“Saved the last packet for you, little man.”
For the first time in days, the boy smiled. Wrapping his small hands around the big cup, his eyes gleamed with delight as he slurped the hot chocolate.
They sat and chatted and laughed in the fickle safety of the courtyard, welcoming a glimpse of normality in the sea of madness that had descended on the world around them. More coffee was poured, spirits were high, and conversations quickly turned to everyone’s plans once they finally reached their destination. No doubt soon, they would feel the big city asphalt beneath their feet, and while Nairobi wasn’t exactly Las Vegas, the mere thought of the hustle and bustle of a living city was enough to get everyone’s imagination going.
Amadou returned, looking unusually fresh and after brief sit-down began assigning weapons to everyone. If what they had seen along the road to Juba was anything to go by, the standard loadout would no longer suffice. With the top gun running on fumes, they would need primary and secondary weapons for what lay ahead.
Before long, the shadows were growing shorter, the sun already well above the compound walls. It was time. The flight to Nairobi would be a short one, but actually securing seats on whatever flights were still operating would be an entirely different matter. Cash had always been king in these parts and surely even more so now that things were rapidly deteriorating.
Tom had seen it before. The media always jumped on stories of heroism, but the truth was that mass exoduses, for the most part, brought out the worst in people. Ground staff, taxi drivers, immigration officials. Gatekeepers of supply in a market of desperate demand. These would be the new kings. Rulers over a short-lived aristocracy of the corrupt, at least until the last sold-out plane took to the sky, the last full train left the station, and the last overcrowded bus disappeared into the sunset. They would exploit the commodity of human life until the last possible moment. Corroded ethics, thus, would hardly translate into sympathy for a small band of survivors with nothing more to give than whatever was left in their vehicle.
No, their chances were with the United Nations or one of the humanitarian agencies. The UN, along with hundreds of international aid organizations, had used Juba airport as a staging point for their nationwide relief efforts for the better part of the decade now. As a result, from what he had heard, scheduled agency flights, as well as charters, easily outnumbered commercial traffic. From heavy-set C-130 ‘Hercules’ and giant gull-like Ilyushin cargo planes to the sleeker Embraer jets and even a variety of US and Russian made helicopters, as far as Amadou’s description went, Juba airport was a virtual humanitarian aviation expo.
For once, Tom thought, Papillon’s UN uniform and his own staff ID featuring a small but well known French NGO might hold a distinct advantage. He felt a knot in his stomach. He cleared his throat and held out his hands. The slight shaking of his fingers was barely noticeable. Good. It was time to go.
They enjoyed one last sip of their peaceful morning brew, before stuffing into pillowcases the few things of use found the hotel’s stores and tossing them over the wall onto the APC’s roof. Everyone fell in line, their moves rehearsed a hundred times in the course of their journey. Within a few minutes, Papillon again turned the ignition. As always, he cringed ahead of the first roar of the engine, acutely aware of what any loud noise meant to the wandering corpses in their vicinity.
He pulled away from the hotel without delay and melancholically watched the rearview mirror as their temporary refuge quickly disappeared. Papillon sighed. Less than two klicks and they would be within reach of a way out. Provided, of course, they could get through the chaos that no doubt awaited them. In a country where anything of value was hotly contested and most resources hard to come by at the best of times, queue etiquette was rarely ever observed, and jostling for pole position was something of a national pastime instead.
He counted as another number flicked over on the odometer. One more turn and the Eastern perimeter of the airport would come into view. A pack of mangy dogs forced to abandon the carcass of a goat in the middle of the road snarled at the dust kicked up by the passing carrier. A lone emaciated corpse staggered into its path, its limbs snapping like twigs under the weight of the wheels. A marabou, startled by the commotion, wildly flapped its wings, trying to take flight.
“I thought we would have come up against a checkpoint by now.” Tom peered ahead and rubbed his chin. “Something’s not right.”
