The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising]

by Landeck, R. B.

  Much to Tom’s concern, the plane now dropped even more rapidly. Nadia remained focused on the panel, but otherwise gave nothing but the impression that to her this was but another day at the office. The dying engine screamed, and the fuselage groaned, the plane hanging on by but the goodwill of its passengers. Tom was about to yell something towards the back across the racket of when suddenly it all fell silent. In one last upheaval, the motor spat, rattled, and died. Now there was nothing but the whistling wind outside, howling as it rushed past the lowered flaps.

  “Now or never,” Nadia stated matter-of-factly.

  As if to emphasize her words, a loud thump echoed through the cabin like a punch to the gut as the fixed landing gear collided with a transponder mast. They were committed now. Things were happening fast. Too fast for comfort. Tom felt his fingernails dig into the armrest. Another thump from the undercarriage. The terrain ahead opened up, revealing the landing strip.

  Wilson was nothing like its big cousin, Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Used mostly by smaller charter airlines, private pilots, and UN flights servicing domestic and nearby ‘international’ locations like Mogadishu, it offered little to get excited about.

  Only marginally more developed than Juba airport, it had seen little improvements since the 1980s, and with its lack of facilities and bare-bones approach to services, it represented but a necessary evil to most. It had once occupied a wide-open area on the outskirts of town, but in the last two decades, the city had witnessed a virtual explosion of urbanization. As a result, a growing number of residential developments had not just risen all around the small airport but eventually encroached, ever-shrinking its once impressive expanse.

  To make matters worse, in recent months, it had seen a surge in activity. UN flights transporting staff and equipment to the Congo and Kenya’s border regions to address the growing pandemic concerns had increased at least twofold.

  A wry smile flickered across Tom’s face as he thought about the ineptitude that he had seen and which appeared to permeate every agency he had come into contact with during his brief time in country. The sweeping virus had turned into yet another, albeit more lethal example of the international community’s failure to cut through the red tape when it counted the most.

  Gliding in on a prayer, the activity on and around the airstrip appeared more frantic than ever. Smaller variants of their own transport competed for take-off, while other planes were still being loaded. Owners, anyone, and everyone who knew anything about commandeering a light aircraft fought over the remaining crafts. The access roads to the main entrance were choked with traffic. In typical Nairobi fashion, two feeder routes had become four-lane dead-ends. Everybody had tried to find an alternate way to bypass, to beat the main thoroughfare to the entrance.

  Tom strained to make out what was happening. There were rings of security forces, two-deep, around the perimeter. Bounding as they retreated closer to the building, they fired into the approaching restive crowd. Some people appeared to be fighting among themselves. Each confrontation sent ripples through the throng of people, the living and the dead locked in desperate struggle. One fighting for survival, the other for dominion. A loud crack near his head and Tom ducked down into the footwell, in time to see the engine cover dislodge and bounce off the windscreen. The pit of his stomach lifted as the Caravan dropped. Now mere meters above the approaching airstrip and with a speed that seemed to defy the odds of landing within its limits.

  The impact was bone-shattering. The plane’s landing gear groaned as it bounced onto the tarmac. Once, twice, and then one more time at full force. Its struts twisted and creaked like nails on chalkboard. The left rear wheel gave way, and the Caravan banked sharply. Bare metal ploughed into the asphalt, sending a fiery stream of sparks into the air all around them. The plane spun around and immediately tilted to the left, its speed forcing the left wing to connect with the airstrip. It ploughed into the ground and ripped from the rest of fuselage, turning into a hurtling spinning-top on its path down the runway.

  There was no time to panic, everyone inside desperate to avoid being tossed about inside what had suddenly turned into a horizontal tumble dryer. Just as the skidding plane completed another rotation, Nadia braced herself against the yoke and pushed the remaining breaks as hard as she could, but the sudden resistance proved too much to handle for the front wheel. The cockpit angled downward as the plane’s nose ground into the asphalt below. Its undercarriage ripped open, oil and fuel sprayed upward in a massive arterial spurt. Smoke began to rise, filling the cabin with the acrid smell of burning rubber.

