by Mark Tufo
The sun was just coming up over the horizon as he stepped onto the pavement. Iggy looked around, spotting two people: one was sitting against the wheels of his winged home, the other, a slender female, perhaps fifty steps away, her back also to him. He saw the small fire she held and continually brought to her mouth. He could smell the chemicals it burned from where he stood. He would deal with the camouflaged soldier first, mistakenly believing him to be the bigger threat. Iggy loped quickly over, wrapping his arms around the landing gear and subsequently the man’s neck. He pulled hard; the man struggled and ripped at Iggy’s arms but to no avail. The soldier might as well have been scratching at metal with a straw. Iggy heard the satisfying crunch of bones as the human’s delicate neck broke. He turned quickly to the older female, the last hindrance before the feast.
33
Deneaux
She had no idea how long she’d been out there, though the legion of heeled butts gave her an indication. She wouldn’t rest comfortably until she was away from the plane. She was convinced Talbot knew where she was. The satellite going offline at just that moment was a little too coincidental and, in her lifetime, coincidences only happened with human intervention. Like when Senator Halpert just so happened to walk out into the street as the city bus passed by. The pivotal vote in blocking an oil fracking company from digging upon Native American land had died less than two days before the issue went to legislation.
“Dipshit,” she reflected. He’d been offered a prince’s ransom to swing his vote, instead, he’d been given an injection of valium and a swift push. For ten thousand dollars, less than one-tenth of a percent what Halpert was offered, the bus driver, an out of luck gambler, had made sure not to swerve or hit the brakes. Now there was a man who had done his job admirably, even if he’d quote / unquote, committed suicide less than a week later. His suicide note had expressed guilt at killing a pedestrian. Unlike her husband, Vivian was not much into loose threads, and she knew once Al Pichard hit another losing streak, he’d come sniffing around for another payout or threaten to expose those who’d had the Senator killed. Even if he could only blow the whistle on the man who’d paid him, it could still lead to an uncomfortable investigation that would fall at the feet of those with the most to gain, one being Senator Deneaux, who owned a majority stake in the company doing the drilling. She’d not felt one iota of guilt for either death. Or if she had, it passed quickly. Two hundred million lining one’s coffer does a world of good warming the chilly soul. The remembrance of that influx made her smile.
In a strange twist of fate, it was a pack of cigarettes that saved Deneaux’s life, at least in the short term. She reached into to her pocket and realized she’d finished all those she had on her. She turned back toward the plane and saw the incredibly large creature barreling toward her. To Deneaux’s credit, she did not waste even the slightest moment allowing herself to wonder how this could be. Instead, she reacted by pulling her pistol free. Iggy contemplated veering off, but it was too late. He saw the puff of smoke before feeling the impact high upon his chest. The burning stung; he roared. A large waft of his seared flesh entered his nostrils. He collided with the woman as she put another bullet into his neck. Deneaux was sent flying, whether from the initial impact or the hard landing, something was seriously wrong: her legs had become unresponsive. She did not have the time to worry if it was temporary or permanent. The beast, after knocking her away, had recovered and was even now loping back to finish what he’d started.
Deneaux shot the animal in the knee, the best she could do with the angle offered. She saw cartilage and other material blow back through and onto the ground behind the animal. But for a stagger, it did little to stop it, in fact, it seemed even more enraged and determined to get to her. She had three shots remaining, and she knew that she would never have enough time to reload. Iggy’s shattered knee flared pain; anger pushed everything aside, even the desire to eat. He grabbed the woman by the ankle and sent her spiraling through the air. She landed some twenty feet away and was still. Iggy stood, beat his chest and roared in triumph. He was going to enjoy eating the woman that had made him hurt. Humans weren’t supposed to hurt Iggy anymore; that part of his life was over. She was going to pay dearly for her transgression. The ape stood over the crumpled form before him. She was scrawny and reeked of stale smoke, but he was going to savor every bite. He would strip her bones of all their flesh, chewing the dense, juicy organ meat, scooping her brains out with his large fingers, and licking the goopy mass from them. He sat and dragged her close. He lifted her left leg, twisted it hard, dislocated the hip joint and wrenched the entire limb from its socket. Deneaux’s reaction was immediate, the agony so great she couldn’t even think. The animal then bit clean through the lower part of her leg and tore it free. A part of her watched in abject horror as he ripped her calf muscle away from the bone in one long, sinewy strip, tilted his head back and slurped the glistening meat down.
If the gun hadn’t already been in her hand, there'd have been no way she would have had the faculties left to procure it. As it was, the weapon had become an extension of her self, and she used the last thing available to her to save her life.
“Fuck you, you fucking gorilla.” Blood spilled from her mouth as she raised her arm and fired. One bullet cut a deep groove into the animal’s shoulder, the other blasting through its small earhole and into its brain. Iggy’s eyes crossed before he fell backward. Deneaux mimicked the movement. She was unconscious before her head hit the tarmac. When she awoke, she was in the bed of a pickup truck. Two people were working on her; a makeshift IV bag was strung to the radio antenna.
