Flight or Fright

by Stephen King

  Myles looks in the direction of her outstretched arm. Several zombies emerge from the airport terminal, shambling across the tarmac toward them, guided by some primal instinct.

  Barry and Gilbert are stowing the hose on the fuel truck, so they must be finished. Myles grabs the wad of maps and dashes out onto the airstrip. “We have to go,” he yells. “Now.”

  The two men look up and see the zombies headed their way. Gilbert gets behind the wheel of the truck and drives it clear of the wing.

  “On board, everybody,” Myles yells, and the others push past him without any further encouragement, backpacks full of food and supplies slung over their shoulders, weapons clutched in their hands. The zombies may be slow, but they’re relentless, and they’ve already covered almost half the distance between the terminal and the bus. Another few minutes and they’ll be on them, ripping and tearing and shredding humanity’s last, best hope for survival.

  Myles is the last one to board the jet, huffing and panting and trying to ignore the pain shooting down his left arm. Two men—Myles thinks their names are Matt and Chet—pull the door closed while Barry heads into the cockpit. Gilbert volunteers to be the copilot, even though he’s never flown a plane before. This is it, the moment of truth. If Barry can’t get this thing started and off the ground, they’re through, trapped like sardines in a tin can.

  Myles leans back in his seat and tries to catch his breath. When he closes his eyes and concentrates, the pain in his chest subsides. He has only three pills left in the little plastic case in his front pocket, and the odds of finding a refill range between slim and none, so he isn’t about to waste one now. This will pass. This will pass. Another mantra.

  He looks out the window. The zombies have reached the bus and are sniffing around the open door. A moment later they lurch toward the jet again. They know we’re in here, Myles thinks. He pulls back from the small oval, not wanting to fall under their penetrating gaze.

  The other passengers are pressed up against the windows, watching the slow but steady procession. The cabin door is closed, so they’re safe for now. But what if the creatures take a bite out of their tires before they start taxiing? Or if they’re smart enough to find a way in—through the luggage compartment, perhaps?

  The thought no sooner enters his mind than he hears a thump coming from the underside of the aircraft. It reminds him of the sound of handlers opening or closing the cargo bay doors.

  “We have to get going,” he yells, hoping their putative pilot can hear him. He prays that Barry isn’t sitting in the cockpit staring at the dizzying array of readouts, dials and switches wondering which one is the ignition key.

  Another thump, this one strong enough to cause the fuselage to sway.

  “I can’t see them any more,” Alfie says. “They’re under the plane.”

  “How many?” Terri asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “Eight, maybe ten,” Alfie says. “More on the way.”

  Myles looks out the porthole window again. A second group of zombies is crossing the tarmac, at least forty or fifty strong.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Myles mutters. He inhales deeply, assesses the tightness in his chest and decides that moving won’t kill him. Besides, if they don’t get in the air soon, a heart attack will be the least of his worries.

  He lunges from his seat and heads toward the cockpit. Through the door he sees Barry flipping switches as Gilbert reads instructions from a sheet of paper on a clipboard.

  “Can you fly this thing or not?” Myles demands, dreading the answer.

  “Of course,” Barry says. Gilbert looks up from the checklist and shrugs.

  More thumps come from beneath Myles’ feet. “Now would be good. Reinforcements are on the way—and not for us.”

  Barry nods, waves Gilbert off, and throws a few switches. “To hell with the checklist,” he says. “I’ve got this.” The small jet trembles as one engine roars to life and then the other. Myles can feel the power building, the potential energy that will get them off the ground and headed … where? In the panic and confusion, he still hasn’t picked a destination. The others are expecting him to decide for them.

  “Just get us out of here,” he tells Barry.

  Barry pushes a lever and the jet begins to roll forward. “Hope one of those things doesn’t get sucked into the engine,” he mutters.

  The thumping beneath the plane is non-stop now. There’s nothing they can do about it, so Myles refuses to worry. If one of them manages to get into the luggage compartment, they’ll deal with that once they’re in the air. They still have their axes and knives. Most of them are part of this group because they know how to fend those creatures off.

