Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1)

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Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 9

by P. T. Dilloway


  The X-29 comes down hard on the runway, nearly causing Hunter to bang his head on the front console. He has to recover quickly to steer past the hulk of a 737 that has probably been here for over two years. At least there aren’t any zeebs on the runway yet; they probably wandered off a long time ago to look for food, though some of them might come back now.

  He cruises along the runway, looking for a hangar to stash the X-29 in while he searches for supplies. He has to worry as much about the living who might find his plane as the undead who would be more interested in him. He passes a few hangars with holes and another with the twisted tail of a DC-10 sticking out of it.

  At last he comes to a hangar that looks usable. He leaves the X-29 idling while he jumps down to the ground to open the doors. As soon as he pops the canopy, the dry heat assaults him; he tosses his helmet on his seat to wipe the sweat that has spontaneously popped up on his forehead.

  It takes every ounce of strength to open one of the hangar doors. The door is on a wheeled track, but two years of disuse have left it rusty; metal shrieks as he pushes the door open. That will probably get him more attention that he doesn’t want. He gets the door open enough for the X-29 to pass through and then leans against the door to rest a moment.

  The desert sky is a brilliant, clear blue with only a few puffy white clouds. There are mountains in the distance, along with some of the skyscrapers of the city center. If not for the memory of everything that happened, it would seem perfectly nice.

  He returns to the X-29 to taxi into the hangar. Once the plane is safely inside, he shuts it down and then grabs the M4 tucked behind the seat. He’ll probably need that as he rummages around the airport; there are bound to be a few zeebs around somewhere.

  While he mostly came here for fuel for the X-29, at the moment he needs some fuel for himself. He starts towards the airport terminal, the M4 in his right hand, ready for trouble. It’s probably a hundred degrees at least and even hotter on the tarmac. He starts to think he should have left his flight suit in the X-29 along with his helmet.

  By the time he reaches the terminal, he’s ready to collapse with exhaustion. He had spent eighteen months at Nellis in the Nevada desert, but that was years ago; it will take a while to acclimate to that kind of heat again. There’s a bench of seats that he gratefully drops onto.

  A sign on the wall welcomes him to Sky Harbor, Phoenix, Arizona. He can’t help smiling at the name. A harbor is just what he needs right now; a refuge from all the horror of the world.

  He knows this won’t really be a harbor when he sees the pack of zeebs shuffling towards him. There are a half-dozen of them dressed in bright orange robes. Hare Krishnas. They were already annoying enough when they were alive.

  He raises the M4, taking it in both hands. His first barrage cuts down four of the Krishnas. He gets to his feet to take out the other two. A couple of them are still crawling towards him. He slings the M4 on his shoulder to draw his pistol. He puts a bullet in each of them, until they stop moving. It’s tempting to empty the clip in these bastards, but he might need the ammunition, especially now that he’ll have alerted the rest of them.

  He jogs along the terminal, stopping at a newsstand for a couple of candy bars. By the time he has gulped one candy bar down, he hears shuffling feet heading towards him. The gunfire has drawn a herd of them, three-dozen at least.

  The smart thing would be to run, but Hunter is sick of running. For three months he has been running, trying to find some sign of where Casey and Polly might be. He has gone as far north as Alaska and as far south as Baja California without finding anything. They’re there at every stop: the undead shambling along, forcing him to abandon his search. He has finally had enough of it. This is where he’s going to make a stand.

  “You motherfuckers want me? Come get me!”

  They shuffle forward a little faster at this challenge. He takes the M4 in both hands to spray the first wave of the pack. He keeps firing until the M4 is empty. He drops it to the floor in favor of his pistol. He takes out nine more before it too is empty. He has spare clips in the X-29, but he’s not going back for them.

  Instead, he takes the knife from the sheath on his leg. With a bellow of rage he charges forward. The pack is down to only five now. Hunter slashes the throat of one while kicking another in what’s left of its stomach. His foot actually gets caught in a tangle of broken ribs for a moment. He shakes it free before one of the zeebs can bite it and then stabs the zombie in the face.