“Good to have you back,” Sergeant Olander said as she continued to wrap the stump portion of Deneaux’s leg. “Looks like the ape killed everyone but you.”
“Give me a fucking cigarette,” Deneaux hissed. Talking, thinking, existing, everything hurt.
“I don’t think now is the best time….” Deneaux grabbed the sergeant’s arm and glared. “I…suppose…I mean what could it hurt?”
The three soldiers left had done an admirable job of patching her up, but wanted to wait until she was more stable before transporting. She wanted to yell at the idiots that they needed to go, but she did not possess the strength. It was clear the ape was a zombie; she wondered if it had transferred the virus to her, or if it had saved her that fate when it tore her leg off? Then she thought that maybe the soldiers were wondering the same thing and weren’t taking her anywhere until they were sure she would live, and in what state. It would be the smokes she missed the most, if she was to become a flesh-eater. Deneaux was three cigarettes into a new pack when she heard the drone of a bomber. “Damn you, Michael. I suppose you win.” She let her head rest back, quickly inhaling smoke into her lungs before the melting fury of the detonated sun could strike.
34
Mike Journal Entry 18
“Satellite imagery reports that our target is stationary,” Major Eastman had come back to inform BT and myself.
“I’m not a fan of when the pilot leaves his seat, seems unprofessional, but thank you,” I told him. Eastman headed to the back and checked on the cargo. BT was eyeing me. This whole thing was weighing on me. Sure, I was somewhat happy we weren’t dropping this thing on Etna; a lot of innocent people resided there, but the bomb would have taken out thousands if not hundreds of thousands of the enemy. The price paid would have been worth the tithe, especially since the tithe wasn’t coming from my till. Yeah, I knew it was a shitty way to think about things, but there it was: something everyone but you can clearly see, a lodged, visible booger just hanging out there, a string of spinach between your front teeth, the tip of a dangling cock from the broken zippered trousers of a man going commando. Would someone say anything? Or were these mortifying things just going to be ignored?
Dropping a bomb in Nebraska was about as close to uninhabited ground as we were going to get. I’d advocated, weakly, for Eastman to let me parachute out and deal with her. It had
not been much of a debate. He’d told me the only way I was leaving the plane was if I was strapped to the bomb. I wanted Deneaux dead for all she’d done, didn’t mean I wanted to join her. I’d been assured that the bomb was of the tactical variety, not the high-energy, high-yield of a ballistic missile. That was why it was imperative that we could locate her exactly.
“How much time?” I asked Eastman as he was about to head back to the cockpit.
He looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”
“Want a beer?” BT reached into his backpack and pulled out two bottles of something called Ziegen Bock.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked, taking it. “You know I hate those weird kinds of beers.”
“You once told me that your favorite beer was a free one and that your second favorite was a cold one. This ticks off both of those boxes.”
“Yeah, but there’s a limit. Plus, it’s like eight in the morning.”
“Don’t even pull that card. I’ve seen you wake up and drink one as your morning beverage. You called it ‘Oh man juice.’ I guess you thought you were being funny…didn’t work, by the way. It’s the end of the world, Mike, drink the fucking beer.”
“Well, when you say it like that, how can I resist.” I twisted the cap off, took a quick sniff before pulling my nose away quickly. I had been expecting something like a squeaked-out skunk fart mixed with ten-day-old wet bread. Was pleasantly surprised by the lack of either offending scent. I took a swig and was rewarded by the snap of a crisp beer. I pulled it away to look longer at the label, making sure to log it in the leaky annals of my brain for future reference. “Got more of these?” I asked after I took a heavy pull, downing half the bottle. The words no sooner out of my mouth when the plane shuddered forcefully.
“Turbulence?” BT asked as beer sloshed out of the top of his bottle.
I would have said yes, until I heard what sounded like an engine back-blasting exhaust like an old pick-up truck only way louder and scarier, considering we were defying the laws of gravity.
“Flare out on engine four—should have it back online soon,” Eastman said over the speaker. It would have sounded much more convincing if he could have said it without the strain in his voice. At first, I thought the flip-flopping of my stomach had to do with nerves or possibly introducing alcohol into my system so early. Then I came to the sudden realization it had more to do with the amount of elevation we were losing.
“Give me another of them,” I told BT as he was busy strapping himself in. “All that’s going to do is make it easier to find your body,” I told him.
“Gee, thanks. You always know how and when to say the right thing.”
“Nothing wrong with honesty.”
BT handed the beer over. There was some intense whining before the plunge relented and the plane finally began its ascension. Everything stayed copacetic for the next twenty minutes or so, then Eastman invited us up to the bridge.
“Seriously, Captain?” Eastman asked as he looked at the beer in my hand.
“I don’t think the cab driver is supposed to judge his fare,” I replied.
He decided to not trade barbs. What’s the point when you’re fighting against a person who has not the sense to stop, even when it’s clear all well-delineated lines had been crossed.
“We’re less than two minutes away, and, if you throw up in my back seat, I’ll charge you a cleanup fee.”
“Nice one.” I went to high five the major; he wasn’t much in the mood. I wouldn’t have been, either, if not for the four beers I’d knocked back.