  As the jet picks up speed, the thumping peters out, then stops. Myles tries to look behind the plane, but the view out the small window is limited. All he can see is the second group of zombies standing on the tarmac, staring at them like a group of well-wishers saying “bon voyage.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Everyone strapped in?” he asks. “We’re about to take off.” He hopes that’s true, that they aren’t about to hurtle off the end of the runway into the trees beyond. If that happens, the best-case scenario would be for the plane to burst into flames and consume them. That would put an end to their misery, at least.

  The others take their seats and fasten their belts. Myles wonders if they should be worrying about weight distribution, but Barry didn’t mention anything about that and so far he seems to know what he’s doing. He picks up the navigational charts. He has to make a decision soon.

  The jet jerks to the left and pauses. They’ve reached the head of the runway. The engines roar and the jet lunges forward, accelerating rapidly. Trees whip past the side windows. Myles leans back, waiting for the nose to rotate upward and, a few seconds later, it does just that. Gravity presses him into his seat as the small jet leaps into the air, buffeted by the invisible pressure of air beneath their wings. All the problems of the world fall away below them. If they could remain airborne forever, they’d be fine.

  The jet levels off a few minutes later. Out of habit, Myles’ eyes are on the seatbelt sign, but Barry probably isn’t worried about the niceties of commercial air travel. He undoes his seatbelt and returns his attention to the charts. He might as well close his eyes and point at a random spot. He doesn’t have any information to aid his decision. Are there places where the plague hasn’t yet spread? An island, perhaps, like Iceland, which is comfortably within range? Maybe Barry can pick up something on the radio.

  He has only one chance to get this right. The need to choose a destination before they burn up too much fuel paralyzes him. Why do they expect me to make all the decisions? All I want to do is go to sleep, he thinks. I’m so tired.

  Weight pushes against his chest again, the same sensation he felt during takeoff. But he shouldn’t be feeling the pressure of acceleration now—they’re at cruising altitude, high enough to minimize the friction of the air around them and maximize their range. He tries to inhale, but his chest is constricted. Suddenly he can’t catch his breath—the heaviness is so great that his lungs refuse to expand.

  The others are staring out the windows, like zombies. There’s nothing to see, just the clouds and the occasional glimpse of the earth below. They’re probably wondering what lies ahead, he thinks. What we’ll find when we touch down.

  Myles no longer cares. He knows what lies ahead, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Shooting pain immobilizes him. He can’t reach the plastic case in his pants pocket, or make a sound to attract anyone’s attention. His breath comes in short bursts. The pressure in his chest builds, like a wall of water at a dam ready to burst.

  He hopes the others will be prepared when he comes after them. He wonders whether zombies feel pain. It can’t be worse than this. Can it?

  THEY SHALL NOT GROW OLD

  ROALD DAHL

  Although best known for his books for children—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
and James and the Giant Peach, among others—Dahl was also a talented short story writer. His most famous tale may be “Lamb to the Slaughter,” in which a woman cooks the frozen leg of lamb she murdered her husband with, and then feeds it to the police. Dahl was an ace fighter pilot in World War II, surviving one crash and downing many enemy aircraft, including at least two Junkers 88s. He flew a Hawker Hurricane exactly like the one Fin flies in this story, which was originally published in Ladies’ Home Journal near the end of the war.

  The two of us sat outside the hangar on wooden boxes.

  It was noon. The sun was high and the heat of the sun was like a close fire. It was hotter than hell out there by the hangar. We could feel the hot air touching the inside of our lungs when we breathed and we found it better if we almost closed our lips and breathed in quickly; it was cooler that way. The sun was upon our shoulders and upon our backs, and all the time the sweat seeped out from our skin, trickled down our necks, over our chests and down our stomachs. It collected just where our belts were tight around the tops of our trousers and it filtered under the tightness of our belts where the wet was very uncomfortable and made prickly heat on the skin.

