by Amber Fallon
I came around the corner to a scene I wasn’t quite expecting. There was a boy in blue, though I didn’t think he was actually a police officer. The close cropped hair, strong shoulders, and bracing stance said military, either current or former. The cheap shoes, wraparound sunglasses, and shiny epaulettes said rent-a-cop all the way. He had one arm extended out and slightly back, shielding a woman and child he’d ushered behind him, their tear stained faces bordering on hysteria. His other arm was out in front of him, holding some sort of black pistol pointed towards three of the Big Uglies, who appeared none the worse for the wear. The barrel still smoked, a graceful curl dancing sinuously skyward.
I eyed the trio of hostiles warily. They hadn’t noticed me yet, but neither had the cop or the woman and child.
Of the aliens—because what the fuck else could they have been?—there were a male and two females, though delicate, graceful, or feminine hardly described them. I looked them over, eager for any sign of injury. I didn’t see any wounds or blood or bullet holes. None of them seemed to be in pain. Were they as invulnerable to bullets as they seemed to be to fists or bathroom stalls? Or had the rent-a-cop just missed? I decided that was probably more likely.
I looked back at the knight in shining polyester. He probably hadn’t fired a gun in the line of duty in his life. He was sweating, I noticed, and his gun hand was shaking visibly. The guy was at least forty pounds overweight and we’re not talking muscle. I doubted he did a lot of cardio. I worried that maybe this whole situation would be more than his poor bacon-saturated heart could handle and he’d drop dead of a heart attack right there before my eyes. I really didn’t want that to happen, and not just because rent-a-cop was the closest thing to hope I’d had since the light left Dylan’s eyes. I was done with death. As done with it as a person in the middle of a nightmare holocaust could possibly be. I wished there was a way I could help. Maybe cause some sort of distraction, get the Big Uglies to turn and look at me long enough to give the boy in blue a good clear shot at them. But that might be risky, especially as none of them had noticed me at all yet. Sure I could go knock over that metal trash can a few feet away and make a sudden loud noise, but given the collective emotions of the six beings in the center, I stood just as much a chance of distracting the aliens as startling the rent-a-cop and causing him to misfire, at best wasting ammo, at worst taking out someone unintentionally—someone like me. Oh, the irony. No. Boy in blue was on his own out there unless he noticed me before the baddies did and I could get him to understand some sort of signal without alerting them to my presence. That didn’t seem too likely.
Rent-a-cop licked his lips nervously and took a step back from the slowly advancing trio, pressing into the pair of frightened people behind him. The woman peeked over his shoulder with wide, terrified eyes beneath a mop of frizzy highlighted curls. The girl, I guessed her daughter, clung to the woman’s leg for dear life, tight braids bouncing as she shivered in fear. She clutched a battered blue stuffed elephant, which dangled from one hand by its back leg, trunk brushing the ground. “That thing is probably filthy by now.” I thought, the absurdity of that statement striking me as almost funny.
The male of the pack was out in front, wearing what looked like a harness of some sort covered in little metal shards wrapped around his gorilla-like chest, eyes glowing red like laser sights. He wore a furred pelt and matching boots and carried a long sickle-shaped spear with a blade the length of my forearm. The females were dressed similarly to one another. Or perhaps undressed would be more appropriate, as neither of them wore anything above the waist. Their pale breasts protruded from powerfully muscled chests that widened into equally formidable looking shoulders and arms. They each had some sort of tribal-looking tattoo inked in red on both biceps and wore leather loincloths and some sort of leggings or breeches over bare (though clawed) feet. One had short messy hair that stuck out from her head like platinum flames around a sunburst. The other wore half of her straight, smooth hair long, while the other side of her head had been shaved to reveal another red tattoo above her ear. All three looked hungry and ready for battle. Moving as one, they advanced another step. My money was on these guys, as much as I wished it weren’t so.
