by C. M. Fick
"I knew you made it through the night." Rudy sounded relieved and a little choked up.
"Who's all with you in the trailer?" she asked, shifting the roller into drive; a few zombies didn't stand a chance against the pressing weight of the two rollers.
"It's just me, Kev and Jenkins. Kev's hurt pretty bad; he caught some shrapnel in his calf and can't walk. I think the things outside can smell his blood because they haven't stopped beating on the walls of the trailer. I'm worried they're going to break through at any minute."
"I'm on my way." Aisha gunned the engine and was satisfied with the crunch as she rolled forward.
"They got Tiny and Saul but I think the others made it off the site before the shit really hit the fan." Rudy talked as Aisha navigated her way across the highway, squishing every zombie in her path. "The Lieutenant was airlifted out of here when they lost the bridge. I think it was their missiles that blew the thing to kingdom come." A zombie wearing camo stumbled into her path. Aisha thought she remembered seeing him speaking to Jenkins the night before. Now, half of his face was gone and burn marks ran down his right side. The burns didn't hide the bite marks on his arms, chest and neck.
Rudy kept talking, "Army personnel were trapped in the bridge collapse. Jenkins and I attempted to dig them out, but there was no time - the zombies overwhelmed us and we had to fall back to the trailer." There was a slight bump as the army zombie fell beneath the front roller and Aisha whispered a prayer for the dead soldier. "We were running for cover and noticed Tiny running down the hill shouting something about fuel. That's when a mortar went off behind us... when Kev got hit. One minute he was running beside me, and the next he wasn't. Jenkins was the one who found him in the ruble and pulled him out. I didn't see Tiny again."
Aisha pushed the engine as it started up the incline to Pin Oak road, easily knocking over the guardrail once it reached the top; Rudy fell silent. To her right, Aisha could see the crater where the bridge once stood, and to her left, the ground littered with bodies - some still twitching. The bulldozer sat abandoned. Crossing the road Aisha paused, surveying the trailer that stood just clear of the bridge's debris. Rudy was right - a group of thirty or so zombies crowded around it, but as Aisha began to descend, they all turned and wandered towards her.
Stopping, Aisha reached for her radio. "Rudy?"
"I'm still here. Whatever you are doing is drawing them away from the trailer."
"I can see that." She replied dryly. "I'm going to need you guys to come out when I get there. There's enough room in the cab for the three of you to fit in but it will be tight until I can get us to the south side of the bridge. There are a few trucks there and I'm hoping we can find one that runs." She paused, realizing that getting Kev into the cab would be a feat with him badly injured and so many zombies in tow.
"If the zombies aren't crowded around out there I think we can manage." Rudy's tone had changed from despair to hope, but Aisha wasn't so optimistic.
After a quick glance at the fuel gage, she knew that they didn't have time to waste. "I'm worried about Kev," she finally said, trying to lower her voice.
"Me too," Rudy replied quietly. "He's lost a lot of blood Aisha. He needs medical attention."
"Hospitals are out of the question Rudy. The zombies have made it to Houston and I doubt anywhere within the city limits is safe. Will he survive being moved?" She hated to ask, but they needed this to go as quickly and smoothly as possible. There was no response for a long moment.
When the radio crackled, Jenkins was the one to respond, "Hey Aisha, glad that you're okay."
"You too." She tried to smile, but was far too exhausted.
"I was listening to you and Rudy and I'm positive we won't be able to get Kev into the cab. I don't think we can move him Aisha; I'm worried that the bleeding will start up again or worse."
"Can we get the truck, drive back to the trailer and put him in the back?" she asked, hoping they could find a quick solution.
"If we come back, we run the risk of getting trapped again. I'm out of ammo and neither Kev nor Rudy have weapons. I hate to say this but I think we should put him out of his misery." Aisha gasped at his words. "Even if we were able to get him to a hospital, I doubt there is much they would be able to do for him - I'm not even sure how he made it thought the night."
