“They’re already on the road,” Tommy said not more than five miles from where we’d left.
“What? Who?”
“Jason, his son, and the others.”
“How many ‘others' and how do you know this?”
“Lyle is open.” He didn’t explain further; I guess he meant his mind. “It wasn’t purely luck that he was on the roadway.”
“What…you just reached out and touched him? Like AT&T?”
Tommy looked befuddled.
“Don’t give me that crap. Of all the people I can’t ‘date’ myself with, it’s you. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes; I’ve been alive for a great many years. It doesn’t mean I spent a bunch of them in front of the television.”
“Are you going all elitist on me?”
“I loved Bonanza.”
“There’s a lot not making sense right now. Bonanza?” I asked, halting my other thought.
“Hoss was my hero.”
“Okay, back to it. Jason didn’t look like he’d leave if the building was on fire. Why now, and how do they know where they’re going?”
“Lyle convinced him to come, and I gave them directions before we headed out.”
“This is all a little too coincidental. Too easy.”
“You can catch a break every once in a while, Mr. T; not everything needs to be a deadly quest.”
“You say that but it seems for every easy thing handed to us, we have to pay double for it on the back end.”
Tommy smiled and let the back of his seat recline.
“How long?” I hated waiting–drove me nuts, as a matter of fact. Too much time to get myself in trouble.
“Fifteen minutes.” He placed his hands behind his head; I stepped out of the van to look around. Tommy seemed at ease; I wasn’t getting that kind of vibe, I was at an agitated unease. I slowly did a complete turn, looking in every nook and cranny I could. I saw nothing, but that didn’t quell my whipped up innards. No matter what the kid said, something was up. No, I couldn’t just “catch a break.”
“BT, can you hear me?” I’d grabbed the walkie out of the van.
“You cannot already be in trouble,” he replied.
“We’re good…going to be back sooner than expected. Apparently, they’re coming to meet us.”
He wisely didn’t ask how over an open channel. “See you soon, out.”
On cue, I saw a bus coming. Couldn’t hear it.
“Electric,” Tommy said. He had soundlessly exited the van and was looking as well. He waved as they got closer.
The bus slowed down; Lyle was hanging out a window and yelling enthusiastically. Jason was driving; didn’t seem quite so happy. In fact, it looked like he’d somehow bitten down on an overly sour lemon. The bus had no sooner stopped when a man in a blue flannel shirt stepped off. I remembered seeing him at the church; he was one of the ones holding a gun on us, but he’d not said anything then. Apparently, he wanted to now.
“James M. Lemon,” he said as he extended his hand. “The M is for Motherfucker.”
“Okay. Nice beard,” was all I could think to say.
“You getting us out of here?”
“That’s the idea. Everyone with you?”
“Fourteen. The others wouldn’t leave.”
I looked over to Jason, who had not left the confines of the bus and would not allow his son to do so either.
“Fourteen it is.” The other twenty-four had sealed their fate. I could not help those that did not want it.
James followed me back to the van. “Don’t you want to ride on the bus?” I asked as he hopped in.
“I figured you’d prefer my company, let’s go.”
“You heard the man, Tommy.”
Relief covers what I felt as we drove back onto the tarmac. That lasted for all of ten minutes.
“Lieutenant, we have a situation.” It was Winters. I hoped briefly it was just Randing heading into round two. We turned as Randing was firing up his engines in preparation for takeoff. So it wasn’t him. Didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out where this was going or to explain what I had been feeling while we were on the highway. I knew it was Randing’s mission to get those scientists out of here, but right now it felt like he was abandoning us in our time of need. Prick couldn’t wait to see if we got our ride fixed, and he sure as hell didn’t care if we made it out of the battle that was coming. They were on the runway to our left, and I sincerely hoped he saw my finger as he taxied. “How are you going to explain that at your court-martial?” BT asked.
“He makes me wish I had more middle fingers. Let’s see what Winters wants.” He was a hundred yards in front of our plane, looking through his optics across the airfield. The question now was: how many and how long did we have?
