The big biplane, built for the British RAF, taxied along down the street, hell-bent for zombies. Once Donovan determined they had gained enough momentum, he eased back on the stick.
The plane struggled. The ancient craft had not been as well taken care of as Donovan had first thought. It seemed it hadn’t seen much use in a long while, either. An abandoned pet project, perhaps. Donovan wouldn’t be too surprised if they couldn’t even get off the ground. The problem with that, however, was that the behemoth took up most of the road, the tip of one wing or the other scraping the telephone poles or trees on each side. If the road got any more cramped, the wings could get crushed and the plane might wedge to a stop.
Despite those facts, at least they had relatively fast transportation, and one in which they all, pretty much, fit. Even if they did stay on the roads and not in the air, they had a slightly better chance now of getting away with their lives.
The bomb was due to go off any minute. In fact, Donovan was surprised the device hadn’t already gone off, blowing them all up with it. The clock might be running slow. Perhaps the gears had stopped ticking. Maybe he rigged the whole thing wrong. Tenton had only given him a quick lesson. Donovan was supposed to be Plan B, not the go-to guy. At this point, though, Donovan was grateful something had gone awry. Whatever the issue, it granted them a chance to get away and fight another day.
Donovan pulled up on the stick and to his shock and the roar of approval from the group inside, they started to lift up into the air. Then, with a hard hit, they touched back down. The peanut gallery barely had time to shout out a collective “Nooo!” before they were up again.
They bounced along, the engine struggling to produce enough “oomph,” the plane fighting to get airborne. Little by little, as each hop got higher, they gained altitude until they floated up into the sky at last. More cheers from behind Donovan rose to a crescendo above the roar of the engine.
Donovan pulled back further on the stick and gave the engine as much power as he and it could muster. They continued to rise up into the pale gray, birdless skies.
That’s when he saw her.
At the front of the zombie pack, against all reason: Cathren.
Sprinting while waving furiously at the plane.
Chapter 50
Donovan had managed to rescue a bunch of strangers, which was nice. Meanwhile, he also somehow earned the right to watch his sweetheart be torn apart in front of his eyes. Which was not so nice. The worst of it was she hadn’t morphed, not even a little. She was all human, the Cathren he loved, running for her life.
Donovan banked the biplane and circled around, heading back for a landing despite protests from his passengers. As he did so, the zombies fell upon Cathren. They smothered her with their zombie corpses like ants on sugar. Cathren disappeared from view, a small dot in an undead sea.
“All right, you motherfuckers,” Donovan said, addressing the undead below him. “You wanna dance? Well, you’re going down!”
While shouting these affirmations gave him a burst of confidence, Donovan knew deep inside the zombies wouldn’t actually be going down. He had no weapons, no way to help. Filled with despair, he glanced down one last time into the roiling ocean of zombies.
Suddenly, there she stood, emerging from the center of the battlefield. Cathren, victorious.
* * *
Alive and kicking and all half-zombied up, as only Cathren could be. She had embraced the fear. She had morphed into the zombie-killing machine they should have feared. She proceeded to break arms, legs, necks. She threw body parts around in the air as if she were tossing necklaces at Mardi Gras.
The undead attacked with newly-focused viciousness, landing bites here and there and even in a few cases tearing off sections of her skin. She bled, hard, but she didn’t seem to weaken. Just one more oozing, bloody scar on her half-zombie body. For every one of the undead that got a bite in, she dispatched—or more accurately, dismembered—a dozen of the nasty creatures.
Her remarkable body chemistry—the DNA of an undead egghead mixed with her unique healthy, human DNA—made her invulnerable to zombie attacks. This mix also made her, as Donovan had witnessed on previous occasions, almost superhuman. Certainly, her strength and stamina approached Amazonian.
Cathren dominated this fight, destroying any and all stupid enough to get in her path. Nevertheless, with the odds stacked against her roughly a hundred-to-one, Donovan recognized even Cathren didn’t stand a chance. Not against the hordes, the armies—the totality—of the Zombie Nation advancing in her direction.
