by J. F. Holmes
Tyson and Dante shook it in turn. “Brit?” the latter asked. “You’re a long way from home.”
“I could say the same to you, but yes. Our children and grandchildren concocted a 60th anniversary trip for the missus and me.” The old man chuckled. “I think I read too much Jules Verne to them at bedtime—they got it in their head to send us ‘around the world in 80 days’.”
Another face peered into the gap. “Don’t let him fool you, boys. The old grouch is having the time of his life.”
Tyson grinned. “That sounds like Dante, all right.” He elbowed his friend in the ribs “I think we’ve just gotten a glimpse at your future, bro.”
He forced himself to smile and added, “As I said, no sense of tact.”
The plane lurched, and conversation became more difficult as the hubbub and hustle of takeoff filled the airframe with familiar noises. Some men might have simply thought of the rising whine of the turbines and the feel of acceleration as they rocketed down the runway as merely takeoff. For Dante, those sounds and sensations translated to something more primal. Home. I’m going home.
He leaned forward and tugged a battered Michael Connelly thriller out of his carry-on. He’d read the book enough times that the mystery offered no surprise, but there was something familiar and comforting about the meticulous nature of the book’s detective as he worked through the evidence. It made for a perfect mental checkout for the long flight. He’d tried reading new books on flights before, and the nervous tension of an unfamiliar story had made for an uncomfortable combination with his general anxiety toward air travel. It was an idiosyncrasy his friends found humorous, but he took the ribbing with good humor.
A few hours later, he pulled himself out of the book with a yawn and opened the window shade. Dante considered the dazzling, unending blue of the ocean beneath them. We’re chasing the sun, he thought, or it’s chasing us. The immense distance the journey covered amplified the inherent surreality. Take off at eight in the morning and land just after four—eight hours by the hands of the clock, but double that for those inside. Any way you went about it, a hell of a long day.
He gave his paperback a considering look, shrugged, and leaned his seat back after lowering the shade. The book wasn’t going anywhere, and at that moment, sleep was a far more appealing option.
***
He jerked awake, heart hammering, although he couldn’t identify what had shattered his dream. Then he heard it, muffled under the constant drone of the plane’s engines, but recognizable nonetheless—a high-pitched scream, abruptly cut off.
Dante jammed an elbow into Tyson’s side. His friend cracked an eyelid momentarily and muttered in incomprehensible sleep language.
Frustrated, he hissed, “Ty. Wake the fuck up, Ranger!”
The other man jerked into an upright position. Blinking, he scanned the seats in front of them before turning to Dante. “What?”
“I heard something. It—there.” The scream repeated. It lasted a bit longer this time, and the passengers who weren’t asleep or wearing headphones stirred. A few looked around, trying to determine the source of the noise, but all shrugged it off and returned to what they were doing. Just a sound from a movie, he imagined them guessing, and for a moment, he wondered if he wasn’t jumping to conclusions.
No, Dante decided, the scream was real. There was a visceral element to it, making the sound different enough from some special effect to raise the hair on the back of his neck. He’d heard that sort of cry before, and never in a good context.
He’d toted a tricked-out Mk11 for the last six months, and hadn’t fired a shot outside the firing range the entire time. It figured things would go sideways as soon as he was unarmed. Murphy was a sadistic bastard, after all. He met Tyson’s eyes, and the other man gave him a tight nod of silent assent. “Back there,” he murmured.
“Yeah.” Dante released his seatbelt and turned to face the opening to the economy cabin at the rear of the plane. He hooked a finger into the curtain and studied the area beyond. Three sections of three seats made up each row, separated by a pair of aisles. The section was less than a third of the length of the entire plane, but he guessed at least half the total number passengers were packed into the section. The upgrade was more than worth it.
