead stole her attention away after a few seconds. It was a moan of sickness or pain. Kristen unbuckled her belt and started to rise when a flight attendant came rushing over.
“Ma'am, please remain in your seat, we are about to start taxiing for take-off. If you have to use the loo, you'll have to wait until we hit cruising altitude and the pilot turns off the seatbelt signs.”
He gestured toward the seatbelt indicator on the overhead panel, that was lit up.
“Someone sounds sick or hurt up there,” Kristen replied as she sat back in her seat.
“Oh, are you a doctor?”
“No,” she replied, suddenly embarrassed at seeming like a busybody.
“Okay then,” he replied, clapping his hands together and moving away, through the curtains separating economy from business class.
When the curtains parted, Kristen caught sight of a gentleman, three rows into business class, whose face was lathered in sweat. His head lolled a bit toward the aisle and his skin was ashen. The curtains flapped closed after a moment, leaving her cringing at the thought of such a sick person in an enclosed air environment. Her germaphobic mind could almost see the particles of sickness drifting into the air circulators and coming out of the air vent above her. She shuddered at the thought.
Finally, the massive 767 lifted lazily into the sky. Kristen watched the city below through the windows as the plane circled, gaining altitude. When the clouds blotted out the signs of chaos on the streets below, the tension finally started to leave her body. Her packing, planning and preparation over the last eighteen hours, all in a haze of panic and doubt, meant that she had been awake since the morning previous. The pilot’s voice came through the intercom, sounding staticky and garbled. Kristen didn't hear any of the words as the tension departed, she drifted into unconsciousness.
“Ma'am. Ma'am,” came a voice, shaking her out of her nap. “Please lower your tray, your meal is here. Hindu vegetarian?”
“Yeah,” she replied, rubbing a stream of drool from the corner of her mouth.
Kristen wasn't vegetarian, but she was extremely partial to Indian food, especially when the alternative was a microwaved meatloaf sandwich. She had learned a few tricks from her father, who often flew for business over the years and this particular tip had paid off. The tray of chana masala the flight attendant set in front of her smelled marvelous. Her stomach responded to the aroma by grumbling loudly. She realized that she hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before. Without even waiting for the woman next to her to get her tray, she stripped the plastic off her spoon, took the lid off the tray, and dug in ravenously. The woman next to her stared longingly at her food.
“Wish I knew that was a choice we had,” she said indignantly, looking at her own bland tray as the flight attendant handed it to her.
Kristen finished her meal and washed it down with a hot, flavorless cup of coffee. She wiped her mouth with the crunchy little napkin and turned her attention to the in-flight movie. It was what looked like a remake of The Fugitive. She enjoyed the Harrison Ford version quite a bit, having watched it with her dad on a lazy Sunday afternoon many years before. The movie held her interest for only a few moments, it seemed they made up for a lack of quality acting with and over-abundance of special effects. She flipped through the SkyMall catalog absently as her mind drifted back to her predicament.
A series of odd sounds issued from business class ahead, a gurgle followed by a thump and some shuffling. It immediately drew her attention from the magazine and her own thoughts. A moment later, the same flight attendant from earlier rushed forward from the rear of economy. He spoke in an overly light, faux-feminine voice calling “excuse me” and “coming through” as he moved up the aisle. He ripped the curtain open and moved in to help before closing it completely, offering Kristen a clear view of what was happening. The sick passenger she had seen earlier was seizing on the floor, laying partially in the aisle. A handful of passengers stood far off to the side, displaced from their seats by the efforts of the flight crew. The crew was gathered around, mostly watching, except for two who were trying to prevent the passenger from striking his head on anything as he thrashed about in the throes of a seizure.
Kristen watched in fascination. She had never seen an active seizure before and couldn't tear her eyes away. One thing she noticed as the man writhed about, was that his shirt rode up and out of his waistband. When it did, she could see a blood-soaked bandage on his left side. A body moved in front of her view, blocking it out entirely. She looked up and paled at the sight of the flight attendant giving her a haughty look as he ripped the curtains closed with a huff.
Kristen was left feeling shamed, and in equal part, nervous. She feared for the man, but also felt a deeper, unsettled feeling start to form somewhere in her gut. Before she could sort out her feelings, the overwhelming urge to evacuate her bowels came over her. She unbuckled, slid out of her seat, and moved quickly forward through the curtain to the restrooms. If the urge wasn't so strong she would have retreated to the rear of the economy section to use the bathrooms, and avoided the flight attendant altogether. Instead, she hustled to the first unoccupied booth, averting her gaze from the scene entirely. Even looking away, she could tell immediately that the sounds of the man seizing had ended.