The click-clack of a Glock somewhere in the back told him Faith agreed. Amadou followed suit and pulled the charging handle of his Kalashnikov.
“I see we are all on the same page. Let’s hope I’m wrong.”
“Once we take that turn up ahead, we’ll know.” Papillon nodded at the street corner where bullet-riddled walls struggled to hold up the corrugated iron roof of a small corner shop.
Easing his foot off the accelerator, he let the vehicle come to a virtual standstill before looking over his shoulder.
“Everybody ready?”
“Is that a trick question?” Tom smiled and placed his hand on the giant man’s shoulder.
It was time to find out.
CHAPTER 26
“There’s movement over there by the new terminal, but nothing living, as far as I can tell.” Tom had returned from a brief scout on foot and was now scanning the area from the top of the vehicle.
They had readied the top gun with what little ammunition was left, locked and loaded their rifles, and even issued additional weapons to Faith and Gautier in full anticipation of having to fight their way through to the airport. Much like the deserted checkpoints and fortified positions they had passed along the way though, much to their surprise, they had found the place virtually deserted.
The large white UN tents that had served as improvised arrival and departure areas now lay in tatters. Shredded canvas flapped in the wind. Desks had been overturned and ransacked. Papers littered the red dirt floors. Next door, the facade of a brand new terminal frowned forebodingly. Below its towering glass face, unfinished entrances gaped like sinister mouths. Heralded as the pride of the world's newest nation, the terminal had been under construction for several years, but when the civil war went into overdrive, so did corruption. With the country on its knees, both contractors and government officials had skimmed and schemed the life out of the project.
Now it stood like a tombstone of steel and glass, in memory of a dream that never was and now probably never would become a reality. Just across, the apron lay empty, bar a handful of national carrier planes in various states of repair and maintenance. Some with their doors open and stairs at the ready as if about to deplane, while others just sat there, abandoned and gathering dust. Portholes, like lifeless eyes, stared vacantly across the tarmac. Their contents looted, discarded remnants scattered, UN labelled crates lay strewn about like dice cast by a giant hand.
Further off in the distance, several rows of single-story ancillary buildings angled away towards the end of the tarmac. Together with a handful of antiquated, round steel-roofed hangars offset from the main structures, they sat at the outer limits of the airport itself. A reminder of aviation days long gone.
“What now?” Amadou, holding his bandaged forearm, stood next to the APC.
“I didn’t figure the place would be like this,” Tom ruminated. “If anything, I would have thought there’d be complete chaos. But it looks like that’s already over with. Damn.”
He was disappointed. He had hoped that authorities still maintained some emergency operations, perhaps even still evacuating civilians or troops. But whatever had happened here, they had missed it.
‘If we aren’t able to fly out, then the whole journey has been in vain.’
Tom jumped down on the other side of the vehicle and took a deep breath. His chances of getting to Julie and Anna were shrinking, and so were the group’s chances of survival should they have to make the return trip by road.
“I am sorry,” Papillon offered. ”I can drive just about anyth
ing that has wheels, but flying…”
“Same here.” Amadou felt equally dejected.
Gautier and Faith shook their heads in agreement.
“That’s just great. Flipping great.” Tom kicked the carrier’s tire and walked away.
Hands in his pockets, he stood motionless near the strip of dry grass separating the apron from the runway. He needed to be alone with his thoughts for a while. Needed to collect himself and somehow find a way to achieve the impossible. No one would see his tears as he stared towards the horizon.
“If we cannot fly out of here, then we have to keep driving,” Papillon stated the inevitable and pointed at the new terminal. “But before we do that, we better have a look around for anything useful.”
“I’ll come along,” Amadou readied one of the AKs and winked. “Might as well cover your giant behind while you scavenge.”