Many of the passengers had drawn their shades, casting the entire compartment in intermittent shadow. “When in doubt, go to sleep,” he whispered to himself. Particularly when the airline packed you in like a sardine. Still, the tableau before him seemed a little off. A few of the passengers at the front of the section glowed with the telltale sign of tablets or e-readers, but further back—nothing.
He frowned. Tyson stepped close to his back for his own look. “Hijacking?”
“I don’t think so,” Dante said. As he watched, a lowered shade close to the back of the plane cut off the sunlight and left the last few rows cloaked in shadow.
“Gentlemen, you need to return to your seats, please.”
The two men turned. The flight attendant for their section was a slender, petite woman with an olive complexion and ink-black hair. If Dante hadn’t been on high alert, her French accent might have merited some of the patented Accardi charm. He glanced at the name badge clipped to her blouse.
He pitched his voice low so as not to be overheard. “Giselle, is there an air marshal on the flight?” From the way her eyes widened, he guessed that wasn’t the best way to open the conversation. “We’re U.S. Army,” he said. The half-truth was simpler and more succinct than explaining retirement and private contracting. “We heard a cry in the back.” He stepped aside and gestured at the curtain. “But something’s not right.”
She frowned. “Only a movie, n’est ce pas?” Stepping forward, she took her own long look through the curtain. The flight attendant stepped back with a look of confusion. “That’s strange.”
“What is it?” Tyson said. In spite of their attempt to remain quiet, some of the passengers in their section were turning to look at the gathering. Dante noticed Graham Hales and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. From the old Brit’s frown, he didn’t think he’d pulled it off.
“The galley is dark,” she explained. Dante glanced at Tyson, but the other man shrugged. He didn’t get it, either. Giselle sighed. “We will dim the lights, yes, but never shut them off entirely. For safety reasons, do you understand? In case we need to see to strap in.” She lifted a phone handset attached to the wall of their own galley and pressed it to her ear.
Dante glanced back through the curtain in time to see a red LED flash on the twin to the handset the flight attendant held. She stood there for a good thirty seconds before replacing the phone in its cradle.
“They should have answered,” she said with a frown.
Dante didn’t know how to reply. The shadows at the rear of the plane were creepy enough without the rest of the flight crew’s failure to respond. Given the atmosphere, it was no surprise that the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. What he couldn’t understand was why none of the densely packed people in front of him had picked up on the strangeness.
I can feel it! he wanted to shout. Why can’t you? A few of the folks closer to the front glanced at the intermittent opening in the curtain with questioning eyes, but that remained the extent of their curiosity.
Giselle picked up the phone again and pushed a different button. After a moment, she said quietly, “Samira, I need your help back here, please.” After she hung up, she met Dante’s eyes and visibly composed herself. “Wait here, please. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Tyson opened his mouth, but Dante gave him a minute shake of his head. The other man bit back his retort and shrugged.
Samira, the other flight attendant, was close enough in figure to Giselle that they could probably share a wardrobe. If that was a policy of the airline, it was great for aesthetics, but bad for security—he probably weighed as much as the two of them combined. The two conferred in hushed voices behind the back row of seats, then
split up. Samira moved to the port-side aisle, while Giselle returned to where Dante and Tyson waited.
The rest of the passengers in their section had realized something was up now. Most had turned in their seats, or even got up to face the rear. The low buzz of conversation hadn’t overwhelmed the background hum of the aircraft, but that wouldn’t last forever. Dante considered the crowd, then raised a finger to his lips and hoped the symbol for quiet was universal enough that it would carry through. He turned back in time to see the flight attendants slip through the curtains.
Tyson tapped the bulkhead with his knuckles. “Think there are any field-expedient weapons lurking in the bathrooms?”
“You going to whack someone with a toilet seat?” Dante said mildly. “Besides, she said to wait here.”
“Yeah. We both know that ain’t happening.”