As she slid the lock home she could hear a steady, rhythmic sound that she immediately recognized. It was the sound of CPR being performed. Her heart sank into her stomach as she sat on the toilet. With all the chaos of the past day, something like a man fighting for his life on the floor of the plane humbled her and put her own problems into perspective. It's not a big deal, Kris. You just need to pick a new path in life. You need to re-enroll in college and finish your degree, she reassured herself about her decision to leave the service. There are more important things than your duty, especially when they are breaking the law.
The rhythmic thumping of chest compressions ceased a couple minutes later, followed by the low murmur of voices. The voices were muffled by the door and Kristen couldn't tell what was being said, but the low tone gave her the impression that things didn't end well for the man. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands in the little sink, taking a moment to compose herself before walking out. She was wracked with sadness for
the man, who she assumed had died. She also recognized that most of the emotion she was feeling was pent up anxiety, and worry for herself and her own plight. Regardless of the source of the emotion, she didn't want to show it. Don't act like you're weak and they wont treat you like you are, she reminded herself, a mantra from basic. Not crying was something that she learned early on in the service. She took a couple deep breaths to steady herself and bite back the emotion, before sliding the lock back and pulling the folding door open.
The sound of pained screams came to her as soon as the door opened and she stepped out into the aisle. The scream startled her, and she froze mid-stride. She had intended on escaping back to economy the same way she had come into business, with her head down. Her head snapped up from her shoes and spun around, where her eyes locked onto a gruesome image. The sick man wasn't dead at all, he was up and moving. It took her a moment for her eyes to focus and for her mind to absorb what was happening. The man had bits of bloody gore hanging from his mouth and the flight attendant that had shamed her was laying on his back, clutching at his throat, just a few feet in front of her. Blood poured down from beneath his hands and he had a shocked and terrified look on his face.
Everyone was screaming. Those who were already standing ran, either forward toward first class or through the curtains, back into economy. Those who were seated struggled with their lap belts as the man stalked in, halfway across the row, just ahead of where she stood. He knocked aside the defensive hands of a boy who couldn't have been older than six years old. Kristen stared in a stupor, watching in disbelief as the man leaned down and began to eat the child. The boy's shrill screams died out after a few seconds and blood began to pool on the floor at his feet.
Just to her left, coming through the curtain, a flight attendant shrieked in horror at the scene. Kristen's head snapped to the woman in surprise. When she turned back, her eyes locked with the attacker's. They were the eyes of a predator, soulless and devoid of any trace of humanity. His face was covered in blood and he let loose an unearthly sound as he turned to face her fully. The flight attendant shoved her forward mightily, still screaming. The spell of the moment broke with the shove and Kristen started running up the aisle toward the front of the compartment, urged on by the steady, insistent shoves of the flight attendant.
“Stop!” called a man's voice from off to the left as they ran.
Kristen glanced to the side as she was shoved down the aisle. She could see a heavyset man holding a pistol and a badge moving across the last row of seats, toward the aisle. She also saw the visage of the bloody, screaming man tearing across the row as he moved in pursuit of them. His screams sounded inhuman and sent a small sprinkle of urine down her leg. The man's eyes boring through her as he single-mindedly ran after them, sent a jolt of terror down her spine. He's going to catch you and when he does, he's going to eat you, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. With her next breath, she joined the flight attendant, screaming out of shock and fear. There was no longer a need for the flight attendant to shove her, they both ran headlong up the aisle, away from the man.
“Federal Air Marshal! Stop or I will shoot!” the man shouted.
Kristen blew through the curtains that separated business class from first class, tearing them off the overhead sliders completely. She nearly fell when a hiccup of turbulence hit and the plane lurched up momentarily. The people in first class slid away from them, across the rows of seats. When their pursuer came into sight, a new volley of screams and panicked noise cascaded through the cabin. Kristen hesitated, seeing the locked door of the cockpit ahead. She looked furtively around for escape. The rough hands of the flight attendant propelled her forward once again.
“Cockpit!” the woman screamed, nearly in her ear.
The two women hit the cockpit door at speed. The reinforced door held and Kristen's hands stung from the impact. The flight attendant fumbled with the number pad on the door, struggling in her panic to punch in the code. A steady stream of curses left the flight attendant's mouth as she furiously punched her fingers on the number pad. The man giving chase was only ten feet away, running headlong with his arms spread as if to grab them in a hug.