  When it’s all over, they’re lying at his feet in a heap. He bends down to tear a piece of one’s shirt away. He uses this to wipe off his knife before sticking it back in its sheath. That might not be all of them here, but it should buy him some time. As much as he doesn’t really want to, he’ll have to go back to the X-29 for his spare clips.

  Then he sees a holstered pistol on one man’s ankle. Hunter smiles to himself. God bless the NRA, he thinks as he bends down to take the weapon.

  ***

  In clearing out the terminal, Hunter finds plenty of candy bars, gum, sports drinks, and warm soda. The postcards, magnets, and other trinkets in the gift shop won’t be of much use to him. He does take an old James Patterson thriller to read wherever he makes camp. The hangar wouldn’t have much in comfort, but a hotel or house nearby could be risky.

  He wanders the long-term parking lot until he finds a pick-up truck that runs once he hotwires it. The truck should be rugged enough to overcome any obstacles he finds while exploring the city. He’ll probably just find a bunch of zeebs, but there’s always the chance Casey, Polly, and the rest from Snowcap Mountain will have ended up here.

  To get out of the parking garage he has to use the front bumper of the truck to shove a Hyundai sedan out of the way. Then he’s free to start exploring the city. As a newer city with relatively flat topography, most of Phoenix is laid out in a grid that makes it easy to navigate. Like the Pied Piper, he starts to accumulate zeebs behind him, drawn by the sound of the truck’s engine.

  He doesn’t see anyone alive, but they could be hiding. Seeing a shopping mall ahead, he presses down on the accelerator. The zeebs in his rearview mirror disappear in a few seconds. They might keep following his last trajectory for a while before they lose the trail and go back to wandering around.

  He stops on the edge of the parking lot and then hops down from the truck. This seems as good of a place as any to look for survivors. There should at least be some camping supplies that might be of use to him.

  He sees the first zeebs milling around by the front doors. They’re too dumb to open the doors to get inside to follow anyone and seemingly unable to break the glass for the doors. He takes out his knife to end the waiting for them. Stepping over the dead bodies, he pushes open the door to go inside.

  Even after more than two years it’s strange to walk into an empty, silent shopping mall. It’s so unnatural for a place like this to be so quiet. There should be Muzak over the speakers, crying babies, and people talking too loud into their cell phones. The only sound is his boots on the tile floor.

  He can’t help stopping at the display window of a Victoria’s Secret. One of the mannequins reminds him of Casey, though the mannequin is only wearing a lacy pink teddy. His face turns warm at the thought of the real Casey wearing something like that in bed with him. He shakes his head, telling himself to get a grip. She’s probably gone now, just like Misuko. It seems every woman he loves disappears from his life.

  Seeing a sporting goods store, he decides to focus on the immediate task at hand. The store has already been ransacked, most everything tossed to the ground. Amongst the wreckage he finds a can of kerosene, a stove he hopes still works, and a sleeping bag. He carries these supplies under one arm as he continues to roam the mall.

  On the second floor of the Sears at one end of the mall he finds a lot better than a sleeping bag. After three months mostly spent sleeping on the ground, it’s hard to resist flopping onto the memory foam mattress with its Egyptian co
tton sheets and downy comforter. This is the sort of bed he wishes he could have shared with Casey instead of that tiny, hard Winnebago bunk. In time they might have been able to get a bed like this. They might have been able to have a real home somewhere, to live like normal people. That will never happen now.

  As he sits on the bed, he hears something crash from the ground floor. At first he thinks it must be a zeeb, but then he hears someone hiss, “Watch it!”

  “Whatever, man. Zeebs don’t need this shit.”

  “That don’t mean you got to bring them here.”

  Hunter hears them starting up the disabled escalator. He looks for a place to hide and then spots a fitting room past rows of suits no one needs anymore. He makes sure not to slam the door; the bottom of the door doesn’t go all the way to the floor, so he curls up on the bench in the room to make it harder for anyone to see him.

  “Hey, look at this,” one of the men says.

