A Time to Die (16 page)

The plane passed over the southern outskirts of the city and began to bounce as it encountered rising currents of air from fires below. As he continued to descend it got worse. Much worse. He grabbed the flap control and gave it two more clicks, and an alarm sounded. “Flap failure,” the information center warned him. He glanced at the flap control. Twenty percent. Landing required one hundred percent flaps. “Great.”

“Air Saudi, what happened to Monterrey!” one of the flights behind him called out.

“Dear God, the whole city is on fire!” the other exclaimed.

Andrew ignored them, and when they started screaming he reached out and flicked off the radio. At this point he was landing no matter what. The fuel indicator was no longer registering. The question was if he were landing on the wheels, or on the nose.

As he passed within a mile of the crater that was once the center of a city, he reached down and grabbed the lever with a plastic wheel on it, pulled out and snapped it down. On the console five indicators representing the plane’s landing gear went from black with white lines to yellow with X marks. There was a loud buzz that dropped in volume but continued to sound as the gear began cycling down. First the nose gear indicator switched to green, then the two rear inboards, and after an eternity the outboard. Andrew breathed and shook sweat from his forehead. Something had finally worked right.

Two miles out, he was below five hundred feet and going way too fast. He reduced throttle as far back as he dared and only slowed to 225 mph. “Too damned fast,” he said and searched the group of control levers until he found what he wanted. He deployed the speed brakes. The speed dropped to under 200 and the information center warned him. “Do not attempt landing with speed brakes deployed.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Insufficient Flaps.”

“I know,” he growled.

As if it were listening it displayed another warning. “Glide path not optimal. More flaps.”

“That’s a negative,” he said and felt the response in the joystick. It was incredibly sluggish, taking almost a second to respond to his commands. His breath was coming in gasps. He was flying on the ragged edge.

“Pull up,” a voice suddenly yelled and an annoying chirp sounded. “Pull up.”

Whatever, he thought, but then the plane began to throttle up on its own. “Oh, no you don’t!” he cried and searched the control screen. Master Override was in yellow in the bottom corner. He stabbed it hard enough to hurt his finger. Instantly the throttle dropped to almost nothing and the stall alarm screamed in his ear.

“Piece of shit!” he yelled and gave it more throttle and a little nose down. The turbines spooled up and the stall alarm stopped. He battled to keep the speed as slow as possible, see-sawing between descending flight and stalling.

“Three hundred,” the automatic altitude warned him.

Andrew scanned the approaching airport. There were a few planes parked at the terminal and one almost on the runway 11/29[[?]], but he thought it was clear enough. One of the hangars was burning and he thought he saw some people near the terminal. They appeared to be just standing around. That was strange. 

“No time to worry about that now,” he said. The runway appeared clear, and that was all that mattered at this point. He didn’t think he’d have enough fuel to go around to the other one anyway. And then the starboard outboard engine warning went off. It had flamed out.

“Fuel critical,” the computer warned.

Andrew instantly turned off the port outboard engine to balance thrust and further reduced power. The stall alarm went off and he stowed [[s/b ‘slowed’?]] the speed brakes and decreased his angle of attack. He was in an unpowered glide of the biggest commercial airliner in the world.

“Two hundred, one fifty, one hundred. Fifty, forty, thirty.”

The antenna and outer marker equipment loomed. “Shit!” he yelled and grit his teeth. The outer marker passed under him so closer he could read writing on the antenna and he pulled back, flaring the huge plane. The air speed dropped and the stall alarm renewed its panic. “Stall!” it warned. “Stall!”

The massive rear wheels slammed onto the very edge of the runway hard enough for him to go “Oof!” The titanic plane shuddered violently, he’d blown several tires. He pulled back as hard as he could to keep the nose from driving into the tarmac. The much lighter nose gear would have crumpled like cheap lawn furniture.

He just managed to bring it down in a semblance of a normal touchdown before he reached over and grabbed the thrust reverse controls, jerked them back and snapped them into position and pushed the inboard throttle controls all the way up, deploying the air brakes at the same time. The two inboard engines spooled up with a scream of power, panels opening on their sides and directing their thousands of pounds of thrust mostly forward.