“You should probably go sit now,” the major told us. “Once the bomb is dropped, I’m going to give it everything she has.”
“Ten-four, Scotty,” BT said.
I got my high five this time.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to watch,” I told Eastman. “And are we high enough?”
“You probably are,” BT murmured.
“Should be fine.” I noticed a glance between Eastman and his co-pilot.
“Do you think no one noticed that?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“The fuel has been giving us some issues,” Major Jackson said. “We’re a little concerned for once we open up to full throttle.”
“But, we’re high enough, right?” BT asked.
Silence. Complete and utter silence. About as comforting as getting tucked in underwater. That was until Eastman flipped a switch and the back of the plane opened up.
“The parachutes attached to the bomb will give us ample…enough time to accelerate and get away.”
“Did you notice how he went from ‘ample’ to ‘enough?’” BT asked.
“I’m buzzed, not passed out.”
“Plane is coming up.” Major Jackson was pointing.
I could make out the airport, then a plane sitting on the runway, what looked like a truck, and maybe, just maybe, I could see people. I swear I smelled cigarette smoke in that cockpit. I flipped my middle finger to the windscreen. “I guess I win,” I said before I tapped BT on the shoulder and we quickly went back to strap in. I’d no sooner clicked in my belt when the bomb began to roll down its release track. It seemed to teeter on the edge for a long moment before falling away. As the cargo door closed, I could feel my body being pushed into its seat as Eastman stepped on the gas. There was gain for a second and then we began to sputter like an old car with a faulty carburetor. Usually, you just stomp on the gas until the machinery figures out the right blend of fuel to oxygen and then lurches forward; the plane was not following that plan.
The ride was getting bumpy—Detroit city streets in the winter, bumpy. I honestly don’t know how their roads were before the apocalypse but I’m guessing huge, unfilled strut-snapping holes dotted the pavement even then. Probably kept that way by lobbyists from the Front-End Alignment coalition.
“How fucked are we?” BT asked.
“I was thinking we could hold hands,” I told him.
“That bad?” He blanched.
Don’t think Eastman meant to express how he felt over the intercom system—probably had too much else going on to worry about a live feed. “We’re in some trouble here, Jackson, you’d better get this bucket moving.”
“Not sure what you expect me to do!”
“Something!” Eastman said harshly.
I reached my hand over, BT took it. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I love you, man,” he said.
“I know.”
“Don’t Han Solo me right now.”
“I love you too.”
BT was mashing my fingers tightly together. I was looking out the cockpit window, had to cover my eyes with my free hand when a brilliant white flared. I’d only seen something so luminescent when I’d borne witness to the One. I could see the bones in my hand clearly, even though my eyelids were tightly closed. Can’t say I was a fan of a full-body x-ray. Then it got fun…not “the kids are out and we got a box of goodies from an adult store,” fun, but rather the South Park, “Satan has a pineapple and I’ve been a very bad boy,” fun. The plane was being buffeted back and forth bronco-style. BT and I were being tossed around so violently I was certain that our row of seats was going to be torn from the decking. The whining of the engines so loud, high, and intense, I couldn’t imagine they could take much more. BT snapped more than a couple of the bones in my fingers; I hardly noticed. It went on so long I could only wonder when it was going to be over. The plane was going to disintegrate into a hodgepodge of flying parts; would my mind shut down as we plummeted to the earth, or would I be conscious for the entire ride?
The air pressure changed suddenly, and there was a shout from the front. I could feel an invisible force pulling on my body, desperately wanting to yank me free from my relatively safe harbor. It was clear that the cabin was rapidly depressurizing. I did not want to become Play-Doh pasta as I was squished through a half foot diameter circle. A serenity came so suddenly I figured we’d crossed over, then, the throbbing in my hand l
et me know that had not been the case. I dared a quick look. Taking it in, I realized that we were not in some celestial weigh station but rather still in the fuselage of a very damaged plane.
“Prepare for an abrupt landing!” Eastman warned.
The only way I could think to prepare was to say a prayer; what else could I offer? A klaxon sounded and a red light flashed. The one thing I didn’t notice was the sound of engines; we’d become a very large, very heavy aluminum glider.
“At least Nebraska is flat.”
“That’s all you have to say?” BT had yet to open his eyes.
“I can’t remember all of the Lord’s Prayer; what else am I supposed to say?”
“Sorry about your hand.”
“It’ll heal or it won’t.”
“Mike, encouragement is warranted right now.”
Eastman had thankfully shut off the alarm. Now all that could be heard was the whistling of wind as we plummeted through the air.
“Going to try and make Eppley Airport,” he had to shout. The glass in the cockpit was gone; that must have been the source of the pressure change, as I didn’t see any other holes, though I wasn’t leaving my seat to investigate.
“How far can we fly like this?” BT asked.
He might as well have been asking a toddler to define string theory; I hadn’t a clue. Now that I’m thinking upon it, as an adult, I don’t understand string theory. I guess I could have used myself in the analogy for both instances. I did not like the fact that from my vantage point, I could see land out the front; either the airport was very close or we were pitching too far forward. I thought about asking BT to go get in the back to balance us out, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.