Rent-a-cop quaked in his boots, but his grip on the gun never faltered. His voice rang out clear and strong, despite his obvious panic. “Drop your weapons! Stay where you are! I will shoot!” I believed him. He might miss again and end up wasting all his bullets, but I believed he’d try, and I admired him for that.
The male raised his spear and aimed it straight at the security officer’s midsection. The rent-a-cop ‘s eyes went wide. His gun arm straightened, elbow locked. He swept the other arm back behind him, shielding his charges protectively. The little girl’s sobs were the only sound I could hear. You could’ve cut the tension with a big ass alien sword. My nerves were strung as taught as piano wires.
Then there was a thunderous crash as one of the meteors clipped the glass and metal ceiling overhead, sending an enormous sculpture shaped like a globe crashing to the ground—right on top of the six combatants—with a noise like ten car crashes all happening at once.
The gigantic metal ball rolled onward, painting the ground with streaks of red blood and blackish, greasy looking ichor before it embedded itself into a bank of arrival/departure monitors in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Total and complete devastation. My heart broke for the second time that day. There was no way any of the humans had survived that.
I took a cautious step forward and looked hesitantly at the carnage at the center of the globe’s impact. Like it or not, I needed that gun (provided, of course, that it still worked). Apparently, I hadn’t been completely desensitized by the day’s events or my own twisted nature (as Dylan had once warned me horror movies would do). I felt my gorge rise as I scanned the scene for the weapon.
It wasn’t really possible to tell where the rent-a-cop began and the woman or the child ended. The three of them had been crushed into clumpy red goo, matted with tatters of cloth or bits of hair and shards of bone by the force of the impact. The blue elephant remained remarkably untouched. I thought briefly about saving it, some kind of proof that the girl and her mother had been alive, had mattered. I thought maybe their loved ones might like it as a memento. Then again, given that it was sitting in a pool of its owner’s blood, maybe not.
The aliens, on the other hand, had fared better. But not by much. The only thing that had remained relatively intact was, oddly enough, their skeletons, which were a bright gristly red. I looked down at them. Bits of blackish muscle tissue clung to the bones beneath strips of flayed white skin and bits of brown leather. The skull of one still had an eye left intact. My heart soared in triumph as I stepped over their pulpy corpses. They were very obviously dead. They could be defeated! I just needed about a thousand more of those gigantic metal globes. I wondered if the artist had a studio nearby. Maybe they’d even offer a bulk discount.
That gigantic spear thing still looked fine and I debated trying to wield it myself before deciding that even if I could pick it up, I was nowhere near as skilled with it as the enemy combatants. No, I needed the gun. That was what they seemed to be most vulnerable to, that was what I had a chance of wielding against them with any measure of success. I needed firepower, and it was right there in front of me. I just had to do a little rummaging first. Call it the world’s goriest treasure hunt.
I kicked aside a boot with a mostly intact calf still inside it, nudging through the gooey mess with the toe of my poor abused sneakers. I poked and prodded, trying not to gag. There was far more of the goopy black alien viscera than the human stuff, which made sense, given how much more mass the aliens possessed. The smell was somewhere between rusted steel and battery acid. I hoped the gunk wasn’t corrosive.
Bracing myself, I knelt down in the more familiar chunky red mess that had once been three human beings. After a moment, I saw the dull gleam of metal amid the gore and rubble. Gingerly, I pried the gun from the
lifeless, crushed fingers of the rent-a-cop.
“Sorry, bro.” I dropped what was left of his hand back onto the rest of him and the people he’d been protecting, “I need this more than you do.” I tried not to notice his name tag, clearly visible and still pinned to what remained of his chest. “Gonzalez”, it read. Poor bastard went out trying to do good, trying to save that mother and her daughter. For all the good it had done any of them. Now I had his gun. Did that make me the hero? Was that how it worked? Did I now possess the modern day equivalent of Excalibur? Yeah, that was a reassuring thought. I was most certainly not anyone’s idea of a stalwart crusader.