All five sets of warning stripes raced by and his mind started counting distances. 1,500 meters, 180 mph. 1,200 meters, 150mph, 1,000 meters, 120 mph. Both remaining engines flamed out. “I’m not going to make it,” he said as he reached a foot over and gave the brakes a pulse. The warning of excessive speed on brakes went off, but since he’d already hit the master override it took his command and he felt the sickening lurch of the wheels skidding. Rubber flew like shrapnel from the three blown tires, pelting the underside of the huge wings. He actually saw pieces of one tire fly out of the corner of his eye. 500 meters, 100 mph.

“Come on you fucking beast!” he yelled. Only 250 meters left and still going 80 mph. He tapped a control he’d located earlier, disabling the antilock system, and with the veins standing out on his neck he stomped the brake pedal.

More than five hundred tons of super-sized aircraft skidded for a moment then started to go sideways. There was nothing Andrew could do at this point; he was just along for the ride. He lost track of how much runway was left and was beginning to wonder when the starboard landing gear went off the end and hit grass. With a maddening jerk the plane came to an explosive and shuddering stop, pitching him sideways violently. His head fetched up against a panel and he was cast into darkness.

Chapter 16

Saturday, April 21

Evening

Dr. Lisha Breda stared at the lab work and shook her head in disbelief. The more tests she did the more unbelievable the results became. She looked up from filing some of the data on the project’s computers to glance at the LCD monitor a tech had installed only hours ago. On it the grainy image of Grant Porter, former research specialist, could be seen walking back and forth in his cage. Only a few of those who remained in the station were even aware he was still alive. If alive was an accurate term.

Earlier she’d drugged him and removed a significant portion of his brain, including cutting in the prefrontal lobe. She stitched him back up and followed all the protocols, but figured that was that. No one had been more surprised than her when she’d looked up a few hours ago to see him walking around. She’d noted in her case book that the patient demonstrated no noticeable decrease in abilities from before the procedure. But the shocks were only just beginning.

The prepared slides from the brain tissue displayed the same chemical reaction to the preserving dyes. It was turned a surreal shade of green. Worse, as she observed the condition of the brain matter she noted cellular activity. Two hours after the sample was removed. “This isn’t possible,” she’d said into a verbal log, then laughed out loud. Her whole situation was impossible!

“Doctor,” her new assistant, Edith, called. “You should look at this.”

Lisha took a sip of cold coffee and got up, her back complaining loudly as she hobbled over to the other woman’s bench. On her screen was displayed a scan of brain matter. She’d managed to isolate a pair of neurons, the specialized brain cells that made intelligence possible.

“Good slide,” Lisha complemented.

“Thanks, but that’s not what I wanted to show you.” The young woman gestured to a little computer display measuring incredibly tiny electrical charges. As Lisha watched it recorded a reading, and then again a moment later.

“Are you certain of the source?”

“This is the second slide I prepared, Doctor.”

Lisha nodded. “I see.”

“That isn’t the most alarming part,” Edith said and pulled up a file on her computer. “Something was tickling on the back of my mind.” The computer displayed another slide of neurons, the one the girl said she’d done earlier. “I’d been concentrating on the electrical responses, and didn’t notice what they were from.”

Lisha watched for a moment before she realized. “They’re reorganizing?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Edith.” Lisha went back to her desk and fell into the chair with a sigh. She desperately needed sleep, but she wanted answers even worse.

“When was the last time you ate?” Edith asked.

“I don’t remember,” she admitted.

“I heard one of the guys caught a tuna earlier and they’re making sushi,” Edith said.

“That sounds…really good,” Lisha said and got ponderously back to her feet. Not for the first time she wished she had more time to work out and lose that extra fifty pounds she was carrying around. Too many in her field tended towards portly. She was afraid she’d passed that behind and was chugging towards chunky. Rubenesque was how she tried to think of herself.

Edith glanced back from her computer. “I’ll call if that cell growth test finishes.”