  As if making one last stand, now with its nose down, the force of the plane’s remaining momentum lifted the Caravan’s empennage high into the air, before sending it back down. With crushing force, it finally come to a halt. Tom’s head throbbed from the impact, and the fumes stung his eyes. The sudden silence was deafening. For a while, everything remained still inside the dented tin that had been their transport. Someone coughed in the back of the plane. He could hear movement as the others started pulling, or better, putting themselves back together.

  “Everyone Ok?” Tom called out through the veil of blood running from a cut inside his hairline.

  Across from him, Nadia was already lifting herself up over the cockpit panel to get a better look at the front of the plane. Smoke continued to bellow from the blackened cavity of twisted metal, tubes, and wiring that until less than 5 hours ago had been a pristine aircraft engine.

  “We better move. I see some flames.” Nadia squinted, trying to get a closer look.

  “You don’t say,” Tom almost laughed at her absurd calm.

  Slowly but surely, the others responded. Miraculously nobody seemed injured. At least not severely, with bumps and bruises, the only apparent result of their dramatic landing. The crackle of flames from the front renewed everyone's resolve, and within seconds a flurry of activity ensued.

  They gathered whatever gear they could find in the mess of seat covers, broken fixtures, and scattered contents of packs ripped open on impact. They had already lined up towards the rear with Papillon getting ready to kick open the hatch when Tom indicated for him to halt. Through the few remaining windows, he had seen movement near the plane. There had been no sirens or truck engines indicating anyone had been sent to their rescue.

  Just before landing, Tom thought he had seen the large cyclone fence gate to the side of the main building open, allowing the crowd to flood into the airport grounds past the remaining security forces. He couldn't be certain whether the gates had been taken by force. But whatever the cause, the airfield would likely be teeming with people. Living or dead was anybody’s guess.

  “See anything?” Amadou, Gautier, and David had also started inspecting the immediate area for threats, while Papillon stood by, ready to free them from confines of their smoky prison.

  Just outside, a lone figure staggered by, then another. On their way towards the terminal, neither paid attention to the wreck or its occupants. Apart from this, the immediate area seemed clear.

  On Tom’s signal, Papillon’s heavy boot connected with the door, propelling it outward like the lid on a jack-in-the-box. He jumped out first and received the remaining gear before the rest of the group joined him towards the back of the fuselage. Crouching down with their backs against the plane’s crumpled tail, they took in their new surroundings. As much as a quick and trouble-free landing would have saved a lot of agony, as it turned out, the protracted skid had carried them into a more remote area. Here, aside from the wind rippling the uncut grass and the odd bird or two hopping around near the fence line less than 100 yards away, nothing stirred. The atmosphere felt almost serene.

  Up ahead in the distance, though, it was a different story. The survivors counted their blessings as memories of Lake Albert came flooding back. Back then, they had been in the midst of things. This time though, it seemed they were lucky enough to be but distant spectators. Over on the other side of the tarmac, the
dead tore into the living, who in turn were busy tearing into each other as they fought for the last remaining seats on planes already gridlocked to the point that they would never leave the ground.

  Despite being one of East Africa’s busiest airports, it had never been designed for anything of this magnitude. Those who lost their fight for a ticket or seat streamed towards the buildings to seek shelter from bullets and teeth. But the structures, designed to handle passenger traffic, not to protect against an undead siege, offered little in the way of protection. The wind now carried across the noise of rapid-fire from somewhere near the cargo terminal. Security forces were making their last stand, firing at anyone and anything in sight.