“Boys,” Graham murmured, “Take this.” He stuck his arm up above his seat, proffering a black lacquered cane. The shaft was well-dented, obviously old, and as Dante took it, he raised an appreciative eyebrow. Damage aside, it had impressive heft, and as he studied the wooden shaft, he noted that the short handle was a single carved piece with the rest of the walking stick. Serious piece of craftsmanship.
“They don’t make them like this anymore,” he said. “Thanks.”
“I’ve got a newer one at home—aluminium.” Dante smirked at the foreign pronunciation as Graham finished, “This one is an antique—but it’s got more authority if one has to deal with unsavory sorts during one’s travels, what?”
“Roger that. Thanks, Graham.” He turned to Tyson and murmured, “Let’s go.”
“What, I don’t get anything?”
“I’ll protect you until you get that toilet seat,” Dante promised. He eased through the curtain, his friend at his back. Samira and Giselle were a half-dozen rows ahead. At first, he wondered why they hadn’t advanced further, then realized that the two were pausing at each row to ask the passengers in the window seats to raise their shades. The front of economy had brightened to a significant degree, but shadow still cloaked the rear.
That shouldn’t be possible. He swallowed past a dry throat and choked up on the end of the cane. He wouldn’t have much room to swing, but the handle would still hit with some serious oomph. Normally he’d have been self-conscious, carrying an old man’s walking stick like a baseball bat. Here and now, he was glad to have it.
Giselle looked back over her shoulder and caught sight of them. For a moment she looked as though she might say something, but something like relief flashed across her face, and she looked to the next passenger row.
A loud voice responded to the flight attendant’s low request to raise the window shade. Dante’s Arabic was a little rusty, but it was evident from the overall tone and cursing sprinkled throughout the rant that this guy wasn’t interested. He took a step forward, intending to assist, but stopped dead in his tracks at the new sound.
Low growls filled the air in seeming response to the outburst. In the deep shadows at the back of the plane, paired clusters of red lights shone.
“Tell me those are warning lights or something,” Tyson whispered.
“I think I’d be lying,” Dante managed before all hell broke loose.
Figures rushed out of the shadows in a liquid mass, filling the aisles and pouring over the seats. Screams filled the air. The passengers behind Dante, already wary, had, for the most part, turned to watch the strange procession of the flight attendants and their escort. They had a front row seat to the unveiled horror. Their cries warned those who’d not yet been alerted to anything wrong, and they turned, for the most part, in time to die.
The creatures with the glowing red eyes were people. Flight attendants, men, women, even a few children. Their clothing was as varied as the rest of the passengers’, but all bore grievous wounds—jagged, bloody rents in flesh gone chalk-white mottled with black. They moved in stutters and stops, a painful, broken-boned form of locomotion as unnerving as their freakish appearance.
Blood painted the bulkheads as they descended on their first row of victims. Jaws opened impossibly wide, they savaged their victims, but only momentarily—all too often, they discarded their target and pounced on the next in line even as the former bled out.
The aisles filled with panicked people, and Dante heard Tyson yelling, but he couldn’t make out the words over the hubbub. He had his eyes locked on the horrific tableau before him, frozen and unable to move.
Caught up in the rush of passengers attempting to flee the sudden horde, Giselle went down, trampled as the very people she’d been trying to help left her to her fate. Rage rose in Dante and overcame the terror. He shoved his way forward, ignoring wide eyes and screaming mouths. The way cleared, and he met the flight attendant’s pleading eyes. A trickle of blood descended from one nostril as she rolled onto her stomach and tried to get on her hands and knees.
“Come on!” Dante leaned over and extended a hand. She grabbed it. He pulled her to her feet, turned to run—and something tore her from his grip. He turned back in time to see a pair of ravaged Arabs tearing at her with hands and teeth. The flight attendant had enough time for a single abbreviated scream before they tore out her throat.
“Bastards!” Dante yelled. He choked up and swung the cane overhead. The handle settled into the crown of the left beast’s head with a crisp crack of bone. The thing let out a pained, bat-like shriek. He pulled back for another swing, but had to step back as the monster’s partner advanced with a hiss. He changed targets, swinging from left to right, and slammed the tip of the handle into its temple. The red glow faded, and the creature sagged to the floor.