"You can't just leave him!" Panic finally set in. Was this the world they were now living in? Where you'd just leave your friends behind because they wouldn't survive?
"Aisha," Jenkins' voice was soft and sorrowful, "I'm sorry but I don't think we have any other option. He's been unconscious for hours now and lost excessive amounts blood. This isn't easy for me either but given the situation, I don't see what other options we have."
"Well you have five minutes to figure out another option," Aisha snapped, dropping the radio into her lap and shoving the roller into drive.
The zombies, who were once crowded around the trailer, were now closing in on her location. With no remorse, Aisha rolled over the zombies in front of her and stopped, waiting for more to gather around. She put the roller into reverse and backed over the few zombies unfortunate enough to be in the way; she waited a moment before putting it into drive. Several more times she drove back and forth until most of the zombies were unrecognizable smears on the road and bloody streaks on the rollers.
By the time she made it down to the trailer, the fuel gauge was dangerously low but there weren't many zombies left stumbling around. "I hope you've figured it out because I'm outside, and we're low on fuel," Aisha snapped into the radio.
The door cracked open and Jenkins head popped out, glancing around the area, assessing for threats. Upon deciding it was clear, he nodded and exited with Rudy close behind; Kev wasn't with them. The two men didn't look at one another as they clambered up the side of the roller and squished themselves into the cab beside her. Jenkins cheek was swollen and red, Aisha noticed, and Rudy wore an expression of resigned defeat.
"Where is Kev?" she barked, not wanting to move forward until someone explained.
Rudy glared at Jenkins who sighed and shook his head. "He'd gone into shock."
"What did you do?" she almost lunged out of her seat at the sergeant.
"He shot him in the head," Rudy said flatly, not moving to help Jenkins.
Holding up his hands in an attempt to fend her off, Jenkins tried to explain, "His pulse was too fast and too weak, his skin was moist and clammy, he'd been unconscious for over two hours and his lips were turning blue. He wasn't going to get the immediate medical help he needed, and if we tried to move him, it would have caused his heart to fail."
"I should make you get out," Aisha hissed.
"I punched him for even making the suggestion, but he was right Aisha." Rudy looked out the window, focusing on something far away. "I doubt Kev would have survived the trip. It was the merciful thing to do."
"I thought you were out of bullets." She turned on Jenkins again.
"You always save one for yourself." Jenkins didn't look her in the eye when he spoke. "We'd better get to the south side of the bridge if we're going." He nodded towards the rubble of the collapsed bridge; zombies were already crawling out of the wreckage and advancing on the survivors.
"You'd better hope two of the trucks work because you sure as hell aren't coming with me." Shifting the roller into drive one last time, Aisha drove away from the remnants of the battle they'd fought... and lost.
Volume 9: Final Layover
Gate A26...
Pharmaceutical sales rep Stewart Witt hated layovers, but as a man who traveled for his job, he often found himself stuck in airports. While traveling from Chicago to Miami, he disembarked at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, thankful that he had a relatively short, hour and a half layover.
Throughout his travels, he'd become accustomed to airport security practices but upon disembarking in Dallas, he recognized the signs of heightened security protocols. Men in uniform walked amongst the travelers,
watching the passengers with wary expressions. Security, with a fleet of dogs, weren't allowing anyone to enter the city, guarding the doors that led out of the secure area and into the main terminal. A voice, repeating the same message every five minutes, droned over the loudspeakers.
"Due to the civil unrest growing in the southern end of Dallas, no passengers will be allowed to leave the airport premises. For those passengers who are on a layover, we ask that you please wait patiently at your gate; all other passengers must speak with their airline to make alternate arrangements. All inbound flights are currently being diverted to Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City until this matter is resolved. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause."
