“Well, they can just bite my ass,” Rose said gleefully, sliding the last four pennies to the cashier.
*****
As she made her way home in her aging Civic, Rose pondered the blanket shrouded figure she’d passed in the parking lot. Clearly, the sound they’d all heard had been a gunshot, as she doubted the blanket was covering a steaming pile of shit. So, who had been shot and why? And, who’d done the shooting? She seemed to recall that the hulk back at the canned goods had a shotgun with him. Was it him? Rose felt vaguely lucky that she’d not confronted him further. At least, she thought that was what she felt… luck was another emotion she was unfamiliar with. Suddenly, as she rounded a bend, Rose was forced to slam the brakes to avoid colliding with the passenger side of a mangled vehicle blocking the road.
“Christ on a crutch!” Rose bellowed, clutching the steering wheel and thinking, for a nano-second, that her heart might stop beating right then and there. Throwing the car into park she began to open the door, intending to take a closer look, when she realized that the other vehicle was already empty. Wondering where the police or a God Damn tow truck were, Rose glanced around and realized it was eerily quiet on the street. Although she had passed an occasional car along the way she noticed that, like Wally, the people who resided in the nearby homes had also evidently decided the world was coming to an end. Windows were boarded all around, and yards were void of people. Like the entire populace was bunkered down, waiting for something.
“Everyone’s just gone fucking bat shit.” Rose muttered, slowly reversing and then pulling forward to skirt the wreck. As she rounded what had been the front end of the other car, Rose glanced to her left. There, under the hanging driver’s door, was an enormous pool of blood. Blood and… sausage?
What the hell is sausage doing in the road? she thought. Squinting, Rose realized suddenly that it wasn’t sausage, but intestines.
Are you shitting me? Rose thought. What kind of people work in this God Damn town? Take the dead bodies and leave the fucking body parts behind? Way to traumatize the poor widdle soccer mommies! Rose actually laughed at that last part. I’d pay to see that shit, she thought. Tossing their organic cookies and fainting like the coddled little bitches they are!
Still chuckling, Rose continued toward home; suddenly remembering just how bad Wally was going to get it when she arrived. Laughing aloud, now, she pushed the Civic to 35mph so he could get it sooner rather than later.
*****
Twenty minutes later, turning into her driveway, Rose was struck by three things simultaneously.
Her old-ass neighbor Frank -two houses down- who had been bed-ridden with cancer for the last year and a half was lurching around in circles in his front yard. Wally had managed, while she was gone, to put the final sheet of plywood up over the front window. Wally was standing in the open doorway with his shotgun slung over his shoulder.
Heaving herself from the driver’s seat, Rose glared at Wally. “Looks like your God damn foot wasn’t so hurt after all, was it, shit head?” she spat angrily at him. “You’d better get your ass down here…”
“Hey, Rose?” he called, interrupting her again. “You might want to be a little quieter or Frank over there might hear you.”
“Fuck Frank,” Rose replied, heading toward the walkway to the door where Wally stood. “Get down here and unload your shit, I’m not fucking around with you and your apocalyptic bullshit anymore.”
That Wally made no move to exit the house as he was told stopped Rose in her tracks. “What the fuck has crawled up your ass, Walter Gendron? Who do you think you are? Are you really…”
Suddenly, Rose sensed someone or something behind her. Stepping to her right and turning, she found herself face to face with Frank who was, inexplicably, reaching to grasp at her. Slapping his hands away, Rose backpedaled, nearly stumbling over the toolbox that Uselessturd had, of course, left on the lawn.
“What the HELL?” she squealed. “Frank… what the fuck are you doing outside?” As he continued to shuffle towards her, Rose realized that something more than cancer was wrong with Frank today. His eyes looked… dead. Suddenly, he lunged at Rose, grabbing at her clothes.
“Wally, do something! Get this fucker off me!” she howled, swinging wildly to keep Frank from catching a hold of her.
Wally didn’t move. Rose grabbed Frank’s wrists and kicked in vain at his nuts. What should have dropped him to his knees had, seemingly, no effect.
“WALLY GENDRON WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? HELP ME!” Rose screeched.
Wally took a step. Then another.
