by Amber Fallon
As if on cue, he strode around the corner of the gate across the way, shoving the remains of something that looked suspiciously like a Twix bar into his slimy maw.
“Oh hey guys!” He said as if he had just run into a group of friends at the mall. “Looks like you found her, eh?”
“Yeah.” I said, “We did. Now we better get moving before more of those things show up.” I looked around the area, which remained suspiciously quiet and free of alien vermin. I had watched enough bad horror movies to know that wasn’t actually a good sign.
“Right.” Joey said, flopping his ungainly bulk down in a chair between Michael and Hannah and stretching out his legs as if I’d said “Hey, let’s all take a 10 minute breather!”. I glowered at him, not caring if my disdain for the man showed.
“As I was saying,” I began, “We can’t afford to sit still. We need to keep moving if we’re going to make it out of here alive.”
“Uh huh.” Joey nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another Twix bar. Ah hah! I had been right about the variety of candy. I silently gave myself a point. He unwrapped the chocolate noisily and stuck the ends of both bars into his mouth. He’d been holding out on us! Bastard. Well, see if I offer him any of my gummy worms. He smiled his annoying, jackass smile, chocolate still coating his teeth. “Where to, big guy?” he asked in a tone that suggested he didn’t think I had a clue what I was doing. The fucker was challenging me. Ok, tough guy. I can improvise as well as anybody! Bring it on!
I pulled the crumpled map out of my inner jacket pocket and held it up against a column next to the bank of chairs everyone was sitting on. I traced my finger along the path I’d taken from the “YOU ARE HERE!” graphic that represented the hall with the bathrooms and charging station, across the concourse, down the hallway, through the “International Atrium”, up the escalators and right to this very spot.
“Well,” I said, frowning, “We’re here, and there aren’t any exits close by, let alone any sort of ground transportation unless...” I trailed off as an idea came to me. A long shot, but it just might work.
I glanced towards the escalators I’d come up. “There!” I said, pointing, as if I had just discovered the path that lead to the fabled City of Gold. I looked back at the map. There was a little icon with a picture of a suitcase on it just beyond the icon representing the escalators. Baggage claim.
“Baggage claim is that way. We make our way there and we can crawl through to the employee area and get outside.” Joey chewed his Twix bar with his mouth open in the most awful way possible. “Uh huh. Then what?”
“Outside seems better than in here.” Hannah piped up. I liked this kid more and more all the time. Melissa and Michael agreed, all three of them getting up from their seats. Michael tucked what remained of the water back into his laptop bag and swung it back into position. Melissa pulled Hannah close and all of us fell into a loose formation with Joey at the back like a whiny little alarm in case any of those alien fucks tried to jump us from behind. I was OK with that.
I stuffed the map back into my pocket and pulled the gun out again, crouching low like I’d seen heroes do in movies. Did it matter, as we were up against things that easily stood a foot taller than I was? Probably not. But it made me feel better somehow. More in charge.
We made it easily, though slowly, to the escalator as a group and went down single file, with me in the lead, followed by Michael, Melissa and Hannah, and with Joey still bringing up the rear. I hadn’t figured out exactly what his deal was. He seemed to be taking this whole thing rather well. A bit too well. He was almost cavalier in his attitude. Was he in shock, perhaps? Running on some sort of asshole version of autopilot? Or maybe he was in on it. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping those big alien fucks would have better taste in their turncoat spy allies than a greasy guido Jersey Shore wannabe. Joey was busy staring at Melissa’s ass. Oh, brother.
At the foot of the escalators, the path split off in four directions. To the right was the way I’d originally come, back towards the gooey mess that remained in the “International Atrium”. To the left was the shopping pavilion between us and the next set of ground level gates. Behind us was the food court. In front of us was a little open area with benches and a landscaped tree, what looked like some sort of travel information booth, a giant sign announcing the boundaries of the TSA Protected Area in front of a short open hallway, and beyond it, baggage claim.