Faith handed Papillon one of the Glocks, and the two men started towards the nearest gate. Gautier took David inside to read to him from the only book he had managed to salvage during their escape from the beach. He had been a religious man all his life and so grabbing the bible from the small stack of books he had bundled and carried with him since they had left their village in search of safety had come as natural as breathing. Now that only he and his grandson were left, he intended not to let the end of their world come between him and the boy’s education. And Bible studies, under the circumstances, were as good as it got. The others had first joked about it, but eventually come to him for advice, much like congregation members to their pastor, and Amadou had jovially called him their ‘priest’ more than once. It was a title Gautier didn’t feel all that uncomfortable with. After all, their little community needed spiritual support as much as it needed Faith’s nursing skills. In a way, he felt himself completing the jigsaw of roles, with Tom as their unelected but well-respected leader.
Meanwhile, Faith walked over to the edge of the tarmac. She had felt compelled to help, but stopped in her tracks, feeling the heat of Tom's unbridled frustration. There would be no relief, no ointment for the wounds they all carried inside, and the longing that gnawed away at their sanity. She felt weak and helpless. They stood, lost in their own reflections, on family, on loved ones, on those dead or missing. All far beyond reach, now more than ever.
The open terminal gates seemed to grow in size with every step the two men took towards the gloomy interior. Super-heated gusts kicked up and swept across the apron, creating whirlwinds of dust and rubbish around the hangars, howling through the half-finished structure and stinging their eyes. They shielded their faces and quickened their steps, alert and fully aware of the risk they were taking with a rapid approach.
“Movement?” Papillon shouted over the wind, trying to walk in a wide arc to scan as much as possible of the ground floor’s interior from the outside.
The Americans called the manoeuvre ‘slicing the pie,’ but he never had quite understood the analogy. ‘Americans.’ He grinned.
“Hard to say with all this stuff flying around!” Amadou squinted, keeping his weapon trained on the dark entrance.
They reached the opening and took position on either side of the first of several large gates. Peeking in, they were satisfied that nothing stirred inside. The terminal’s tinted windows doing more than a good job at filtering out the harsh sunlight, they stepped into the gloom. Glass and bullet casings crunched under Papillon’s heavy boots. The men cringed at the noise as it echoed around every part of the building, amplified by the cavernous structure.
”Sorry!” Papillon whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Amadou shook his head. He was about to retort, but instead something up ahead, deep in the metal guts of the terminal caught his attention. Their noise had caused a response of sorts, and he prayed it wasn’t another group of corpses rummaging around in search of their next meal. He never had been too fond of the walking corpses to begin with, but since the RPG incident, encountering them in large numbers was definitely not something he cared to repeat.
There it was again. A metallic clank followed by shuffling footsteps across broken glass. The two looked at each other and fanned out, each man taking one side of the hall. Edging forward, checking behind counters and overturned furniture, they systematically cleared every nook and cranny along the way. The new terminal was as high as it was expansive, and the closer they moved to its centre, the less light filtered in from the windows and through the suspended ceilings that swayed lazily in the draft. An arrow on a large ‘Arrival’ sign pointed further in and toward the location of the baggage belt area. They now scanned their entire surrounds every few steps, Amadou already fearing that in the event of an undead ambush from the rear, they would have to make a stand right there and then. To his surprise, though, for now, only a single set of slow crunching footsteps and the sound of metal on metal came from just ahead.
”Poor bastard.” Papillon was the first to see it as he rounded one of the many large support pillars that lined the side of the arrival hall and stretched all the way from floor to the ceiling high above.
He waved over Amadou, who himself was in the process of rounding one of the pillars on the other side. 20 yards away, next to one of the unfinished belts, was a lone figure. The man in his 40s still sported a pair of blood-stained overalls along with steel-capped construction boots. His overalls had been torn open around the mid-section, his stomach now nothing but a large gaping hole where his insides once had been.
‘They always go for the soft bits.’ Amadou made a mental note.
Papillon tilted his head and looked on, fascinated by their discovery. Throughout their journey, there had been little opportunity to observe the walking corpses in their natural habitat, so to speak, unencumbered, and without being spotted.