  Our two Hurricanes were standing a few yards away, each with that patient, smug look which fighter planes have when the engine is not turning, and beyond them the thin black strip of the runway sloped down towards the beaches and towards the sea. The black surface of the runway and the white grassy sand on the sides of the runway shimmered and shimmered in the sun. The heat haze hung like a vapour over the aerodrome.

  The Stag looked at his watch.

  “He ought to be back,” he said.

  The two of us were on readiness, sitting there for orders to take off. The Stag moved his feet on the hot ground.

  “He ought to be back,” he said.

  It was two and a half hours since Fin had gone and he certainly should have come back by now. I looked up into the sky and listened. There was the noise of airmen talking beside the petrol wagon and there was the faint pounding of the sea upon the beaches; but there was no sign of an aeroplane. We sat a little while longer without speaking.

  “It looks as though he’s had it,” I said.

  “Yep,” said the Stag. “It looks like it.”

  The Stag got up and put his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. I got up too. We stood looking northwards into the clear sky, and we shifted our feet on the ground because of the softness of the tar and because of the heat.

  “What was the name of that girl?” said the Stag without turning his head.

  “Nikki,” I answered.

  The Stag sat down again on his wooden box, still with his hands in his pockets and he looked down at the ground between his feet. The Stag was the oldest pilot in the squadron; he was twenty-seven. He had a mass of coarse ginger hair which he never brushed. His face was pale, even after all this time in the sun, and covered with freckles. His mouth was wide and tight closed. He was not tall but his shoulders under his khaki shirt were broad and thick like those of a wrestler. He was a quiet person.

  “He’ll probably be all right,” he said, looking up. “And anyway, I’d like to meet the Vichy Frenchman who can get Fin.”

  We were in Palestine fighting the Vichy French in Syria. We were at Haifa, and three hours before the Stag, Fin and I had gone on readiness. Fin had flown off in response to an urgent call from the Navy, who had phoned up and said that there were two French destroyers moving out of Beyrouth harbour. Please go at once and see where they are going, said the Navy. Just fly up the coast and have a look and come back quickly and tell us where they are going.

  So Fin had flown off in his Hurricane. The time had gone by and he had not returned. We knew that there was no longer much hope. If he hadn’t been shot down, he would have run out of petrol some time ago.

  I looked down and I saw his blue RAF cap which was lying on the ground where he had thrown it as he ran to his aircraft, and I saw the oil stains on top of the cap and the shabby bent peak. It was difficult now to believe that he had gone. He had been in Egypt, in Libya and in Greece. On the aerodrome and in the mess we had had him with us all of the time. He was gay and tall and full of laughter, this Fin, with black hair and a long straight nose which he used to stroke up and down with the tip of his finger. He had a way of listening to you while you were telling a story, leaning back in his chair with his face to the ceiling but with his eyes looking down on the ground, and it was only last night at supper that he had suddenly said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind marrying Nikki. I think she’s a good girl.”

  The Stag was sitting opposite him at the time, eating baked beans.

  “You mean just occasionally,” he said.

  Nikki was in a cabaret in Haifa.

  “No,” said Fin. “Cabaret girls make fine wives. They are never unfaithful. There is no novelty for them in being unfaithful; that would be like going back to the old job.”

  The Stag had looked up from his beans. “Don’t be such a bloody fool,” he said. “You wouldn’t really marry Nikki.”

  “Nikki,” said Fin with great seriousness, “comes of a fine family. She is a good girl. She never uses a pillow when she sleeps. Do you know why she never uses a pillow when she sleeps?”

  “No.”

  The others at the table were listening now. Everyone was listening to Fin talking about Nikki.

