Wreckage
It was cold on the summit, and the air tasted brittle. It was bare of life save green moss and scrub growth. At around four Empire State Buildings high, Ramirez thought, Mount Marcy was a true skyscraper – not like those pikers of steel and glass that dominated the city. It was too bad that there was no time to enjoy the view.
She inhaled a lungful of frigid air and waved the others on. They’d left the treeline less than ten minutes ago, but already the first walker had appeared, head swinging this way and that. It spotted her within a few moments and stretched out a hand, as if seeking help. It released a gut-churning moan and began to clamber awkwardly up the slope. Another appeared, and another.
She didn’t bother to count them after the tenth dragged itself out of the trees. No runners yet. Small mercies. She rejoined the others as quickly as possible. They were already starting down the southwestern slope – all save Hutch, who was waiting for her. “How many?” Hutch asked, as he fell into step with her.
“More than we got bullets.”
“Good thing we got more than bullets, then.” Hutch grinned, but there was no humor in it. “Hell, we throw Calavera at them, we might wipe them all out.”
Ramirez returned his grin. “Not even him. What’d Labrand say?”
“Lake Cutter is about an hour’s hike from here. There’s apparently an old logging trail that leads right to it, or so he claims.” He glanced back. “Hope there’s more than that, though. Otherwise, we’re delaying the inevitable.”
“I’m not in a hurry to die, are you?”
Hutch snorted. “Now that you mention it – no.”
The descent was easier than the climb, but not by much. As they navigated the rocky path, Ramirez kept her eyes out for the plane. It was bound to be full of walkers – or worse. She hoped they’d already wandered off somewhere, rather than sticking close to home. If not, things were going to rapidly go from bad to worse.
“Can’t believe a plane crashed and we didn’t know about it,” Hutch grunted, kicking aside a stray shard of silver metal. They’d been stumbling over debris since before the summit. There were marks on the rockface – not to mention lots of broken or uprooted trees – that Ramirez thought were from the plane striking and skidding.
“Planes were practically falling out of the sky the first week of the apocalypse for many reasons, I assume, such as the disruption of navigation aids,” Ptolemy said, hanging back so that they could catch up with him. He was limping slightly, Ramirez noticed. “And the Adirondacks are beneath several major air routes. Frankly, I am surprised it was only one.”
“How’s your leg?” she asked. He glanced at her and then away.
“It hurts. But that is better than the alternative.” He paused. “Would you have…?” He trailed off, as if uncertain how to voice the question.
“No,” Ramirez said, but the truth was she wasn’t sure. In a way, she was grateful to Westlake for making the choice for her. In another way, she was pissed that she had yet another reason to thank him. She stared at his back, wondering what was going on in his head. She’d never figured Westlake for the idealistic type. It didn’t fit his pattern. Or maybe it did, and she hadn’t noticed.
“Is it true he never shot anybody?” Hutch asked, quietly. “Westlake. I heard he never shot anybody. Even when they came to arrest him.”
“And where did you hear that?” Ramirez asked, startled.
“Around. Is it true?”
She frowned. “Yeah. Far as it goes.” Westlake had carried guns – used them to intimidate or threaten – but never shot anyone, as far as she was aware. That he could shoot was obvious. The profilers had made a point of it in their workup, she remembered that. They’d waxed lyrical about John Dillinger and Robin Hood. But thief was a thief as far as she was concerned, whatever sort of hat he wore.
“Remind me to thank him,” Ptolemy murmured.
Ramirez nodded. “If this thing pans out, we’ll throw a damn parade in his honor.” A flicker of shadow caught her eye and she looked back. The first walker had reached the summit. It stood on the peak, buffeted by the wind, looking down at them. Then it took a step after them. “Crap,” she said. She gestured to Labrand. “Time to pick up the pace, people!”
The wilderness vastitude spread out below them as they slid, crab-crawled, and stumbled down the last few meters of rock to the treeline below. With the sun setting, they were preceded by long shadows that stretched into the gloom beneath the boughs. The shadows of the pursuing walkers accompanied them.
Labrand paused when they reached the trees. “We got a problem,” he said.
“Another one?” Ramirez asked.
“The plane. Looks like it crashed right on the trail.” He pointed towards a blackened clearing just below them. Now that she was looking at it, Ramirez could see that the plane had carved a ragged wound across the summit of the mountain, shattering trees and mangling the landscape for what seemed like miles in the fading light.
“Hell. Can we get around it?” she asked.
“Yeah, but it’ll take time. Time we don’t have, if those walkers keep coming the way they are.” He gestured towards the largest concentration of wreckage. “Fastest route to the lake is right through that debris field.”
Ramirez bit back a curse as she continued to study the wreck. The rear half of the plane stood at an awkward angle, like a leaning silver tower, supported by bent and broken trees. The front half had broken loose and skidded on some distance away, until it had finally come to a stop. The debris field stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see, and grass was already growing in yellow patches from the puddles of spilled fuel.
“Looks like we don’t have much choice.” She looked at the others. “Here’s the plan: we do this quick. Stay close, don’t get separated whatever else. Kahwihta, keep the mutt on a short leash and keep him quiet. No guns, unless absolutely necessary. One shot and we’ll have every walker in that wreck falling on us like a ton of bricks.” She looked at Labrand. “Lead us in, cowboy.”