Winters handed over a small pair of binoculars. “They’re at the far side, and they’re moving. I think they’ve found a way in, but I’m not sure where.”
I was watching the line of them. They looked like ants following a chemical trail to a picnic. They were heading to the small concourse building. Once they found a way out of that building, they were going to be immediately to our right.
“Winters, get the rest of the squad up here. We’re going to need to watch those exits. I was pointing to a half dozen doors. Major Eastman…?”
“Little busy.” I could hear him straining; guarantee it was the last bolt on whatever they were trying to remove.
“Going to need a revised number on repairs.”
“I’m not Scottie, Talbot. I said four or five hours and I meant it.”
“What is it with you military guys and the nerd references?” BT asked.
“Funny that you know what he meant.”
“I also know Barry Manilow songs; doesn’t mean I’m singing them out loud to people.”
“Mandy?”
“Well, yeah, of course…I mean, that’s a classic.”
“Copacabana?”
“How does anyone make it through a summer without that one?”
“I write the songs?”
“Don’t fuck with classic love songs.” With that, he turned away.
At some point, Winters had taken the glasses back. “I see them.” He was pointing to the building. Didn’t need the magnification to see the line of them moving through the airport and with a quickness.
“Major, far be it for me to tell you how to do your work, but you might want to shoot for ‘good enough’ on the repairs.”
“Good enough? You want duct tape on your ride home across the entire US? How bad?” he asked when he realized why I was bothering him again.
“Couple hundred so far, more on the way.”
“You there, Sergeant!” I heard him yelling.
“Yes, Major.” It was Tommy.
“There’s an M2 in the back of the plane. Looks like you’re going to need it.”
“He has a .50 caliber machine gun in the back of the plane and we’re just finding out about it now?” BT asked me.
“Damn thing is close to ninety pounds without ammunition…you want to run around with that thing?” I was moving quickly to the plane. We needed to set up a defense and in the middle was going to be that machine of war. Tommy let Kirby help him carry it, but I knew the boy could hold it by the barrel with his arm fully extended if he wanted to.
Harmon and Grimm were waddle-walking a large ammunition can; Corporals Rose and Stenzel were right behind them, carrying another.
“This ought to be fun.” I honestly wasn’t sure if I was being serious or sarcastic. On one hand, firing a machine gun is just fun–it is–I don’t know specifically why. It would be much better if we were blowing up bottles of soda, an old car, maybe even a washing machine. Instead, we had bloodthirsty zombies. The fifty cal was not going to be kind to them. Tommy and Harmon were working quickly to get the weapon set up. As of yet, no zombies had broken through.
“Gunney, get everyone deployed. Stenzel, get the civvies in the plane.”
“Harmon, you’re with me.” I was heading back to the plane.
She looked at me like I doubted her abilities. The rest of the squad was staring at me.
“I need you to help me find a way to secure the dogs, make them as comfortable as possible before we start firing. I don’t want them making a run for it.”
“Sir, I need to be with the unit,” she said as we moved.
“And you will be. I just need your help while I move stuff around, make them a secure dog house, see if I can get them corralled. How you doing?” I asked as we made it on to the plane. I was happy to note both dogs were sleeping, curled up with my brother, as a matter of fact, although that was going to change for Holly real soon.
“Good to go, sir.”
“Don’t need the standard ‘oh rah’ line, Private.”
“Better, sir.”
“Good.” Holly was curled up on Gary’s feet and Chloe’s ass was planted firmly on his face. “Wish I could join them, except for the ass part. She lets anything go my brother is likely to be asphyxiated.” We disturbed them all as we flipped the wooden crate over that the machine gun had come in. I was happy that they both came over to investigate this new development as opposed to shying away. Threw a couple of blankets in there with some granola bars. I got down and petted them, reveling in the fact that both massive heads were in my lap. Then the action began. Holly’s ears perked up as small-arms fire began to chatter. I stood. “You watch out for your sister, okay?” The plane did a good job of muffling the sound, but nothing short of a concrete bunker was going to keep out the deafening reverberation of the fifty cal when it began to sing. Harmon was itching to get out and was by the door waiting.