  “A sleeping bag. Big deal.”

  “What’s a sleeping bag doing here, huh, idiot?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Someone killed those zeebs outside. Now this. I bet there’s someone hiding around here.”

  “You think this guy might have something valuable?”

  “Might be. Maybe he’s the one who cleaned out the jewelry stores.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Hunter shakes his head; the jewelry stores had been cleaned out long before he got here. They were probably ransacked years ago, by the employees if no one else. He eases the pistol he found in the airport from his pocket in case he needs it.

  There’s a shadow on the floor by the fitting room. Hunter tightens his grip on the pistol. The shadow remains there for a moment that seems to last an eternity. Then it moves on. After a few minutes, one of the men says, “I don’t see nobody. Must have took off already.”

  “I guess so. Let’s get back to the others. Got to be something good left in this place.”

  Hunter slips the pistol back into his pocket. He waits until he hears the scavengers clomping down the escalator. He opens the fitting room door slowly, checking to make sure the coast is clear.

  It looks like he’s going to spend the night here. By morning the scavengers should have moved on. He gathers up the sleeping bag to tuck under his arm again. Amongst the storage rooms in the back he finds a loveseat three shelves up. That ought to be high enough to keep him safe from any zeebs who might somehow make it up here. It will be less safe if those scavengers come back, but at least he will have the high ground.

  Hunter curls up on the loveseat, keeping the pistol within easy reach. Then he closes his eyes.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning he nearly falls off the shelves after forgetting where he is. Hunter grabs an arm of the loveseat to pull himself back from the edge. Shaking his head, he sits back down on the loveseat. His watch says it’s nine in the morning, which means he has been asleep for ten hours. That is a comfy loveseat.

  He climbs down from the shelves more carefully this time. He peeks out the storeroom door to listen for any sounds of activity. Not hearing anyone, he steps through the doors. The second floor looks as he left it, including the bed.

  He goes slowly down the escalator in case there’s anyone at the bottom waiting for him. He doesn’t see anyone living or undead. With a sigh of relief, he starts back towards the parking lot where he left the pick-up. If he’s lucky the truck will still be there. Otherwise he’ll have to look for another mode of transportation back to the airport.

  He stops at the center of the mall, where someone has piled a bunch of scorched zeebs on the dais that’s still decorated for Christmas. It must have been those scavengers he heard upstairs yesterday. From how badly burned the bodies are, that must have been one hell of a bonfire; it’s a wonder they didn’t burn down the whole mall.

  It seems like a waste of time and fuel to Hunter. Back when the outbreak first started, everyone had been concerned about showing the dead—even those who had come back to life—the proper respect. Eventually the world deteriorated to the point that bodies were left in the street wherever they fell. He’s not sure if these guys were trying to show respect to the dead or if they’re the germaphobe type.

  He’s not too surprised to find the pick-up truck missing. A vehicle like that can be pretty useful in this environment. He starts to search the parking lot for something else that can get him back to the airport. There are still plenty of cars in the lot to choose from.

  After a few tries, he manages to get an ancient Ford Escort to wheeze to life. The tank is close to empty, but it should be enough to get him back to the airport. There’s still plenty of the city he hasn’t explored, but his gut tells him he won’t find anyone here.

  The Escort’s engine is about as loud as the Thunderbolt, which will surely bring any zeebs in the area shambling towards him. If he’s lucky those scavengers will already have taken them out like in the mall. He stops at a barricade formed out of charred bodies.

  Hunter leaves the car running while he gets out to inspect the barricade. Like the mall, the bodies are pretty well cooked, to the point the only way to identify them would be through dental records. It didn’t make sense in the mall to go to all that trouble and it makes even less sense now to pile them up in the road like this.

  Though he doesn’t really want to, he touches the scorched flesh and sinews of one body. It’s still warm, meaning they couldn’t have done this too long ago. He just wishes he understood why they did it.

  Unless he wants to spend hours disassembling the barricade, there’s no way through. He gets back into the Escort to do a U-turn. The structure of Phoenix’s streets plays to his advantage, as it’s pretty easy to find a road that connects to the one he had been on. He gets about a mile before he runs into another barricade. This time there’s enough room on the sidewalk for him to get past it.