  'Good location,' Tom thought for a moment, remembering that the large cargo hall was not only where the UN staged its emergency aid distributions, but also where one or two of its larger planes were housed when not on mission. With a little bit of luck, one of the pilots was around, and even if they weren’t, the large planes inside a relatively well-protected hangar made for a good place to haul up for a little while. At least until the current storm of violence and chaos had subsided.

  “I guess we’re not going down there.” Tom looked over at the others and could see they were all thinking the same thing.

  He stood up and looked over the Caravan’s damaged tail, inspecting their surrounds for alternatives. As far as he could see, they had limited options. Tom couldn’t help but smile at the universe’s dark sense of humour. They had jumped out of the frying pan and straight into the flames.

  Up ahead was nothing but open ground. Around 100 meters away, rose the first of the residential compounds occupying every square inch of the other side of the airport fence. Further to the right Langata road, one of the busiest routes in and out of the city lay empty. Nearby the Southern bypass, one of the current government’s flagship road projects, completed after close to a decade and hampered by corruption every step of the way, hugged the airport’s southern side. Beyond it lay National Park with its game drives and wildlife that until recently had attracted hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. It was dry season now, and with water at a premium, the animals often came closer to urban settlements than they ordinarily dared. Now, combined with the lure of rotting flesh, it was not hard to imagine that soon the predators would move in on the feast prepared by the walking corpses.

  Tom rubbed his chin. No matter what route he tried to plot in his mind, there was no ideal option. They knew nothing about what awaited them outside the airport grounds. But if what they had already seen inside was anything to go by, opposition, both dead and living, would be considerable.

  Leaving via the main entrance was out, as was Langata Road. Not only did it lead in the wrong direction, but they were likely to run into another problem. If the virus had gotten hold to the extent he suspected, then the adjacent slum of Kibera would have become a virtual hotbed of infection, spilling its dead straight onto the open road. The Southern bypass, as it were, looked clear, but it would take them the long way round. Plus, following it, eventually, they would hit Mombasa road.

  Arguably the largest and busiest route in all of Nairobi it was the one to avoid at all cost. This only left South C with its well-protected compounds, thanks to a soaring crime rate and a large Somali population segment which preferred to stay in relative seclusion. If they could successfully get over the first few compound walls, they could then move parallel to the main feeder routes. They would travel the few miles up to Westlands, before crossing over Waiyaki way and into his suburb. His suburb. The place where Julie and Anna were waiting for him.

  A surge of urgency, of the desire to break into a run, a sprint for their arms, washed over him. He had to hold back. An overwhelming flood of bottled up emotions threatened to derail his thoughts. Now that the goal was near, it was becoming harder and harder to contain.

  “Let’s go,” Tom said resolutely, trying to regain focus on their task at hand.

  “I’ll brief you on the move.”

  CHAPTER 2

  By now, the survivors had learned to go with Tom’s instincts and thus fell in line, putting on their packs and grabbing their weapons. It was only Nadia who stayed put, looking at him quizzically.

  “Trust me,” Tom tried to reassure her. “I might not always know what I’m doing, but this one I am fairly certain about.”

  “We will see.” Nadia shrugged dejectedly as she cast a last glance over the smoking remnants of what used to be her plane, before joining the others.

  They stayed low, moving with speed but without haste until they reached the fence. If the past few weeks had taught them anything, it was that maintaining low visibility was the key to survival. Using a mix of the multi-tool Tom had discovered when they first took shelter in the APC by the lake, and Papillon’s brute strength, they were able to lift a section of the wire fence with relative ease.

  Quickly crossing the adjacent service road, they soon found themselves in front of a 15-foot wall belonging to one of the residential compounds closest to the airport. Behind them, the chaos still raged, but the sounds of battle were now more distant. The light breeze occasionally carried a wave of eerie moans. The dead, growing in numbers by the minute, were devouring the last of the living within reach. Soon the fenced-in area that used to be Wilson airport would be nothing but a pen. A corral, filled with walking corpses and the gory mess that once were their victims.