“How’s it going out there?” Gary asked. Instead of looking better, he looked worse, drawn, worn out. Good guess he was fighting an infection of some sort.
“Could be better. I wish we were in the air.”
“You need me?”
“No. Try to get some rest but keep your rifle close; there’s a chance you’re going to need it.”
“You realize that what you said is not at all conducive to getting some rest.”
“Do the best you can.” With that, he rolled away. I noted that the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Go,” I told Harmon, who’d seen what I had. “I’m going to close the door when I leave.” She was out quickly.
“Lyle.” The boy was watching me, as was his father. “These dogs are going to need you; can you stay with them and make them feel better?”
“Of course.” He smiled with relief, and pride, I think.
“I’ll be back. Be good,” I told the dogs. “We got a bunch of people and animals that are going to be thrilled to meet you. Maybe not Patches…she’s a tough nut to crack. But all the rest for sure. And just so I can get it out of the way now, I apologize for Ben-Ben; I think he might have been dropped on his head a few times as a puppy.”
“Mike, you know we all can hear you, right?” This was BT.
“This is a private moment; avert your ears.” I gave each one a small kiss on the head before following Harmon out. Out of the obvious six exits, the zombies had picked the farthest one down the concourse. Didn’t make much sense; they were usually all about the shortest route between them and their meal. I was hustling to make it to the squad.
“Winters, Stenzel, find out where else they breached.” This had Dewey written all over it. Especially since only seven zombies had come through the door. We could see hundreds through the windows, and instead of looking toward the doorways out, they were watching us. Unsettling comes to mind; they were pressed up against the glass, just looking.
“What are they doing, sir?” Kirby asked.
It was a hell of a good question for which I had no answer.
“BT, light up that building.”
“Finally, you say something worth listening to.” He pulled back on the charging handle; Tommy gave him the thumbs up regarding the ammo, and away we went. He peppered the living shit out of the brick building. At first he was shooting low, then I remembered it was a fifty cal; he was doing horrific damage. I could see zombies falling over as their legs were quite literally cut off from beneath them. He adjusted the angle up and tore through the windows and the multitude of zombies within. Fifty cals weren’t designed with humans in mind, according to the Geneva Convention. But I’d yet to see a warrior pull up a document in the midst of a full-scale battle. You use the tools at hand when it comes down to preserving your life, regardless of what the fucking rules say. Once “Thou Shalt Not Kill” is broken, doesn’t make much sense to say there are still rules.
Rows of the fuckers were being hewn down as midsections exploded, lending credence to the term “chest cavity.” Heads dissolved under the assault; one moment there was a body capper, the next just a fine mist as it became an aerosol spray. The heavy gun drowned out all noise. The rest of us were standing there watching the weapon do its damage, and I, for one, was thrilled at the level of destruction it was imposing upon them. If they were human, there would be a part of me that felt pity, but the zombies? Yeah, fuck them.
BT was screaming something, his powerful arms absorbing the recoil of the heavy gun as he fired. “Get some!” he let out just as the last of the rounds came up and through the rifle. “I have got to get me one of these!” He turned to help Tommy load up the new box.
“Hold up, BT, I don’t want to use everything in the first five minutes. Grimm and Springer, go check out the far side. Stenzel, Kirby, south.” I pointed where I wanted them to go because, I thought it was south, but only because of the way we were oriented. “Winters, Harmon.” I pointed.
“On it,” they replied.
We had eyes on all avenues of approach. My asshat of a stomach told me I was missing something. I felt like a zombie was outsmarting me; in fact, I was fairly certain about it. How bad was that going to look if the brainless ones pulled an end around? Maybe that would save me, you know, once they realized there was nothing to eat here. Yeah, I know it’s been done; didn’t stop it from going through my head.