  “Well, when she was very young she was engaged to be married to an officer in the French Navy. She loved him greatly. Then one day when they were sunbathing together on the beach he happened to mention to her that he never used a pillow when he slept. It was just one of those little things which people say to each other for the sake of conversation. But Nikki never forgot it. From that time onwards she began to practise sleeping without a pillow. One day the French officer was run over by a truck and killed; but although to her it was very uncomfortable, she still went on sleeping without a pillow to preserve the memory of her lover.”

  Fin took a mouthful of beans and chewed them slowly. “It is a sad story,” he said. “It shows that she is a good girl. I think I would like to marry her.”

  That was what Fin had said last night at supper. Now he was gone and I wondered what little thing Nikki would do in his memory.

  The sun was hot on my back and I turned instinctively in order to take the heat upon the other side of my body. As I turned, I saw Carmel and the town of Haifa. I saw the steep pale green slope of the mountain as it dropped down towards the sea, and below it I saw the town and the bright colours of the houses shining in the sun. The houses with their whitewashed walls covered the sides of Carmel and the red roofs of the houses were like a rash on the face of the mountain.

  Walking slowly towards us from the grey corrugated-iron hangar, came the three men who were the next crew on readiness. They had their yellow Mae Wests slung over their shoulders and they came walking slowly towards us, holding their helmets in their hands as they came.

  When they were close, the Stag said, “Fin’s had it,” and they said, “Yes, we know.” They sat down on the wooden boxes which we had been using, and immediately the sun was upon their shoulders and upon their backs and they began to sweat. The Stag and I walked away.

  The next day was a Sunday and in the morning we flew up the Lebanon valley to ground-strafe an aerodrome called Rayak. We flew past Hermon who had a hat of snow upon his head, and we came down out of the sun on to Rayak and on to the French bombers on the aerodrome and began our strafing. I remember that as we flew past, skimming low over the ground, the doors of the French bombers opened. I remember seeing a whole lot of women in white dresses running out across the aerodrome; I remember particularly their white dresses.

  You see, it was a Sunday and the French pilots had asked their ladies out from Beyrouth to look over the bombers. The Vichy pilots had said, come out on Sunday morning and we will show you our aeroplanes. It was a very Vichy French thing for them to do.

  So when we started shooting, they
all tumbled out and began to run across the aerodrome in their white Sunday dresses.

  I remember hearing Monkey’s voice over the radio, saying, “Give them a chance, give them a chance,” and the whole squadron wheeled around and circled the aerodrome once while the women ran over the grass in every direction. One of them stumbled and fell twice and one of them was limping and being helped by a man, but we gave them time. I remember watching the small bright flashes of a machine-gun on the ground and thinking that they should at least have stopped their shooting while we were waiting for their white-dressed women to get out of the way.

  That was the day after Fin had gone. The next day the Stag and I sat once more at readiness on the wooden boxes outside the hangar. Paddy, a big fair-haired boy, had taken Fin’s place and was sitting with us.

  It was noon. The sun was high and the heat of the sun was like a close fire. The sweat ran down our necks, down inside our shirts, over our chests and stomachs, and we sat there waiting for the time when we would be relieved. The Stag was sewing the strap on to his helmet with a needle and cotton and telling of how he had seen Nikki the night before in Haifa and of how he had told her about Fin.

  Suddenly we heard the noise of an aeroplane. The Stag stopped his talking and we all looked up. The noise was coming from the north, and it grew louder and louder as the aeroplane flew closer, and then the Stag said suddenly, “It’s a Hurricane.”

  The next moment it was circling the aerodrome, lowering its wheels to land.

  “Who is it?” said the fair-haired Paddy. “No one’s gone out this morning.”

  Then, as it glided past us on to the runway, we saw the number on the tail of the machine, H4427, and we knew that it was Fin.

  We were standing up now, watching the machine as it taxied towards us, and when it came up close and swung round for parking we saw Fin in the cockpit. He waved his hand at us, grinned and got out. We ran up and shouted at him, “Where’ve you been?” “Where in the hell have you been?” “Did you force-land and get away again?” “Did you find a woman in Beyrouth?” “Fin, where in the hell have you been?”