He left his feet, diving in toward their midsections. The impact of his body, colliding with them, came at the same time as a series of three beeps from the door. Kristen was blasted down to the ground, just inside the flight deck. She rolled to her back and kicked with her legs to push herself deeper into the cockpit and away from the man. The bloody man was biting and tearing at the flight attendant, who flailed her arms and kicked out in defense against the brutal onslaught. Kristen's back hit something hard and metal, causing her to rise and try to move around it. As she stood, she could see the Federal Air Marshal taking aim with his pistol. Looking down the barrel herself, she instinctively threw herself back to the ground.
The shot rang out, sounding hollow and amplified in the pressurized cabin. Kristen was sprayed with gore as the bullet tore through the man's chest. She let out a shriek of surprise and disgust before wiping it from her face with the sleeve of her shirt.
“Fuck!” shouted a voice from behind her. “Fuck!”
Kristen hazarded a glance back and could see in an instant that things had gone from bad to worse. Sparks and a small fire erupted from the control panel.
“Get that fire put out!” the captain called as he flipped some toggles and tried to get control of the stick.
The first officer stood, removing his headset, and shoved past Kristen as the chime and buzz of alarms began to sound.
“Ground this is GE6104 flying over 40.7387 degrees north, 73.9901 degrees west, requesting a vector for emergency landing,” the captain said into his headset a moment later. “Repeat: Ground this is GE6104 flying over 40.7385 degrees north, 73.9961 degrees west, requesting a vector for emergency landing.”
She followed the first officer's movement for a brief moment when another form came and took him to the ground. The impact of the two men striking her knocked her to the side, where she landed heavily in the flight engineer's seat. Her jaw dropped in shock and disbelief at seeing the man who had chased her across the length of the plane attacking the first officer. She had seen him get shot center mass and could still feel the blood dripping on her neck from it. A hand gripped her ankle as the two men struggled at her feet and she responded with a flurry of kicks, shoving both forms a foot further away form her.
“Can't hail anything on comms, Dave, and shit is getting worse. Get your ass back in your seat and buckle in,” the captain called. “We're going down.”
A weird warbled shriek came from the throat of the first officer as the other man's teeth sank home in his throat. The scream raised in pitch and volume for a moment, sounding eerily similar to an air raid siren, before his voice box was crushed into silence. From overhead an oxygen mask dropped, striking her on the shoulder and startling a frightened gasp from her.
“What the Jesus fuck!” the captain shouted, snapping his head around in time to see the conclusion of the struggle.
The smoke filling the cockpit, mingling with the numerous buzzing and chiming of alerts, was disorienting. A moment later the controls went dark, silencing the racket. Kristen was nearly thrown from her seat when the plane pitched to one side and started a rapid descent. Everything was shaking and rattling in the cockpit. The two men on the floor started sliding back toward the door of the cockpit.
Kristen was screaming in terror as the whine of the descending plane increased in pitch and volume. She barely noticed the hand that gripped her ankle as she struggled to buckle the unfamiliar belt, that came up to her shoulders where it connected. Only after she was secured did she recognize the unsettling sensation. She lashed out again and again with her other foot, smashing the heel of her sneaker into the man's face. He seemed unfazed by the barrage and continued to struggle toward her. She pulled the oxygen mask on as the smoke stung her eyes and her lungs. Everything started rattling; the seats rattled on t
heir rivets, the numerous compartment doors around the flight deck rattled, even the control panel spitting sparks and fire rattled.
Her stomach crawled up into her chest and Kristen knew this was it. The clouds parted and the ground, appearing straight through the cockpit windows, crept ever closer as she was pressed back against the seat. A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye. She knew this was the end of her life.
The airplane bucked and heaved mightily, and everything went black.
Kristen started drifting back to consciousness with the unsettling feeling of being dragged across the ground by her foot. The memory of the man clutching her ankle lit fear in her and she rolled over in the grip, clutching and grabbing at anything that her hands came upon, hoping something would help her. Dirt, crumbled rock, and dried clumps of dead grass were the only things her hands came across, however.
“You're awake, good. You can walk on your own now,” the captain said, as he unceremoniously dropped her leg.
Kristen rolled again and sat upright. The captain was bloody, his uniform was torn and burned, and he held his left arm limply at his side. He paused long enough to make sure she could move of her own accord before turning back to trudge slowly up the shoulder of the highway. She sat there for a few minutes, trying to get her bearings. I'm alive? her inner voice asked, perplexed.
She had lost all hope when the plane started going down. But now, here she was on Terra Firma, seemingly relatively unscathed. She wanted to leap in the air, pump her fists and shout a cheer of joy at being alive. A stiff, chill wind whipped in from the north and sapped her strength and the last of the warmth from her body, pulling her attention to the rural stretch of highway they were on. She stifled her laughter of relief and tried to get a handle on her surroundings.
Undead Worlds 2: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Anthology Page 19