I hoped the gun still worked. It didn’t seem any worse for the wear, but then I didn’t know much about guns, having only shot air rifles at local fairs (And poorly at that, if I was being honest). I wiped it off on my jeans and stuck it in my waistband like I was some kind of action hero. Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers!
“Ok, tough guy.” I said aloud, “You’ve got a gun. Now what?”
All along, I’d been hoping that somebody somewhere would show up and rescue me from this nightmare—that someone else was going to swoop in and prevent my imminent destruction. I guess that’s sort of how we’re programmed these days—Get in trouble, call 911 and someone will help you. Right? That’s what we tell our kids. It’s what all of us learn from the time we’re old enough to pick up a phone. So what happens when dialing 911 gets you nothing but a busy signal? What happens when the trouble is more than they can handle?
Seeing those three people die like that—the frightened mother and her little girl and the brave man who’d tried his best to save them all—finally drove the point home that I was in this on my own. I didn’t even have Dylan any more. It was just me. One man against who knows how many of those bad ass alien fucks. Not exactly great odds.
That reality hit me like a tidal wave. I was overcome by a bleak feeling of loss and despair and—worse yet—the desire to just throw in the towel. Sure, I could fight it out. I had a gun now, after all. I might even manage to take out one or two of those caveman dick weeds. But what would be the point? Even if I made it out alive, what then? What if those things were everywhere? What if all of Earth was being invaded right now, just like this shitty airport? Why fight? Why struggle? Why not just walk up to one of those rat bastards and spit in his face? Die like a man? Heck, why not just stick the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger? I looked at the pistol, turning the business end towards me to stare down the barrel like it was a long, dark tunnel.
Instead of infinite blackness, I saw bits of gore and a shred of blue polyester. I pulled a face. No, whatever happened, I was sure as hell not sticking that thing in my mouth. Instead, I stuck it back into my waistband, letting the reassuring weight of it lighten my suddenly black mood. I sighed and tried to collect my wits. What was it Dylan always did in those survival horror video games he was always making me watch him play? Oh yeah. He always checked his inventory when things got rough or he got stuck. I was most certainly stuck.
I had my wallet: Travel edition. Meaning I’d taken out all the fun stuff that TSA might’ve had a problem with—the cool little knife that folded up into a metal rectangle the size of a credit card (not that I thought that thing would do me much good against Captain Axe and his cronies, but damn was it useful!), a pair of tiny tweezers I used for on-the-go personal grooming, and the nail file I carried for the same reason. All it contained now was my driver’s license, a couple credit cards, my emergency $20, and a picture of Dylan and me taken at a Renaissance Faire the previous year (Dylan had insisted on going in full garb. I, on the other hand, opted for the comfort of worn in jeans and a Slayer t shirt). In other words, nothing incredibly useful.
I had a tube of lip balm, also not useful unless the Big Bads had chapped lips, Dylan’s puka shell necklace, a few random coins, my car keys, a half empty pack of gum, and the evacuation map I’d liberated from the hallway outside the restroom. I would’ve had my cell phone, too, if my temper hadn’t gotten the better of me.
I was betting there still wouldn’t be any reception, but it sure would be nice to confirm that fact. Maybe there was another phone on one of the bodies around me. But even if there was, it was probably just as useless as mine had been, if it hadn’t been smashed to smithereens or water (blood) damaged to heck. If I wanted to communicate with the outside world, I should probably look for some kind of radio. Had rent-a-cop been wearing one on his belt? I couldn’t remember. Maybe it was worth looking for. I glanced back at the crushed remains and felt my gorge rise anew. Then again, maybe not.
I dug the map out of the pocket of my jacket, leaning up against one of the less damaged customer service kiosks to help conceal my position. I spread it out as best I could and tried to orient myself. Apparently, that giant globe thing had been part of something called the “International Atrium” which seemed to serve as a sort of meeting place/central hub between the concourses and the food court and shopping pavilions. Wait, shopping pavilions? In a fucking airport? Seriously? Gotta love consumerism.