Suddenly, Rose’s grip on him slipped and Frank bit fiercely into Rose’s cheek. She flailed blindly at him; connecting with an adrenaline fueled thump to the side of his head that momentarily pushed him back. Rose spun, flinging bits of flesh and blood from her face, and ran several steps towards the house and Wally.
“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? SHOOT HIM OR I SWEAR TO CHRIST I WILL KILL YOU, YOU USELESS…”
But, then, Frank was on her; all gnashing teeth and clutching hands. As Rose struggled, screaming, Frank sank his teeth into the gristle of her neck with a sickening pop.
“Wally,” Rose sputtered through the sudden, coppery rush of blood in her throat, “Wally… you fuck…”
Wally, with a smile, brought the shotgun down and closed the door.
Storm Crow 602
Rob Roche
“Culbert Tower, Sierra Charlie six zero one”
Lieutenant 'JG' Wentworth glanced over at Capt. 'Doc' Hollis, Doc didn’t look back. “Needles are dark,” he said. "Runway lights are FUBAR too."
“And nobody’s awake in the tower either,” JG said, finishing the sentence.
The C-2 Greyhound they rode in bucked and jerked through the turbulent night sky. They had left Andrews Air Force Base a short time earlier with a mixed load of VIP’s and civilian passengers.
Everything had gone to shit in the last 24 hours. Some kind of virus had begun sweeping through the country and so far, nothing was stopping it. As unbelievable as it was, the dead were not staying that way. Little was known other than transfer of bodily fluids spread it and those infected quickly died. Then reanimated and attacked the still living, thus spreading it even more rapidly. Lt. Wentworth and Doc Hollis were far too busy to keep up with all the gory details, only catching bits and snippets in between missions. One flight had a cargo of Spec Ops guys that left the aircraft at 20k feet over some GPS point in North Carolina. Another had a load of congressional staffers that got booted off at some podunk airport in Virginia. The flights became a blur after that. The log book stayed closed and the aircrew scrambled as best they could to get the bird turned around -aka preflighted- for the next flight. Chief Ryker and PO Yellowfeather were top notch and handled problems like they always did. Quick and efficient.
This was the last mission. “RTB and you’re on your own after that,” according to the last comms from the squadron CO CDR Mike “Davey” Allison. Andrews AFB had fallen silent shortly after they had taken off, and it appeared that Culbert field was also quiet.
Easing back on the throttles, JG keyed the ICS, “Wakey-wakey Chief, Final coming up.”
Doc, in the right seat broke out the landing checklist and began rattling off things the flight crew had to do in preparation for landing a Navy aircraft at a shore installation. In back, Chief Ryker broke out his own checklist and along with PO Yellowfeather got the cabin and its passengers squared away for landing.
“Major Sir, you need to put that laptop away. Can’t have anything loose in the cabin while on approach or landing,” Yellowfeather said to the officer.
The Army Major just nodded and put his gear away as requested. The dozen or so heavy hitters in his team just sat like statues, staring at the closed ramp 10 feet in front of them.
In the front office, Doc and JG were peering through the patchy fog that haunted this part of Chesapeake Bay. The partially functioning airfield lights made it a challenge, but no more th
an landing on the pitching flight deck of an aircraft carrier.
Landing checklists complete, the aviators aviated and Chief Ryker kept a sharp eye on his charges in back.
The Greyhound bucked and wobbled through final approach and touched down without incident. Few lights were on at NAS Culbert Field. They taxied up to the 'Crow’s Nest,' the VRC-39’s hanger. A dark colored SUV was just pulling into the parking lot nearby. Headlights illuminated the causeway and road leading up to the squadron’s hanger. Families were arriving.
In back, Chief Ryker lowered the ramp as soon as they turned off the active. Pulling up in front of the hanger, he lowered it the rest of the way. Everybody unbuckled and piled out en masse. Everyone except the major and his group.
Lt. Wentworth and Doc Hollis shut the engines down and Lt. Wentworth unstrapped from his seat. “You coming?” He asked his friend.
“Staying here JG,” Doc replied. Looking JG in the eyes he said, “I got one last mission before I’m done. You get Sally and the kids and bug out. I’ll take the Chief and his with me."