Every television in the airport was tuned to the news. Blaming the rioting in Austin and Houston on several major oil spills, the reporters repeatedly urged those with family or friends out of state, to leave the area until the matter could be resolved. That if people were unable to stay with family, they should travel north to Stillwater Oklahoma where FEMA had set up a relief camp. Video footage taken from a helicopter showed swarms of people fighting amongst one another in Dallas' streets, but there was little else in the reports detailing the spills and the nature of the riots. Texas' governor gave a speech about people needing to work together throughout the crisis and assist others in need wherever possible. Stewart regretted his choice of layover locations.
In the airport, large groups of angry people crowded around the ticket desks, shouting about the injustice of not being allowed into the city while a steady stream of panicked people flowed in from the check-in area. Fear, irritation, and anger were the most prevalent emotions amongst the travelers and Stewart was thankful he didn't have long to wait. Knowing he didn't have time for his usual routine, he settled into a seat by his gate and pulled a journal out of his carry-on. The chaos around him fed his imagination.
Throughout his travels, Stewart had grown accustomed to waiting for his connecting flight, and over the years, he'd learned a few tricks to pass the time. It was his routine, after disembarking, to find a restaurant nearest to his connecting flight, sit at a table overlooking the crowds, and order a sandwich with a beer. While waiting for his food, he'd review his next stop - what doctors he was visiting and which drugs he would promote. After his food came, he'd turn his attention to the crowded walkways and filled seats, waiting for someone to catch his attention. Upon finding an individual who interested him, Stewart would then make up a story about who they were, where they were going, and why.
For example, if Stewart saw a harried mother totting two screaming children, he'd come up with a story like: the woman is on the run after kidnapping her children from their father. He was a high-level mobster who gave them whatever they asked for, but his position within the mob meant they could easily become targets to rival groups. She's taking them away to protect them, but they fight against her - they want to go back, not understanding the dangers. The woman, however, knows that if she returns she'll be the one to pay, and probably with her life. Disappearing is her only remaining option.
As he sat and watched people interact, Stewart scribbled down notes in his journal; the appearance of the people involved, the motivation of his characters, the fictional events which lead up to their being in the airport, and the outcome of their imagined situations. While he'd always dreamt of becoming a writer and was very good with character building, his attempts always fell short when it came to putting fingers to keys. He lacked the skills to develop his ideas into a full-length manuscript. Instead, he contented himself with filling the journal with his observations and imaginings.
Watching the group of impatient and haggard people waiting for the flight to Miami, Stewart's mind began to fill with stories; one man in particular caught his attention. Sitting in the corner alone, he cast paranoid glances at those passing him by; flinching away from anyone who came too close. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, emphasising his sickly pallor and his body shook with chills. The man seemed to be suffering from the flu given his quiet coughing and heavy breathing, but he also favored his left side, puzzling Stewart with the strange combination of symptoms. The man looked up and noticed Stewart watching him; he flipped Stewart off. Quickly averting his eyes, Stewart's face heated with embarrassment that he'd been caught staring. Letting his gaze drift over the growing crowd around the gate, he made notes about the panicked state of the people, all the while wondering about the cause of the civil unrest in the area. When a man sat down next to him with a weary sigh, Stewart set down his journal and struck up a conversation, determined to find out what was really going on in the city.
"Are you from this area?" Stewart asked; the man nodded his reply. "What's happening out there?"
"People are attacking one another," the man said with a shaky voice. Stewart frowned, not understanding what the man meant; he just shrugged and went on, "I live in Arlington and this morning I woke up to my neighbour screaming bloody murder. When I looked out the window, I saw people wandering in the street. They seemed confused - taking a few steps in one direction before turning and stumbling in another. Some were banging on doors and windows and whenever a car drove down the road, they all swarmed after it making these hideous moaning noises." The man shuddered as if the moans still echoed in his head.
"So are you going on a trip or did you just decide to up and leave because of what's happening?" Stewart nodded to the carry-on sitting at the man's feet. Given his rumpled appearance, it seemed that he'd grabbed whatever clothes had been lying around and threw them on before rushing out of the house. From his left came a loud, rattling cough, but the man went on with his tale and Stewart dismissed it.