Donovan landed the plane with a spine-compressing jolt, his passengers flapping in their seats like fish in a net, those on the floor sliding back into a pile of bodies in the rear. He somehow managed to bring the biplane to a stop.
Shouts of “What are you doing!”, “Are you mad?”, and “Why have you landed?” filled the air. Donovan ignored his passengers for the moment, his attention focused on Cathren.
“Let’s go, babe!” he shouted to her. “We got to try to get this thing back up in the air.”
Cathren looked up at Donovan with dead, murky, pupil-less eyes. Then she turned and flattened the latest contender from the undead community. She swung around to give Donovan the thumbs up, kicked another zombie in the face, and dashed over to the Dragon Rapide. Donovan ran to the door, hoisted her up, and then—amid screams and yells of fear and protest from the others on the plane—returned with her to the cockpit. He tossed the tools off the copilot’s seat and Cathren sat right beside him and strapped on her seatbelt.
Donovan turned back to the restless horde aboard the plane and yelled, “She’s not a zombie! She’s one of us!” Then he swung around and concentrated on getting the plane back up in the air.
The plane taxied once again down the hill as the zombies roared and growled at the plane with unexpected emotion. Some tried to climb the wings. The big plane’s wheels rolled over others. Still others were sliced to bits by the propellers. All told, the Zombie Nation created a serious problem, hindering a smooth take-off. There were too many, too close, and they were too determined.
Donovan cut quickly to a side street to avoid the zombie crush, finding himself with nowhere left to go.
To be more accurate, nowhere to go but straight down.
Chapter 51
Lombard Street, once a magnificent vista in the sun, displaying rust-red cobblestones and garden-fresh yellow, pink, and purple flowers, now stood collapsed and barren, a landscaper’s gray-toned nightmare. Regardless, Donovan carried on, pressing forward down that steep slope. The zombies were so close behind, he could sniff their ungodly, months-old deli-meat breath and their morgue-scented skin.
Donovan knew he was either going to crash or fly, but he would not abandon ship in a sea of the undead. The old biplane picked up speed, rolling faster and faster. At last, they left the ground exactly when they reached the apex of Lombard Street. They floated over dead flowers and rotting corpses, gaining altitude and freedom with each second.
“Welcome back, babe,” Donovan said to Cathren, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
She turned to him, almost human again, and smiled. “Good to be back.”
“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “I’d given up hope of ever seeing you again.”
“And me, you.” Her eyes misted a bit. “I was with Alena Portanova.”
“How could that be?”
“You know when we were on the run from Rudra’s men?” she asked, yelling just a bit above the noise of the engines. “The last night we were together? Well, right before our car went over the side, I jumped. I landed hard in a thicket and blacked out.”
“That explains why you weren’t in the car with me, but how did Alena find you when I couldn’t?”
“Alena was hot on the trail of Rudra once she found out Egesa had hired him. It was her, not those men, who ultimately found me in the bushes the next morning. She said she had looked in the remains of the car and there was no one.”
“Yeah. I must have already wandered off by then.”
“Uh-huh. We both thought you’d been captured.”
“They must have looked in the car and just left me there unconscious,” Donovan said. “Makes sense; their orders were to get you.”
“Right. Anyway, I was pretty banged up,” Cathren continued. “I stayed with Portanova in her apartment—she has one downtown for staying overnight when she works late—but as soon as I could, I escaped.”
“Escaped? I thought she saved you?”
“I still don’t trust her, Don. So, it was just after I escaped and I ran down this one road that intersected here. Unfortunately it brought me directly into the path of the undead.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“That’s when I had a vision, or so I thought, of an ancient plane rising into the sky right in the middle of San Fran. I had no idea you were onboard, I just saw it as my only way out of the nightmare. You can’t imagine how I felt when it—when you—circled back for me!” Cathren let a few tears flow and then sniffed. “Excuse my emotions. I’m ridiculous.”