“Dewey, what the fuck are you up to?” I was looking around. The zombies that had survived the barbaric slaughtering in the airport were once again at the windows now that there was no glass, hardly any framing, and even the structure itself had suffered a lot of damage.
“You might be wrong, Talbot. I think the zombies are getting stupider.” BT had a grin on his face as he fingered the butterfly trigger.
“You think so? Because right now, where is all our attention directed?” I responded. He didn’t like that answer.
As if to drive the point home even further, all of my scout teams reported in saying they had spotted zombies. We were in the open of, basically, a giant field. Sure, an airfield, but a field nonetheless–it was an indefensible position.
“Sir, they’re running.” Stenzel sounded concerned.
“Eastman.”
“I heard. Nothing I can do about it.”
“Pull back! Everyone pull back to the plane.” That got a reaction from the zombies we were watching, like they had been waiting for this very moment. They began to flood out of all six exit doors. BT looked over. I nodded. If we didn’t try to hold them back now, it would be a footrace to the plane.
BT looked grim and determined as he fired. Tommy didn’t know whether to watch and make sure the clipped-together rounds fed through smoothly, or fire his own weapon.
“I’ve got this!” BT had to roar to be heard.
“I’m here now!” James M. Lemon shouted; he was holding a revolver like his gun was the key to getting us out of here.
So there we were, the four of us, doing our best to stem the tide. Unfortunately, it was high tide and we were using a tiny plastic pail to keep the water away from the sand castle we’d spent all day building. Unlike BT’s first barrage, he was keeping it to much more controlled bursts; by himself, he was keeping three of the exit points free from the enemy. It was up to Tommy, James and myself to work on the other three.
“So many,” I breathed out. I was torn between emptying magazines at an unsustainable rate or measuring my shots for maximum effectiveness. I am a good shot; I qualified as an expert on numerous occasions when I was younger, in the Corps, and even at my most recent range qualification. What I wasn’t, was fast. I measured my shots. I generally applied slow, even pressure as I sighted-in the rifle; expelling a bullet would almost come as a surprise. Then I would acquire another target and do the same routine. Effective, yes; deadly, even, more so, perhaps, just not rapid. There were a few in my squad that made me look like a geriatric ex-acrobat attempting to do standing somersaults. Stenzel, I was convinced was a descendant of Annie Oakley. She could shoot bullseyes at a rate of three to my one. The point I’m making is we weren’t going to be able to hold this position much longer, no matter how many bodies we piled up on that tarmac.
“Getting low!” BT’s rounds were cutting zombies in two, crippled, broken, bodies flopped around on the ground like beached fish. This one would get cataloged with the rest of the disturbing imagery I now carried around with me. When the teeth-rattling percussions finally subsided, I told BT to make a run for it.
“I’ve still got rounds.” He meant for his other rifle.
“Can’t afford to lose the M2. There are more cases of ammo on the plane. Get back and set up. We’ll cover you.”
He looked to the zombies beginning to swarm, nodded at me, and picked up the weapon and the tripod like it was a toy gun and not a hundred plus pounds of deadly metal. BT hadn’t made it more than twenty-five yards before I called it a rout. We couldn’t hold them back.
“Gotta go!” I yelled at Tommy and James.
“Gary! Need you to drag a fifty cal box out!”
“Got it,” he replied, but by the tone of his voice, I was having serious reservations he would be able to perform the task. Rifle fire came from every direction. The attack appeared coordinated.
“Lieutenant, you need to stall them,” Eastman warned.
“I’d take them out for drinks, Major, but they don’t seem the type or more importantly my type,” I huffed as Tommy and I ran.
I could see Gary dragging the box off the plane just as BT stashed the tripod under a wing. He went and manhandled the box and had made it back to the machine gun as Tommy and I pulled up.
I was going to yell at a swaying Gary to get back on the plane, but this was an all hands on deck call. We stopped them here or we didn’t. Sure, we could seek refuge on the plane, but what good was that going to do? We couldn’t take off and if we could have, we’d face another problem. Even if Eastman somehow pulled a miracle out of his ass, I’m pretty sure he would balk at the thought of trying to take off with an army of the undead parked in front of his plane. The rest of the squad was making it back, some with zombies following close on their heels, others with a much larger cushion. Again, didn’t matter much.