I was tracing my finger along possible exit routes when I heard another startling sound—a cry for help. I froze, raising my head and scanning the area. It sounded close, but not super close. But then the acoustics in here are weird, anyway. Still, I didn’t see anyone, so whoever made that cry wasn’t in my immediate vicinity. The voice came again, soft, insistent, pleading.
“Somebody, please help me!” Then sobbing that trailed off into whimpers before fading back into silence. It sounded like a kid. Another little girl, maybe. I glanced back at the soggy blue elephant. Bad idea.
I had the gun now, after all. Did that make me someone’s shining beacon of hope? God, I hoped not. That was a truly terrifying proposition. After all, I was the guy that sometimes laughed when the whiny teen got what was coming to her in those slasher movies I liked so much, who routinely told people—even people I liked—to die in fires. I swore like a sailor. I drank like a fish. I smoked like a chimney. I made Dylan kill spiders for me. I frequently double parked. I was nobody’s idea of a hero.
But still, something in me said I had to try. Maybe I never imagined myself saving the day, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t do it. Stranger things have happened, after all. If I was going to die anyway, if none of this even mattered, maybe I could help someone else make it out. Maybe I could be their Arnold. “Get to the choppah!” I muttered as I stepped out from behind the podium and started following the sound of barely audible sobs.
The crying was coming from the direction of Concourse A. It sounded like it was above me as well. There was a set of escalators leading up in front of me and to the right and a set that had presumably lead down from the upper level to the left. Both sets were without power. Fortunately escalators without power function just fine as stairs.
I glanced around once before mounting the escalator closest to me and bolting up it, pulling the gun from my pants as I went. Did I even know vaguely how to use this thing? I mean, sure, point and shoot, but was there a safety of some kind? Was the thing even loaded? I didn’t know, but I should probably find out.
I held the weapon up in front of me, hoping for something obvious but meeting with disappointment. There was no little red arrow with the words “Ammo goes in here!” emblazoned over it. Instead it just said “Glockenspiel 78-AB752 .9MM” in precise, tiny printing. There was a little black button below the words and something that looked like an itty bitty brake release pedal. I fiddled with the little button first. Pushing it in didn’t appear to do any good, so on a whim I slid it forward. It moved a fraction of an inch, revealing a bit of neon red paint beneath. This must be the safety. But what did red mean? Usually it meant stop, as in stop lights and stop signs and silly games kids play at recess. I was reasonably sure the rent-a-cop had fired this thing at the Big Uglies, which meant the safety had to have been off. Or did it? Maybe it reset after every shot. That seemed like a worthwhile safety measure to a novice like me. So maybe in t
his case red meant go. I thought about test firing through one of the broken windows, but I didn’t know how far bullets travelled and I wasn’t keen on the idea of accidentally murdering somebody to test a theory. Besides, I didn’t want to make a bunch of noise and draw the aliens to my position. And I didn’t want to waste any of the bullets that might still be in the gun. So that idea was out the figurative window. Damn.
Ok, so what else could I figure out about this little piece of salvation I held in my hand? I considered it gravely, turning it this way and that. There had to be some way of loading it, right? It couldn’t fire if it didn’t have anything to fire, after all, and I was pretty sure this thing wasn’t muzzle loaded like the muskets of old. So I tried to think back to every action movie I’d ever seen, good, bad, or indifferent. Those macho types were always slapping something into their guns. What was it called? Clip? Magazine? Cartridge? Was there a difference? It seemed to me that the heroes used them interchangeably, but maybe that was because I was too naïve to know if there was a difference. But what did it matter, anyway? It wasn’t like I had any of the damned things, even if I had known how to use one. I certainly wasn’t going to go digging through rent-a-cop’s innards again to see if he had any extras because the thought of that was incredibly gross, and I was pretty sure I’d read somewhere that moisture ruined bullets. So even if he had carried spares, chances were good they’d be useless, anyway. At least that’s what I told myself.