“Not at all.”
Cathren blew her nose in a paper towel and took a deep breath. “So, Don, where were you? And who are they?” she said, pointing over her shoulder.
“I guess we both have some tales to share,” he said, smiling. “Those are the last of the New Earth colony. Their men died in battle last night. You might have known some of them.”
“Why would I know them?”
“They worked at ATELIC.”
“Well, then it’s possible I did. Sorry to hear about it.”
“Yeah.”
They looked at each other for a long minute, then Cathren let her head loll back and she gazed out her side window. As the plane successfully rose higher in the air, Donovan let himself relax, too, at least a little bit. He sank down into the cockpit’s worn leather seat and sighed. For a brief moment, he was at peace, snug and warm with Cathren sitting inches from him.
The explosion behind and below them, therefore, came as a surprise. He opened his eyes in a hurry as the force almost threw him out of his seat and straight out of the plane. The New Earth bomb had detonated at last.
Donovan struggled with the stick to hold the plane on an even keel as the blast buffeted the aircraft. He worked to control the plane and keep the heading away from the explosion toward the horizon. He glanced behind him quickly and did a visual check. Everyone in the plane was still on board and safe. They all appeared shaken up by the blast, but they were holding on.
“What the hell was that?” Cathren cried out.
“We set a bomb. A big one. To take out the zombies. I guess it worked.”
A sigh of relief left Donovan’s lungs. They had survived. For now. Yet, as they flew away to safety, he was tempted to turn the plane around for a quick look-see. He needed to determine what, if any, damage they had inflicted on the Zombie Nation.
“What are you doing?” Cathren asked.
“Turning around.”
“Why, for the love of God, would you want to do that?”
“How will we know, exactly, what damage we’ve done, if any?” Donovan asked. “We set a bomb off in their midst. The intent was to take out as many, if not all, of the zombies in the kill zone. The center of which was about two blocks from where we took off.”
Donovan kept the plane banking until they headed back toward the city. Columns of smoke filled the already dead gray sky. Flames engulfed many of the buildings like a funeral pyre.
“Look,” Donovan said, pointing below. A pile of smoldering zombies filled part of the block. “We did our job,” he said, allowing himself a minuscule sense of triumph.
“Donovan. Down below us…” Cathren said.
He followed where she indicated.
Wave after wave of the undead continued to wander the streets of the city. Some of the zombies glanced up with uncomprehending eyes as the plane passed over them.
“Well, that’s it, then. We failed to destroy the rest of the zombies.”
“No,” Cathren said. “You made an impact. Look—”
At first, Donovan didn’t understand what she meant, and then he got it. The “still undead” seemed to be falling apart. Arms dropping to the ground. Legs wobbling and disconnecting like doll legs being pulled out by a vicious child. Heads twisting, dropping off. Zombies tipping over like wind-up toy soldiers. For some reason, the effects of the blast must be slow-acting. The zombies were disintegrating over time, piece by piece.
“Pull up!” Cathren shouted. “Quickly!”
“What, what?”
“Whatever you and your friends exploded, it wasn’t just a bomb.”
“Right. They included some kind of chemical. I remember them pointing to this one canister, squatting by itself, a stout metal thing, like a beer keg, that did not appear to be wired to anything.”
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t think anything at the time, but clearly, it must have been poison gas.”
“Nerve gas, maybe?” Cathren wondered.
“Maybe, but something developed in the ATELIC labs.”
“Hmmm. How could you get hold of a poison like that?” Cathren asked.
“Like I said, the guys who built this bomb were all ex-ATELIC scientists.”
“Well, if it does this to the undead, what the hell will it do to the living?”
Donovan didn’t say anything, he just pulled the plane into a steep climb. After a minute or so, he leveled the ship and banked around to their original orientation, toward the west.