Good. They can be killed—or re-killed, I guess.
Tyson screamed in his ear, “Come on!”
Dante snapped back into situational awareness, realizing that he’d left himself far enough forward to attract attention from the right side. His only saving grace was his friend, and the fact that the seats blocked the things’ struggle to move across the plane. He staggered back, jerking his head to and fro as he tried to figure out their next move. The bulkheads and bathrooms placed between the two sections would bottleneck the things into the aisles, but they’d need to barricade those openings somehow.
He considered the amount of space between the leading edge of the creatures and the curtain and despaired. We aren’t going to have enough time.
The horde reached the last aisle where the flight attendants had directed the passengers to open their windows and recoiled. High-pitched screams jabbed into Dante’s ears, and he flinched from the sound even as he rejoiced in their lucky break. A few of the creatures reached out or stepped forward across the border between shadow and light, only to shrink back in obvious agony. Blackened skin blistered and smoked, and the entire line retreated back into the remaining darkness. The front row straightened, impassively regarding Dante and Tyson.
“Shit,” Tyson breathed. “Holy fucking shit.”
Dante swallowed, noticing a glob of black, tar-like matter on the end of the cane. He scrubbed it on the carpet and tried to ignore the coppery reek of blood filling the air. “Here’s hoping we don’t run into any storms on the way,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”
The last thing he saw before they slipped back through the curtain was Giselle, standing amidst the crowd. She regarded him with a pair of glowing red eyes.
***
The soft sound of crying filled the compartment as Dante and Tyson wedged the drink cart sideways between the bulkhead and the wall of the lavatory. It wasn’t a perfect fit—they had to leave it at a bit of an angle—but with the wheels locked, it was steady. Even with luggage jammed in the space between either side of the cart and the seats, it was a laughable barrier, but it was what they had. They’d debated the merits of leaving the curtain in place but ended up tearing it down. It let more light into the rear of the plane and would let them see what was coming.
If any of the passengers or remaining flight a
ttendants had a problem with them taking charge, they hadn’t said anything. That was more than likely shock. Dante hoped they’d come out of it, and soon. If the things rushed their section, he and Tyson wouldn’t be able to hold it alone.
Even with the survivors from economy packed into first class and business, they had plenty of room. He didn’t know how many people had started out in the rear of the plane, but whatever had happened had claimed a sizeable number of them.
Dante stared into the rear of the plane and resisted the urge to start counting. How in the hell did they not notice what was happening? The creatures must have been silent as thieves at first, working their way toward the front with no one the wiser. Given their reaction to sunlight, he supposed that the sudden sunlight had provoked them into a more overt response. If not for the cry that had woken them, it was impossible to say how far they might have gotten before anyone noticed what was happening.
Samira stepped between Tyson and Dante. Her look over the drink cart didn’t last long before she turned away, pale. “The pilot and copilot aren’t answering my calls.”
“Lovely,” Tyson said. “They’re not—they’re still human, right?”
“I believe so,” she said. “I think one of them must have stuck his head out, seen the panic, and returned to the cockpit. They’ve secured the door. I can hear them in there, but they ignore me even when I knock.”
Dante shrugged. “Smart. Selfish, but smart.”
Samira looked over the survivors. “Can we get away from…here?” She pointedly refused to look into the darkness.
Dante hesitated. He wanted to keep an eye on things, but the sun did seem to be keeping them at bay for the moment. “Sure,” he said. Refugees from the rear had taken his and Tyson’s seats. He moved up and leaned against the seat in front of Graham. As the adrenaline rush left, his arms and legs started to shake with fatigue.
He offered the cane back, but the old man shook his head. “Hang on to it. God willing, I’ll use it to walk out of here when the time comes.”