  He has to navigate through three more barricades before he reaches the airport. As he passes by the sign welcoming him back to Sky Harbor, he hears the rumble of jet engines. He slams on the brakes as he watches the Il-76 Candid claw for altitude. A pair of MiG-29 Fulcrums follow it. They don’t have any markings, but they have the same paint schemes as those he saw over Snowcap Mountain.

  Those scavengers he heard in the mall, the ones who piled up all those bodies, they were the same ones who dropped all those zeebs on Snowcap Mountain, Seattle, and Vancouver. They were the ones who had destroyed his home and taken Casey and Polly from him. He floors the accelerator. If he hurries, he can get to the X-29.

  Hunter puts the accelerator all the way down. The speedometer of the Escort slowly makes its way to a hundred. He ignores all the warning signs to skid onto the runway. There aren’t any more planes waiting to take off that he can see. Damn it, he curses to himself. If he could have stopped one of them he might have found out where they were going. It’s too late now.

  He stops in front of the hangar where he had left the X-29. The doors are of course open and the hangar empty. He pounds the steering wheel of the Escort in frustration. Now he has lost everything: his home, Casey, Polly, Gary, General George, and his plane.

  No, he has lost the X-29, Casey, Polly, and his friends, but he’s going to get them back. And God help anyone who gets in his way.

  ***

  There aren’t any jet fighters in the hangars of Sky Harbor. Hunter didn’t expect to find any at a civilian airport. He has a good idea where he might be able to find another fighter, but it’s about a hundred twenty miles south, outside Tucson. He doesn’t want to take the creaky Escort into the desert on highways that are probably packed with wrecked cars and the undead former owners of those cars. He would much rather fly, but none of the airliners are in working condition; even if they were, he would be a huge, slow target for any pirates in the area.

  After a few hours of frantic searching, he finds what he wants: a little Cessna two-seater, the kind he first trained on with his father. The Cessna seems in goo
d shape, though he doesn’t want to spend time doing a thorough check on it. He does check the oil and then put some fuel in to top off the tank.

  The Cessna’s engine sputters a few times before it coughs to life. Hunter gives it a couple of minutes before he taxies onto the runway. This is definitely a risk, but at the moment he doesn’t see much of an alternative. If he does crash and burn, it will only cement his failure, but if this works, maybe he can get things back on track.

  The Cessna’s engine roars louder as he increases the throttle. He can hear his father’s voice cautioning him not to give it too much gas. “Take it nice and easy,” Dad had said the first time they went up in the Cessna.

  The Cessna rises into the air a little at a time. Hunter gets it up to a thousand feet and then banks to the left to start heading south. He passes over the campus for Arizona State in Tempe; the football stadium still has the remains of a tent city like in Seattle. He finds the highway going south to use as a navigational reference. As he figured, the highway is packed with cars that had been trying to escape the outbreak but never made it. He can see the occasional zeeb shuffling along the road; there are even a few that have wandered into the desert.

  The traffic thins out the farther he gets from the Phoenix area. There are more mountains, but none that get in the way of his navigation. The biggest danger is the boredom of nothing but clear blue sky and brown desert. It was the same way back in Nevada, though at least then he would have JP or Max or another wingman to help keep him sharp.

  The good thing about the clear blue sky is it makes it easier for him to look for any other planes in the area. Any pirates wouldn’t see him as a threat or source of income, but they might try to shoot him down for shits and grins. If it comes to a dogfight there won’t be much he can do against an ancient World War II fighter. Even a biplane from World War I would outgun him.

  This was something he didn’t have to worry about when flying the Cessna with Dad. Back then he only had to worry about his father’s approval. Dad had already broken in dozens of new pilots; he wasn’t about to go any easier on his son. “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” Dad would snap. Other times he would say, “Check those gauges.” When Hunter would look too long at the gauges, Dad would say, “Eyes on the sky.”

 

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