“Talbot! Are you going to be able to hold them back?” Eastman was peering around the tail of the plane so he could see me directly, and especially to better spot any signs of bullshittery on my part.
We had plenty of rounds, thanks to the plane. What we lacked were the number of people to shoot said rounds and a proper defensive position.
“I can’t promise anything past ten minutes.” Even that I felt was pushing it by four or five minutes. Without any direction from me, we had roughly spread out evenly around the plane, including Gary, who had flushed cheeks and drawn eyes. The situation was so serious, even his ridiculously colored wardrobe could not elicit a smile from me.
“How long are we holding?” BT asked.
What was the right answer? If we were overrun, we were dead. If we were forced into the plane, we were dead–only at a later point. No, the play was to hold out as long as possible and get on the plane. We had long-range communications now; the bigger question was would Bennington spare any resources to get us back? I felt fairly confident he would. Not so much me and my crew–he’d already written us off–but trained pilots? He couldn’t leave them by the side of the road. Rounding out the second spot would be the recovery of the plane, and thirdly, if it was possible and didn’t endanger any other personnel or equipment, we’d be allowed on.
“They get within twenty yards, give a shout out and we collapse into the plane. Drag the major and his crew with you if need be.”
Our side began the festivities first, the rest followed quickly enough. BT and the M2 were doing exactly what they were designed for. My shots would be superfluous at this point; I figured it was as good a time as any to grab what ended up being the last box of 50 cal ammo. BT spared a glance at me.
He yelled, “Where the fuck are you going?”
“Donuts!”
He turned back to the business at hand. Ask a crazy person a question, you’re bound to get a crazy answer; as far as I can tell, it was his fault. Got on the plane; Holly was standing next to Chloe. Her legs were shaking; the plane was vibrating from the percussions outside, and this had awakened Chloe. She was looking around, and looked scared herself, as she was taking cues from the other. Lyle was doing his best not to show how afraid he was.
“I hope I did the right thing taking you with me…looked like you two had it all figured out.” Both pups were okay with my quick approach; Holly shied away slightly but still let me stroke her side. Chloe licked my hand. “I’ll get you two to safety; I promise.” I grabbed the box and headed back out.
“Michael?” Jason asked worriedly.
I gave him a thumbs up, which was worlds better than dragging it across my throat.
“Where the fuck are the donuts?” BT asked when I started prepping the ammunition.
“Huh?” I had forgotten entirely about my less than witty quip.
“Just like you to go and eat all the motherfucking donuts!”
He seemed to be getting pissed off about the imaginary fried dough. He was more than three quarters through his stash and was keeping our side at bay all by himself–couldn’t say the same about everywhere else. The ten minutes I’d promised was in severe jeopardy.
“Can’t stop them, sir!” Winters shouted, partly to be heard, but a fair portion was fright. There was a complete three-sixty of zombies barreling down on us. Hundreds, bordering on thousands, of zombies were fixated on this one little spot and we were at the epicenter.
“Eastman, inside now!”
“Need more…time.” He was breathless.
“Grimm, Harmon, get them inside now! Don’t care if you have to shoot them and drag their bodies!”
There was shouting as a couple of privates ordered some officers around; I didn’t have time to interject.
“Rose, help the gunney with the M2 and the ammo! Tommy, Winters, stay with me by the door. Everyone else get your asses on that plane now!” I could feel minuscule tears ripping through my vocal cords as I made sure, even without the headsets, that I could not be ignored.
Eastman glowered at me as Harmon roughly shoved him up the steps. “Yeah, sorry I saved your ass” was going to be my argument when he laid into me. I imagined an aerial view of this would be even more frightening. I tapped Winters on the shoulder and thrust with my chin that he needed to go. Tommy was next. Stenzel was at the top, giving us a few extra seconds as she picked off the closest ones. A hand swept past my face as I ran into Tommy. He was pointing at James Motherfucking Lemon, who had not heeded my order.