Labrand tipped his hat. “See y’all on the other side.”
A flock of black birds rose into the air as the group left the treeline and rose with a raucous din into the gloaming. A few minutes after they entered the debris field, Labrand held up his hand and stopped next to a jagged chunk of fuselage. Ramirez waved the others to a stop. “Welcoming committee,” Labrand said, without turning around.
A walker lurched into view, a fragment of metal jutting from its chest and a pilot’s cap sitting askew on its head. The walker took a clumsy step towards Labrand, who deftly clubbed it to the ground with his rifle and crushed its skull. They left the walker where it lay and moved on. Attila growled constantly, but softly. Kahwihta kept him quiet, but Ramirez had the feeling that he might start barking at any moment.
From behind them, Ramirez heard the guttural moaning of their pursuers growing louder. It was too much to hope that they might be able to lose the walkers in the debris, but it might slow them down some.
“I wonder what happened,” Kahwihta murmured as they pressed on, looking around. “Malfunction?” She paused as they caught sight of another walker nearby. It had snagged its trailing intestines on a bit of fuselage and now walked in a stumbling circle, losing ever more of its innards with every interminable circuit. It was so preoccupied by its predicament that it didn’t notice as Calavera crept up behind it and brained it with a chunk of metal.
“Or someone turned,” Ramirez said, imagining what it might have been like. A plane was just a metal tube crammed with anxious people. Throw in a zombie or two and it would have been chaos. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now. Too late to help them.”
“We might be able to find identification for some of them,” Ptolemy said. He kicked at a fallen chunk of landing gear, exposing burnt remains. Between the work of the fire and the animals, it was impossible to tell whether it had been a man or a woman. “In the event we reestablish a national communications network, we might be able to provide closure to certain families.”
Ramirez looked at him. “You’re really thinking ahead there, aren’t you?”
Ptolemy shrugged. “Thinking ahead is why I am still alive. I see no reason to end the practice.” He looked up. “Though in this case, it might well be wasted effort.”
Westlake whistled softly as he took it all in. “Boeing 737,” he said, looking at Ramirez. “Commercial capacity of about two hundred passengers or thereabouts.”
“Why do you know that?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Some corporations used the same type for their company planes. I had to memorize the specs one time, for a thing.”
“Did you rob a plane?”
He shrugged again. Ramirez stared at him. “It was on the ground, right?” she continued. “Westlake. It wasn’t in the air, was it?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to examine the shattered pieces of the fuselage. She looked at Ptolemy. “D B Cooper robbed a plane in flight,” he said, helpfully.
“He’s not D B Cooper.”
“That you know of,” Ptolemy said, studying Westlake speculatively. “He was never caught. How old is Westlake, anyway?”
“I’m not having this conversation,” Ramirez said. She turned and spied a walker trapped in an improvised cage of wreckage and strode towards it. The walker was – or had been – a young man, dressed casually, a pair of old-fashioned hi-fi headphones over his head. He was still strapped into his seat, which was wedged in the split of a tree. The walker thrashed as she got close, but he was pinned tight. She winced as she saw that the birds had been at him.
“Not a good way to go,” Westlake murmured, from behind her.
“The problem is, he’s not gone yet.”
Westlake drew his knife from his pocket, flipped it open and took a step towards the struggling walker. He avoided the grabbing hands, leaned in, and stabbed the zombie between its empty eye sockets. It stiffened and slumped. Westlake turned, wiping his knife on his trousers. “Now he’s gone,” he said.
Something hissed to their left. Ramirez turned, reaching for her baton even as she did so. “Yeah. Now how about the rest?” She jerked her chin towards a thin shape creeping towards them through a broken section of seating. It was a damaged, pathetic thing – fried by a long-ago fire, limbs askew. But still hungry, still moving, and it wasn’t alone. “Everyone focus up,” she said, louder than she intended.
“Just about to say the same myself,” Labrand said. Ramirez followed his gaze and saw several walkers creeping towards them from the right. First class passengers, some still wearing their complimentary headsets, and directed by a burnt-out stick of a flight attendant. The latter had been nearly bisected by something, and only had one arm to stretch towards them, but at its flailing gesture the others staggered towards the group.
“These look a lot more alert than I like,” Hutch said.
“They’re hungry,” Kahwihta said, absently. “We need to keep moving.”
Ramirez nodded. They navigated towards the other side of the wreck, where the back of the plane balanced on what was left of the wings and several bent trees. The walkers followed. A handful, then a dozen spilled out of the wreck, creeping ever closer. She wondered what they’d all been doing in there. Had one wandered in and the others followed and gotten stuck in the process? Whatever the reason, they were pouring out now. From the sound of it, there were more to come.
Attila began to bark. “Keep moving,” Ramirez said, shouting to be heard over the dog. “We’ve just got to–”
The crack of a bullet interrupted her and sent them all ducking for cover. “I told you not to come up here,” a familiar voice shouted. “I warned you!”
Sayers.
Ramirez shook her head. “Goddamnit. We cannot catch a break.”