“Roger that Doc,” he said as they grasped hands, “been a pleasure flying with you Man.”
“Same here, now git boy!”
JG passed left the cockpit and passed through the cargo compartment. Stepping off the ramp, he looked around at what had been a familiar sight during the four years stationed at VRC-39 and NAS Culbert Field. It felt cold and alien now. Mist shrouded parts of the field. The tower, normally ablaze with light and activity, was dark. The windows looked like dead eyes staring down at the still living. A smell like a mixture of baby shit and vomit wafted on the still air. Activity in and around the hanger was frantic, but still professional. Ground crews had the remaining squadron aircraft backed up to the hanger doors and refueling trucks were plugged into them.
As he walked across the ramp, a voice behind him called out, “Sir, coming through!” JG jumped out of the way as the bird labeled SC 601 was backed up to an open hanger door. The tail and wing walkers making sure they didn’t hit anything as it moved ponderously.
Sally Wentworth, JG’s wife of ten years and their two kids John and Mikaela, ages nine and seven stood silhouetted by the lights inside the hanger. JG ran up and grabbed them in a big hug. “C’mon, we’re leaving. Get your stuff in 602!” he said, pointing at another C-2.
Loud, piercing gunfire erupted inside the hanger and people began flooding out through the open hanger doors. Half dragging his two kids, JG and Sally stormed up the ramp into SC 602. “Strap them in!” he shouted as he continued on to the cockpit. Sally threw their bags into the cage and turned to begin strapping the kids in. People were flooding across the ramp and several had already jumped into seats in the cargo bay. More were running toward SC 602 and others parked on either side. Up front, JG blew through the preflight routine and began flipping switches and tugging levers. The APU roared to life with a shrill scream. Shadowy figures lurched out of the fog and heavy mist in the distance. Seemingly attracted to the noise. Gunfire could be heard on a 360 radial. Something splacked off the armored windscreen leaving a small chip. Glancing at a gauge, JG started wind milling engine #1. A few seconds later he hit the 'start' button and the low moan of a T-56 Turboprop coming to life joined the chorus of its mates also waking up.
Master Chief Petty Officer Waylon White shouted from the cargo bay, “Sir, get us the fuck outta here NOW!” Waylon had 35 years of Naval service and was as unflappable as they came.
The staccato roar of an M-4 carbine erupted from inside the rear of the cargo bay. Sally Wentworth, a licensed private pilot, plunked herself into the co-pilots seat beside her husband and began strapping in. Engine #1 was up and running by now. Hydraulic pressure came up in the plane and the ramp in back -its actuation lever almost bending under the frantic pushing by the Master Chief- finally got the ramp up and closing.
Airman Piesceki, SC 602’s assigned plane captain pulled the chocks and flung them off to the side, and then jumped into the aircraft as the ramp began closing. He barely got his legs inside before the clamshell door slammed shut.
JG advanced the throttle on #1 and began taxiing as he engaged the starter on #2. Looking left and right, he saw other Storm Crows moving away from the hanger. Flashes of gunfire and staggering figures could be seen inside the Crows Nest behind them. Some of the people appeared to be feeding on still-thrashing shapes lying on the ground.
#2 engine spun up to full power and like a million pissed-off hornets, the eight bladed T-56 turboprops bit into the clammy night air and pushed the C-2 Greyhound out onto the taxiway.
The ICS crackled with Waylon's voice from the rear, “Cabin secured sir, lets un-ass this LZ.”
Pushing the throttles forward, JG turned onto the active.
Humanoid shapes staggered and shambled along the edges of the runway. Some began wandering out onto the mist soaked asphalt in their path. They wouldn't be able to take off if their runway was obstructed.
“Shit,” he muttered as he slammed the throttles all the way forward.
Storm Crow 602 lurched forward under the combined thrust of both engines. Vortices spun off the propeller blades as they went supersonic. Airspeed picked up and shapes appeared in the gloom. Some directly ahead. JG danced on the rudder pedals in a desperate attempt to miss the 'people' wandering across the runway. A prop strike could end their night quicker than he could blink.