I kept up my action hero-like crouch, holding the gun close to my face while pointing it at the ceiling. I probably looked ridiculous, but I was pretty sure I’d seen Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson do this a bunch of times. Besides, it kept the gun close at hand while not pointing it directly at anyone. That was good, right?
Michael followed me at a bit of a distance, flanked by Melissa and Hannah. I assumed that Joey was still behind them, but I didn’t bother checking to make sure. If he didn’t want to stick with the group, then he could damned well fend for himself for all I cared. My main concern was Hannah, as I’d promised to keep her safe for whatever reason. It was a promise I intended to keep. I was also worried about Michael. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he and Hannah were both so young, or maybe it was the fact that his somewhat put upon, shy, nerdy personality reminded me a bit of what I assumed a young Dylan would’ve been like. I didn’t have any especially strong feelings about Melissa one way or another, but I didn’t want to see her hurt and I knew I’d help her if I was able. She and Hannah seemed to have bonded somehow. I didn’t want to see Hannah hurt again, especially not after what she’d already been through. Hell, maybe I was starting not to mind most of humanity, save for those who annoyed the crap out of me. Did that mean I might actually be—gasp!—a nice person?
I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I definitely felt something towards this ragtag band of misfits and it wasn’t annoyance, dislike, or disgust. Well, I did dislike Joey, violently, but he was another matter altogether. A special breed of dick I wouldn’t have really liked under any circumstances. But hey, I had a gun in my possession and I hadn’t shot him myself. That must mean something, right? Progress!
Once everyone had made it down the stalled escalator, I took a few cautious steps forward. Everything was eerily quiet and still. Not to be cliché, but I think you could’ve heard a pin drop in the concourse, which was a massive shift from the noisy, frantic mayhem that had erupted not so long ago, and even a pretty big difference from the normal hustle and bustle of a busy airport. The meteors seemed to have stopped, but so did the incoming planes. Did that mean they’d been diverted somewhere else? Was there a real reason to hope that this was an isolated incident? Or had they all been blown out of the sky, by meteors or otherwise? What I wouldn’t give for a live feed to CNN right now. Hell, I’d even settle for Fox news. I just wanted some idea of what was going on elsewhere in the world, some reason to hope that making it out of this godforsaken airport might mean salvation.
I didn’t see or hear any other survivors. I wondered if we were the last. I hadn’t heard any alien sounds, either, but I was hardly foolish enough to assume they’d fled or died off or something. I was pretty sure they were still around here somewhere. The last thing we needed was to be caught flat footed in the path of one of those things when escape seemed so close.
I took a few more steps, somewhat less hesitantly, and the group followed suit. As soon as it was feasible, I pressed myself up against the nearest wall. Again, I had no actual idea what the fuck I was doing, but I fell back on my love of cheesy action movies to guide me through. I felt like I needed to construct a shrine or something to Jack Burton if I ever made it out of here. Well, more of a shrine than the signed original movie poster that hung in the living room, anyway.
I was too on edge to risk glancing behind me, but I felt Michael’s breath on my shoulder. Geez, dude, I know it’s an apocalypse and all, but would some breath mints kill you? I took a small step forward and he followed suit, like a shadow. Well, that’s what I ge
t for being a leader, I guess. People follow me.
We came to the edge of the wall in short order. Directly ahead of us was a doorway flanked by huge posters warning that the “TSA Security Area Stopped Here.” Behind the posters was a thin sheet of drywall that I assumed used to have a door in the middle of it to act as some sort of barrier, only it had been rudely ripped from its hinges. Beyond the now empty doorway was a short passage through wide open territory with little to no cover. No place to hide. If one of those things came along before we reached the other side, we’d be sitting ducks, and I knew it. But did the rest of the group? If I acted unperturbed, would they follow my lead? Would that help? Should I be confident and bold, or cautious?