  Papillon braced his back against the compound wall, and like safari ants, first Tom and then Amadou climbed up, forming a human rope across it. To their surprise, on the other side, things had remained completely untouched by what was going on around them. The residences lay still. The car park was virtually empty, most occupants presumably having made their getaway during the early stages of the outbreak. Whether they had succeeded, nobody would ever know. And Tom had no plans to ever find out.

  It was well past noon already as the group slowly, methodically moved towards the front gate. Tom raised his hand, and before anyone could ask, quietly instructed the group to take cover behind a nearby retaining wall that served both as a divider between buildings as well hiding the cistern access behind it.

  “What’s the matter, Tom? The place is deserted.” Amadou whispered.

  “The gate," Tom pointed at the double-winged steel entrance behind them. “It’s locked. Locked from the inside.”

  Papillon's AK's select-fire lever clicked in response, as he scanned for movement. Whoever had locked the gate, was likely still around. And in a city where crime was as rife as it got, owning one or more firearms for many was as much a home essential as the bed they slept in.

  They sat for what seemed like an eternity. Watching, Listening. Paying attention to the slightest sound. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of hungry moans drifting over from the airport. Far off in the distance, the now sporadic crack of an assault rifle or two heralded the end of the security forces’ ammunition.

  “The way I see it, we have two choices,” Tom began, satisfied that for the moment, they were not in any immediate danger. “We can leave here and make camp in one of the other residences, or we stay for the night and head off first light. As much as I need to get home, I’d rather we take no further chances today.”

  There was no argument from the others. The crash landing was starting to take its toll, as were the day’s events. With adrenaline levels subsiding, exhaustion, aches, and pains took over, and none of them felt like moving another inch.

  “You and Amadou take the first building over there to the left,” Tom instructed Papillon.

  He and Nadia would take the one on the right, with Gautier and David staying in cover, keeping eyes and ears open for signs of unwanted visitors.

  “This is not a scavenging mission, and we are not looking to clear out any infected,” Tom warned.

  “We just need a place to hunker down for the night. Nothing more, nothing less. And preferably something we can lock, once in.”

  After all, this was
no time to take unnecessary chances. Rest and temporary recuperation were the prime agenda. They agreed to meet again within 15 minutes, then spread out and went to their respective buildings.

  Inside rows of apartment doors lined the barren concrete corridors on each floor. The developer had skimped on amenities, and so a single stairway was the only access and egress, not even an elevator in an 8-story building. As he had suspected, the apartments on the lower levels were all locked. Yet, the higher they went, the more had been left open. Tom figured the owners on the lower floors had probably left during the very early stages when news of the outbreak jumping the border had just begun to trickle in. They had locked up their places in the hope of a timely return as and when the looming crisis was over.

  In contrast, the ones on the upper floors had probably held out as long as they could. The distance of the higher levels now doubt had offered the illusion of better protection. That was, until the first of the dead came waltzing into the neighbourhood. No doubt, the remaining occupants, were left with little doubt as to the end of the world as they knew it by the time they scrambled for safety with whatever they could carry.

  Nadia found a large 3 bedroom place on the fifth floor that seemed to fit the bill, and, short of debating the finer points of interior design while looking for another option, Tom agreed. Meanwhile, the others also completed their search, and having reconvened as planned, everyone went up to Nadia’s newly acquired abode.

  Tom knew they were still in danger. Whoever had locked the gate was probably still inside the compound. But so far, they had either paid no attention to the group or were too afraid to make their presence known. There was another possibility, of course. But since they had not come across any walking corpses during their search, Tom hoped that anyone who had indeed turned was now wandering their own four walls and behind locked doors. From what he had seen so far, none of the creatures had the spark of intelligence necessary to perform any actions that required even the most rudimentary level of dexterity. They reached, they grabbed, they fed. That seemed to be the extent of their capacity. Manipulating doorknobs and locking systems, other than by accident, was out of range.