They continued flying west, both of them deep in thought. Donovan turned and surveyed the passengers behind him. They seemed tired, even sleepy. He recognized the determination in the eyes of those who still had theirs open.
He glanced over at Cathren, who gazed out into the distance as if she were looking into the future. She appeared, despite the blood and grime covering most of her features, beautiful. As always. She seemed exhausted, but at peace. Cathren closed her eyes, her long lashes fluttering shut. She ran her tongue over her lips and tilted her head in Donovan’s direction. He watched her stomach moving gently in and out as she breathed. As her breathing steadied and slowed, he knew she had fallen asleep.
All the while, he wrestled with his own overwhelming desire to sleep, to pass out and go dark for a few sweet minutes. He looked around and saw the fire the bomb had caused flickering far back in the distance, dark plumes of smoke climbing high in the gray sky. Donovan glanced forward again, then at the gauges. Everything was fine; they even had a good bit of gas in the tank. He smiled and relaxed. He sensed his grip loosen and let his hands fall from the stick to his lap.
Donovan eyes closed for a brief second. Perhaps the chemicals in the air, although diluted, were making everyone sleepy. Must fight this pull to fall asleep. I need to stay awake for everyone’s sake.
Chapter 52
The lamentations of the women and the children proved effective in rousing Donovan from his slumber. He sat up, his head spinning. However, it wasn’t just his head, everyone’s head was spinning. Or, to be more accurate, the whole plane was in a tailspin.
They never covered this in flight school.
Donovan grabbed the stick, shook himself in an attempt to wake up fast, and fought to steer them out of their spiraling descent.
No go.
They headed straight down, like a spaceship reentering from orbit. He yanked on the stick with all his strength. He struggled to get them out of the situation, but the plane refused to cooperate. Clearly, it was too much of a challenge for the old girl as they plummeted toward the ground at high-speed.
Despite their increasing acceleration, Donovan retained his conviction that he’d bring the craft in safely, especially when the nose started to respond and the aircraft began to pull up. He managed to free the vessel from its spiraling and to slow it down somewhat.
“Hey, Donovan, baby—look,” Cathren said. Lom
bard Street downtown lay behind them as they swiftly approached Marine Boulevard by the bay. Cathren indicated a military convoy, Army maybe, moving northwest on Marine in the direction of the Presidio and the Golden Gate Bridge. “Rescue has arrived.” Hummers, Jeeps, and transport vehicles the size of moving vans rumbled down the highway. They had dark green canvas sides and no top.
And they were filled with survivors.
An empty stretch of highway opened up to the north, about a mile from the convoy. “We can touch down there and wait for them,” Cathren suggested.
“Yes. Perfect.” Donovan banked slightly to the right and began the descent. “Hang on!” he yelled to the huddled masses yearning to not die in a burning ’30’s-era biplane.
The aircraft touched down with a few bounces. With each rebound, the passengers lifted up in their seats, hovered for a split second, then slammed back down. Again and again: bump, whomp, bump, whomp. At last, the plane came to a stop. The New Earth survivors collapsed in their places like exhausted amusement park riders.
Donovan guided the plane onto the grass shoulder. Once the plane was still, Donovan hopped down and jogged out to the middle of the highway.
The convoy grunted to a halt, like a herd of dignified elephants confronted by a mad hyena. In the Jeep at the head of the procession, a couple of rifles were raised in response, aimed directly at Donovan, who stood in the center of the road, waving the convoy down.
“I have women and children here,” he yelled, still signaling. He motioned toward the New Earthers, who had deplaned and now stood under the wings away from the road. They came out of the shadows like orphaned squirrels as Donovan hollered over the sound of the engines. “Can you take them with you? Please.”
Two officers in the lead jeep, who appeared to be the highest ranking in the group, conferred with each other. One got on a walky-talky. After a minute of buzzing, crackling convo with his superiors, the man nodded to his fellow officer.
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