"I was supposed to work today, but as I was getting out of the shower I saw a group of people break through the patio door of the house behind mine. I'm friends with the family who lives there so I called to warn them but didn't get an answer. I heard three gunshots and then I thought I heard screaming, but by that point, I knew I had to get far, far away." The man chewed on his nail and Stewart noticed that he'd chewed them down to the quick; they looked painful. "Lately we've been seeing all sorts of reports on the television about rioting in San Antonio, Austin, and the surrounding area. That every time the rioting spreads, the army arrives and starts moving people to that camp in Oklahoma. I didn't want to end up in some camp, so I packed my bag and called to reserve a seat - I didn't care where just so long as I was out of Texas. They had a few seats left on the flight to Miami and I figured that while anywhere would be better than here, the beach would be a nice bonus."
"Did you talk to any of your neighbours when you left?" Stewart's curiosity was piqued. He hadn't really paid attention to the news lately, but he'd at least heard of the rioting spreading through Texas.
There was another fit of coughing and Stewart couldn't help but look over at the man he'd noticed earlier; he looked even more ill than before if that was at all possible. People walking by gave the man a wide berth and those who'd been sitting in his section earlier, had now found seats elsewhere. How could the airline allow someone so obviously sick onto a crowded plane where the contagion could easily spread and infect the other passengers?
"...seemed to be chewing on something." The man was saying when Stewart returned his attention to him; he thought for a moment, trying to remember the context. He was about to ask the man to repeat what he'd just said, but the man continued, not noticing the lapse in Stewart's attention. "I called to her but she didn't respond and then someone slammed into the passenger side of my car," the man's face had gone pale as he spoke and his clasped hands began to shake. "It was the teenager who mowed my lawn. He was covered in blood - like he'd bathed in it or something - and his eyes weren't right either." He leaned in close and Stewart bent forward to hear his hushed words. "I don't think it's rioting over oil spills, happening out there. I think that something is making people sick and causing them act this way; that's why they're telling people to leave the area and only
drink bottled water until they're out of state."
Leaning back in his chair, Stewart contemplated everything he'd been told. As a pharmaceutical rep, he knew a little about communicable diseases but not enough to determine what was plaguing the Texan population. He'd have to ask one of the doctors at his home office once he'd returned. After jotting down a few notes in his journal, he turned back to the man and said, "I have to use the facilities. Would you hold my seat for me?"
While Stewart washed his hands, the sick man from his gate stumbled into the bathroom gasping for breath; he dashed into a stall and promptly vomited. The sickly-sweet scent of bile permeated the men's room, but beneath it, Stewart noticed something else - something close to putrefaction. Not wanting to linger in the bathroom, Stewart finished washing his hands, wiping them on the trousers of his eight hundred dollar suit. Not only would drying would take too long but the odours were also growing more intense with each passing minute; he couldn't stomach another second in the small room and his pants could always be cleaned.
Hurrying out of the men's room, Stewart made his way to the gate's desk. The attendant acknowledged him with a nod and he stepped up, ready to demand a seat change if the sickly man proved to be near him on the flight. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, he changed his mind on how he'd approach the situation - the poor woman standing behind the desk looked as if she'd pulled a double shift. She appeared fatigued with dark circles beneath her eyes.
"How may I assist you sir?" she said, trying to smile; it appeared more like a grimace to Stewart.
"There is a very sick gentleman in the bathroom." He chose his words carefully, knowing he'd fare far better if he didn't immediately get the woman's defenses up. "I noticed him sitting over there," he pointed to the area he'd seen the man in earlier, "and was wondering if I could possibly change my seat to the front of the plane. I'd like to put as much distance as possible between us."
The attendant's smile faltered, but she held out her hand for his boarding pass. She typed for a moment before looking up from her monitor. "I'm sorry sir, but you are already booked for seat B5 in business class; we don't have any seats available closer to the cockpit. The flight is almost fully booked and I'm unable to determine where the man you are speaking of is sitting without his boarding pass."