At somewhere near flight speed, another mass of forms lurched out of the gloom. Hauling back on the stick, JG and Sally coaxed the heavily laden Greyhound into the air. Barely clearing the mob below, he threw the gear lever up and pushed the nose back down into level flight. Milking the flaps up as airspeed increased, they stayed on the deck as SC 602 roared out across the open waters of Chesapeake Bay.
A little left rudder brought them around on a 90 degree heading at around 1500 feet above ground level. Below and to the left, JG saw a different C-2 drift off the runway and cartwheel into a ball of flaming debris. The plume of black smoke crept into the sky like tendrils of nightmare. Another C-2 barely cleared the wreck and vanished into the gloom. Right on its heels, the last Greyhound also lifted off and disappeared into the night sky.
“All Storm Crows, good luck and god's speed shipmates,” JG transmitted over the squadron's frequency.
Nobody replied.
“Honey?” Sally said as she looked over at JG with huge scared eyes, “What’s going on and where are we going?”
“I have no idea Babes." He looked back at her, “Pick a direction."
In back, Master Chief White surveyed the mass of human wreckage packed into the cargo bay. The red lights in the cargo bay cast everything in a blood red glow. Capacity for the plane was around thirty souls. He guessed fifty plus were stuffed in there. The two Wentworth kids had given up their seats to others and crawled into the baggage cage. The Master Chief stood beside the baggage cage with his back to the closed cockpit door.
Dozens of scared people stared at him and each other. Nobody could hear the muffled scream and crunch of teeth tearing into living flesh over the shriek and scream of the engines.
Ten of the fifty died and turned before the rest realized what was happening. With nowhere to go, the carnage spread like wildfire. Those that didn’t die from a flesh rending bite, died under the crush of panicked humanity trapped in a confined space several thousand feet in the air.
Master Chief White ripped open the cockpit door and shoved the two Wentworth kids through. The pilot looked back at him with a shocked expression. “We’re fucked back here El-Tee.” He threw the lock on the cockpit door after slamming it shut.
Sounds of a struggle and a lot of salty language that only a salty old Chief could put forth came over the open mic.
“Open the doors!” was the last thing anyone heard from Master Chief White.
Reaching over his head, Lt. 'JG' Wentworth pulled a yellow handle. Hydraulic fluid at 3000 PSI rushed through lines and forced the locks open, pushing the rear cargo ramp ope
n.
Having already thrown the pallet release handle on the port side, Master Chief White plunged his arm into the writhing mass of feasting undead piled on top of the remaining pallet release handle. Teeth ripped at his arm, stripping flesh from it in bloody chunks. The pain was ungodly. He flipped it open and the floor, along with the passenger seats attached, shifted aft. Pulling his arm free he punched a freshly turned zombie in the face, shattering its jaw. It dropped free to the tilted floor only to be replaced by another of the hungry dead. The milk white eyes of a small child glared in hatred at him as he bashed the unruly corpse against the baggage cage to dislodge it.
As the ramp descended further, the wind howled and shrieked throughout the cargo hold. The shift in weight threw the aircraft into a climb. The cargo pallet sliding aft jammed. The ramp wasn't open enough yet.
In the cockpit behind the locked door JG and Sally fought the controls in a desperate effort to regain level flight. A stall would be unrecoverable at this altitude.
The mass of undead still inside the cargo hold began falling out the now fully open ramp. The previously jammed up cargo pallet soon followed, taking the rest overboard. They plummeted into the sky, leaving the chaos behind. With the sudden departure of the passengers and cargo pallet, the C-2’s center of gravity returned to normal.
The Master Chief collapsed to the floor, tangled in his ICS cord and a loose cargo net. His heart stopped beating and his eyes turned milky white. The floor all around him was slick with blood and gore, body parts and now an undead Master Chief. He thrashed around, finally untangling himself by pure chance.
He sensed living flesh.
Hunger filled him. Something dim remembered that food was inside the shut door nearby.
Waylon lurched towards the front of the plane and crashed into the locked cockpit door.
JG and Sally looked at each other as something heavy crashed into the cockpit door. John and Mikeala screamed.
Unhappy Endings: Tales from the world of Adrian's Undead Diary Page 21