“I’ve got this!” He was smiling broadly as he loaded rounds into his pistol.
“You are absolutely shitting me,” I said as I was going to go back down the steps. Tommy held me fast and shook his head. James barely got his hand up in time as the first of the zombies descended upon him. I’m not sure what he considered fun in the normal world; maybe parachute-less free falling or telling a card-carrying feminist to fetch him a beer? Both were equally dangerous in my book.
He was grinning from ear to ear, his white teeth shining between his heavy beard and mustache. “Fuck!” He shot. “You!” He fired again. He repeated this small mantra four more times until he was out of bullets. He never screamed out once as those zombies tore into him. He turned his head to look at us, then let it fall back so he was looking up into the sky. “Finally!” he yelled as he was buried in a pile of zombies. He had indeed given us the time we needed to get aboard, but at an awful price. Though, he had seemed more than willing to pay it.
We pulled the stairs up, all of us looking around at each other. I, for one, was breathing heavy. I looked up to the cockpit. Eastman was in his seat, hitting buttons and getting the plane ready to go.
“Get everything secured,” I said to no one in particular. “We good to go?” I asked as I went up to the pilot.
“Not even close,” he responded.
“Um.”
“Relax. I’m not putting her up in the air, but we need to move. Enough of those zombies crowd around into the landing gear and it won’t matter what I do to the tail; we’ll never leave here.”
Major Jackson was speaking into the radio set. “Etna this is Raven. We are down and surrounded, need an extraction. Please advise.”
Nothing. If Etna was adhering to radio silence, they were doing an admirable job.
“Comm down again?” I asked.
“Got a feeling, Lieutenant, we have received all the help we’re going to get.”
“That’s bullshit. I know my kind are a dime a dozen, but you guys, the civilians…”
“You should check on your people,” Eastman said, dismissing me without ordering me.
He motioned for Major Jackson to shut the door from the cockpit to the transport area.
“What’s going on?” BT had taken off his headgear, as had I. “We taking off?”
I shook my head and was about to bring him farther back in the plane where we could talk without others hearing; that was right up until Tommy spoke.
“Bulkers!” he warned.
“They’re trying to climb on the wings.” Stenzel was traversing the plane, looking out both sides.
I ran up to the front and banged on the door. “Major, fuck your pre-check! Get this thing moving!”
He was aware of some of what was going on as the engines wound up. It got loud enough inside that having a normal conversation was out of the question. We were pulling away; the plane was bouncing as we ran into zombies not willing or able to get out of the way. I thought for a moment that this could be a game we won. Drive far enough away down the runway, the major could set up shop, do some repairs; we’d hold them off for a little bit, then repeat the whole process. Then the realization hit me: yeah, with an unlimited supply of fuel we sure could do just that. I had to think that while we were out on our mission, the first thing the major had done was top-off the bird, if fuel was available and hadn’t gummed up. Had no clue if airplane fuel gummed up like the ethanol crap we used to put into our cars, but I didn’t see why not. Worst case scenario would be we needed to be airborne to get one of those ass-clenching refuelings where the planes flew close enough to smell each other’s exhaust in greeting. We were picking up speed. By now I was thinking we had left the zombies behind.
“Got some clingers.” Stenzel was riveted to her window. I went over to look. Three zombies had not only somehow found a way onto the wing, they were hanging on for dear life as we rumbled down the runway. “They going to mess up the flying?” She didn’t look up at me; something about those three zombies had her attention rapt.
“Not flying.” That got her to break the locked gaze.
“Huh? We’re going pretty fast not to be about to. He’s not planning on banging a turn going this fast, is he?”
“Hadn’t even thought about that.”
“He’ll drop the wing right on to the pavement and whatever fuel he has in there will light up like a roman candle and sir, I love the 4th of July just as much as the next person, but I’ve never in my life wanted to be inside a firework.”