I didn’t really like the lay of the land directly ahead of that doorway, but we didn’t have much choice. We had to get out and this seemed like the best way, even if it did leave us completely exposed for a brief time while we passed through that entryway and made our way down the hall toward baggage claim. We hadn’t heard any of those alien roars or any other signs that we were still being hunted, after all. At this thought, a brief burst of hope flared in me—Maybe the aliens had been allergic to something in Earth’s atmosphere, ala War of the Worlds or Signs. Maybe they were all dead already and all of this sneaking around was for nothing!
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Michael tapped me on the shoulder, interrupting my mental celebration just as the cameras panned Times Square. “Geez, kid!” I whispered, “Don’t do that!”
“S-sorry.” he flinched from me, taking a step backwards while simultaneously making me feel like shit, “It’s just ... what’s that sound?”
“What sound?” I asked, but before the words were even out of my mouth, I heard it. A kind of wet slurping sound, like a toddler eating spaghetti or someone playing in a tub of Jell-O. It was the sound of something eating, and something being eaten.
I swallowed and took a deep breath. Ok. I didn’t really have a Plan B. Plan A had been haphazardly thrown together within the span of seconds as it was. I guessed we could always go back the way we’d come, up the escalators and back to the (presumably) empty concourse but really, what would be the point? We’d be sitting ducks there just as much as we were anywhere else, only we’d be further away from an exit and we’d have lost valuable time retracing our steps. Besides, Joey already seemed to be testing me and my admittedly nonexistent leadership abilities. I doubted if going back on my original plan would score me any brownie points with any of the group members. Now would not be a great time for a mutiny. Besides, my imagination’s horrific game of Pictionary aside, we really didn’t have any way of knowing for sure what was making that sound unless we actually looked for the source. Anything else would be speculation at best. Maybe it was someone who’d been badly injured and needed help. The thought of leaving someone mere feet away to die alone and in pain didn’t sit well with me. Maybe I really was becoming a hero.
I straightened my back and lifted my head in what I hoped was an authoritative posture. I firmed up my resolve and set my face in a carefully neutral expression before turning to Michael and looking him directly in the eye.
“Stay here.” I told him, pointing my index finger at his chest for emphasis. “I’m going to see what’s making that sound. Keep quiet. Don’t move unless I give the signal.” Michael, eyes wide, nodded. I glanced at the others. Hannah and Melissa also nodded in response, equally wide eyed. Joey was nowhere to be seen. Surprise, surprise. Asshole.
I took another slow, deep breath. I put both hands on the gun and pulled my arms tight against my chest in an effort to keep from shaking as much, or at least to hide it from the rest of the group. I licked my lips and swallowed before taking a calm, deliberate step forward, towards the gap where the missing door had hung and the probable source of that awful slurping noise.
Once I reached the door, I did a quick about face, pressing my back up against the drywall like I’d seen people do in movies when they were sneaking around and didn’t want to be seen. Cautiously, I peeked around the door frame. I didn’t see anything horrific. The cause of the sound wasn’t immediately apparent. A large potted plant in a huge golden urn type thing had been knocked over. The plant, the urn, and about a metric ton of dirt had been spilled directly in front of the doorway. There were foot prints, some human, some probably alien, in the dirt. Here and there were splashes and streaks of blood. Truth be told, I barely noticed them. Blood had become just part of the scenery. Purses, luggage, and other debris littered the floor. Of the door, there was no sign.
Beyond the plant was a podium style security station with some laminated TSA information stuck to the front. A little battery powered bar light, the kind they use to check IDs, lay across the podium’s top. There was a bloody red handprint smeared across one white side. A sheaf of official looking papers had been scattered across the floor, some of them were smeared and spattered with more blood. I swallowed again, grimacing at the coppery tang of spilled blood as it flooded my nostrils, mingling with the earthy scent of the spilled dirt. God damn it.
I swung quickly around the doorframe, bringing my gun up to bear in yet another classic action movie pose. Nothing moved, but the sound continued. I was definitely getting closer.