Now he watched as the man’s shoulders sagged and his head drooped, and rope-like remnants of his entrails dangled from his abdominal cavity, swaying in sync with his shuffling gait. The end of his intestine had somehow wrapped around the frame of a small overturned trolley, his dead carcass now condemned to drag it with him. Another shuffle and dutifully, the trolley responded with a metallic rattle.
The two men stood in silence. No matter how ghastly its appearance or how dangerous a close encounter, Amadou couldn’t help but feel pity for the thing’s futile existence. In a way, he felt the creatures were much like themselves, much like all the others now walking the land, whether alive, dead, or dying, all tethered to their past and now more than ever unable to escape it. In a world without reason, instinct ruled supreme. And yet, even for the walking corpses, it wasn't just about eating. From what he had witnessed, even they retained memories of what they used to do, of who they used to be. Memories of what made them, them. He couldn't help but wonder for a moment what the disease would leave behind within him when the time came. What he would become if he joined the dead one day. He shuddered at the thought.
“Now there’s a guy having trouble letting go,” Papillon whispered and grinned.
The creature raised its head, and its dead eyes locked on just in time to see the Frenchman ready his Glock and sprint towards it. It went cross-eyed for a split second as Papillon brought down the gun’s grip from above, crushing its skull with one well-aimed blow. Its knees buckled, and Papillon could have sworn a peaceful smile, maybe even gratitude even, flickered across its face as it fell. Then it lay still.
“No point in going loud,” Papillon explained.
He stood over the corpse and inspected his handiwork, still puzzled by the man’s final glance. ‘Poor bastard.’
Amadou felt the pain shoot through his arm almost before they heard the crack of the rifle. He jumped for cover behind the nearest pillar, as Papillon spun around and dropped to the floor. For a moment, they remained motionless, trying to normalize their breathing. Amadou clutched what he could now see was a flesh wound below the left shoulder.
”You ok?” Papillon whispered with concern.
“Just a boo-boo
.” Came Amadou’s reply, nearly making the big man chuckle.
It had been a single shot. Fired, it seemed, at random, and the ambient noise of the wind had returned as soon as the gunshot’s echo had subsided. Amadou rolled closer to the wall and inspected the area behind them.
Sure enough, somewhere in the relative twilight towards the far end, near what would have been an information counter, he could see the silhouette of another man. By the way this one moved, he could have passed for a drunk. Staggering about without direction, he tripped over his feet, and whatever objects lay scattered about the terminal floor, sticking to the shadows as if afraid of the light. Intermittently he stopped, slapping one hand against the service doors while dragging a long metal object behind him with the other.
“Not another one of those.” Papillon had immediately recognised the gun. “Another damned soldier!”
He chambered a round. This time, there would be no stealthy approach. He was tired of the sneaking around and of taking potshots from a bunch of walking corpses. “Cover me.”
Amadou went prone. Squinting across the iron sight of his AK, he tried his best to get an accurate aim. Pain pulsed through his arm, and he strained to make out contours in the gloom of the building. Then his jaw dropped. He watched as instead of keeping a low profile, Papillon marched through the arrivals hall with his head held high. Walking tall, with his chest out, he trained his gun's sights on the creature in the shadows.
“Hey, deadhead!” Papillon’s voice was loud enough now to draw attention from every corpse in the vicinity.
The shambler’s head snapped upright as if jolted by lightning, but its body turned ever so slowly. Moving from side to side like a dog sniffing out its prey, it scanned the area. Its head tilted, keen to hone in on the sound. Yet, for some reason, it did not make a move.
As he got closer, Papillon could see why. The former soldier’s eyes were gone. Ripped out with force, along with his jaw and most of his face. A deep gurgling noise escaped the hole where once his features had been. Like an undone tie, his tongue hung limply from its throat down to the collar of his uniform. Papillon looked on for a moment as the corpse twisted and gurgled. It could sense his presence, and even without a face, its excitement and frustration were palpable. So near, and yet so far. Its black sockets searched in vain.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere Page 29