“You sure we can’t make that turn?”
“There should be limiters in the gearbox that prohibit the major from doing it, but I’m not sure what he’s got in mind. We’re still accelerating and this runway is only two miles long. If we’re not taking off, what’s the alternative?”
“There a fence on the far side of the runway?”
“You think he’s planning on going through it? This isn’t a four-wheel drive vehicle! He can’t go plowing through fields.”
“Give me your headset.” She did so quickly.
“Major.”
“Little busy here,” he answered curtly.
“Looking for some direction. Do we need to brace for impact?”
“It’s going to get bumpy. Grab a seat and get buckled in.”
“Shit. Everyone in your seats! Buckles on!” I was moving quickly through the cabin.
Yeah, there were a lot of worried stares, but when you’re in a moving plane and someone tells you to get your seatbelt on you tend to do as your told and ask questions later–provided there is a later. The engines began to throttle down; I felt a modicum of relief, right until I felt us turning.
“Umm.”
“I’ve got this, Talbot. You just worry about your squad and the civilians,” Eastman said.
“What the fuck is going on?” BT asked. He was strapped in tight and holding on to the seat.
“I think he’s going kamikaze.”
“Kamikaze means to self-sacrifice,” Eastman clarified. “The only ones doing the dying will be them.”
I got it. He was going to drive into the horde; I was worried about what kind of punishment the plane could take. Would it fold in on itself like Tracy’s Jeep did, seemingly a decade ago? I mean, this thing was only a flying aluminum tube. Sure, it had twenty, six-foot props revolving at rpms I couldn’t even imagine, but still, they weren’t immune to damage. I turned over my shoulder as we came broadside to the zombies still pursuing and then they were out of sight as we were heading back down the runway.
“This is your fault.” BT let go of his seat long enough to point at me.
“I’m sitting next to you; how is this my fault?”
“It’s that cloud of crazy that you live in! Anybody walks through that haze of insanity, they pick it up. You transfer it like some psychoactive Typhoid Mary!”
Eastman thrummed up the engines again; we could hear the props straining as he sent more juice to them. Sounded like a blender on high. At first, there was nothing, then we began to shudder and there were loud knocks. Going back to the blender analogy, it was like a few large bananas had been dropped in, followed by a whole chicken. All sounded relatively normal until jets of bone, blood, hair and clothes flew past our windows in the gale force winds caused by the wash of the props. Then the sound took a turn for the worse as if an entire avocado, pit and all, had been mistakenly dropped in the macabre mixture. There was a distinctive whomping sound as Eastman continued his crusade. Us getting out of this particular jam was looking more and more dour, and even if we did, we now had the unenviable task of doing it over the highways and byways.
“I wouldn’t do this,” I told BT, and I meant it.
“Bullshit. I could see you standing on top of the plane, holding on to a rope like a wing walker. Probably be whooping it up, swirling your cowboy hat in the air like a rodeo rider.”
“None of that even makes sense; I’ve never owned a cowboy hat.”
“That’s what I’m saying. The only part you balked at was the Western wear.”
Eastman was cutting swaths through the zombies, who had finally figured out that facing the behemoth machine head-on might not be the best strategy. They were trying to get away. The ones on the outer edges were somewhat successful, but the ones packed in tight, dozens heading towards hundreds of them, were being pureed all the way down to their thighs. It had happened so fast for many of them that their legs were still standing, though their bodies had long ago been reduced to shredded goo.
Before I’d ever left my twenties, I had seen so many things I never thought I would. Figured I was desensitized to some of the worst things imaginable. When the zombie apocalypse started, I added on to that pile, in fact, I nearly replaced it. Early in, I absolutely knew without a doubt I’d borne witness to every horrific thing imaginable. But as I stared out at the tarmac, now covered with ribbons of meat, miles of intestines, lakes of blood and baskets of bones, I knew how fundamentally wrong I’d been. There was always going to be room for more in that crowded space, as if the walls would ever expand to accommodate the horrors.