As I took another careful, hesitant step, I saw a pair of shiny official looking shoes poking out from behind the podium. I was betting that they belonged to the TSA Security officer who’d been manning this station when Armageddon broke out. Still wishing/hoping/praying that the guy had been badly injured and that the wet, sucking, slurping sounds were due to him trying to draw breath through damaged lungs (all the while feeling like shit for actually wanting something like that to be true), I began kneeling down, ready to take his pulse. Again, as if I had any idea of how to actually do such a thing. The shoes were pointing toes down, as if the guy had been trying to crawl away from something and had taken refuge in the empty space beneath the podium. I could see them moving, just tiny irregular movements, but they gave me hope that he still lived, that maybe I could save him, too.
I took another somewhat less hesitant step forward and froze, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of me yet again. I’d found the source of the slurping sounds, alright.
Mere feet away from me was one of those alien fucks. He was on his knees over the corpse of the security guy I’d been hoping to save, one hand clutching the poor man’s exposed spine, the other greedily shoving bits of gore into its bloody mouth. The alien’s arms, chest, and neck were caked with bits of flesh and muscle tissue. There were even a few sinewy red strands caught in his alabaster mohawk.
My stomach muscles clenched as my gorge rose, the sour sting of acid burning the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, as quietly as I could, and forced it back down.
The thing hadn’t noticed me yet. It was way too interested in finishing its gruesome little snack. But that didn’t mean I was safe. I had to get out of here before he happened to glance up and decide that Dirk tar tare would be a lovely accompaniment to his TSA Employee sashimi. The voiceover from one of those National Geographic/Discovery Channel animal documentaries began playing in my head, completely unbidden.
“Here we see a wild Dirk, who’s just stumbled upon a predator in the middle of a meal. This could go very badly for the Dirk if he isn’t careful. If he wants to live, he should flee quickly and quietly back the way he came. And remember, Dirk! NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS! They’ll only draw attention to your position and serve to aggravate the predator further.”
As much as I was sort of creeped out by the idea of myself on one of those programs where they liked to show things like lions or hyenas chewing on freshly killed gazelle haunches, I had to admit the voice had a point. I took a slow, small step backwards, breathing out through my nose as quietly as possible as I did so. I kept my eyes fixated on the tableau before me. As if I could’ve looked away. No matter how much I wanted to see anything (Literally anything. Even an Olsen Twins Movie Marathon would be better than this)
other than Fine Dining for Alien Assholes, I couldn’t tear my eyes free. The benefit of that was the fact that I was absolutely sure that Gollum’s roid raging big brother hadn’t noticed me...yet.
I took another slow step backwards, again timing my breathing with my movements. I wasn’t sure if that actually did anything or not but it felt right, so I went with it. Both of my hands remained locked around the gun. If I hadn’t been afraid that it might make some sort of a noise to draw attention, I probably would’ve put my finger on the trigger just in case. As it was, I tilted the barrel down ever so slowly until it the business end was leveled directly at the feasting freak’s head.
I had to warn the others, but not yet. I couldn’t risk doing anything that would draw the alien’s attention. I wondered if they’d been watching me. I hoped they had been. Maybe they’d notice my slow, strategic retreat and put two and two together. Maybe they’d be halfway to the escalators by the time I made it back through the doorway to the relative safety offered me by the obscuring drywall.
One more step and again I nearly jumped out of my skin as a sound erupted just behind me to my left. Of course it was Joey, our resident fuck up. Goddamnit!
“HOLY SHIT!” he cried, still clutching half of a powdered donut he’d found somewhere in one hand. His eyes were like saucers, powdered sugar was caked around his face and in his cheesy mustache. He looked exactly like Tony Montana in that one scene with the guns and the blow, only minus his little friend, which would’ve been very helpful at a time like this.
Before I had a chance to react, Joey was doubled over, partially digested powdered donut and Twix bars spilling from his guts onto his shoes. That all too familiar scent of vomit—something sweet mingling with the sharp tang of stomach acid—took center stage, forcing the aromas of dirt, blood, and alien BO far into the background.