“I’m going to grab a couple hours sleep, too.” Lisha glanced at her watch and was shocked to see it was 8pm. “If I don’t call by midnight, come get me?” The other girl said she would and Lisha headed out into the hall.

The converted oil rig was much less crowded now after so many were no longer with them. Lisha passed one person going the other way. “You have some sushi?” she asked the man, a maintenance technician if she remembered correctly.

“The cook was still getting it ready,” the man said, “I was going to grab a shower and then head back.”

“You sure it’ll still be there?”

“Someone hooked a seventy-pound tuna, I think it’ll last!”

“Excellent,” Lisha said and continued onward.

Down a metal stairway and across the hall she heard the buzz of conversation even before she opened the doorway. To her surprise it was rather upbeat and boisterous. It was the first time she’d heard laughter since the incident.

Inside, a dozen or more of the survivors were at two of the big long tables. Someone had brought in a board game and was playing with another person while several observed and offered their strategic advice. At the counter she could see the cooks, all three of them, working. Lisha strolled over to see they were delicately filleting a huge tuna steak. She felt her mouth watering and another cook was laying out seaweed sheets and covering them with rice.

“Evening doctor,” the cook said, glancing up from his knife work.

“Christopher,” she nodded.

“Still need another fifteen minutes or so,” he told her. Lisha made a face, then shrugged. “But you can have some crab rolls if you want.” She used her knife to point, a drop of tuna blood dripping from the tip. “It’s canned crab, I’m sorry to say.”

“That’s fine,” Lisha said and looked over the tray. It was already half empty so she took a metal serving plate and grabbed a dozen slices. She could see cucumber and maybe cream cheese inside as well. She added a swirl of soy sauce.

“Save room for this,” one of the other cooks said and popped a chunk of tuna in her mouth. She rolled her eyes and chewed with a smile. “Ish weal good,” she said around the meat.

“Savage,” the cook joked and mock threatened her with his knife. They both laughed as they went back to preparing more rolls.

Lisha tossed a chunk into her mouth as she walked to a table. As she chewed and swallowed, she was surprised to realize just how hungry she was. The pile of crab rolls she’d taken quickly diminished.

“You’re eating more than you’re cooking!” the cook laughed at his assistant.

“She was practically eating it as I took the hook out,” a man called from across the room. Lisha took note of him, another mechanical worker. She wanted to thank him for catching the fish. It was having a profound effect on moral.

The cutting and shaping done, the head cook was busily rolling and beginning to cut the sushi pieces. Lisha’s plate was empty and she was weighing her options, wondering if having a few more of the crab would that mean she wouldn’t have room for tuna. She’d gone as far as walking back to the serving table when she noticed the assistant who couldn’t stop sampling the fish. She was standing a few feet away from the preparation table, staring off into space with a confused look in her eye.

“Are you okay?” Lisha asked. The assistant cook’s head jerked around at Lisha’s voice, her eyes going wide as she looked at her. “Hello?”

“I uh…” the cook said then shook her head violently. “It hurts,” she said and bent over slightly, grabbing her head with both hands. “I can’t think… voices…”

The room was gradually falling silent as people noticed the strange behavior. Lisha put her plate down and moved to go around the serving table, meaning to check on the woman when she suddenly screamed, bringing Lisha’s plan to an abrupt halt, and the room into shuddering silence. The scream went on and on, then morphed into a howl of rage.

“Oh no,” Lisha moaned, “please not again?” She heard that kind of howl only days ago. The man who’d done it was locked up in a cage several decks below them, missing a substantial chunk of his brain, and still quite dangerous.

“I… aghhhh! Raaaahr!” She turned and locked her eyes on Lisha with deadly intensity.

Having survived this once before, Lisha didn’t hesitate. She threw her plate at the cook’s face as hard as she could. She’d played a lot of Frisbee as a teenager. Both Frisbee golf and distance competition. It was one of the few athletic things she did, if you could call it that. The plane flew straight and true, hitting the former cook right between the eyes on the bridge of her nose. The metal rang like a gong and rebounded away, a substantial dent in one edge.

The woman screamed as blood blossomed from her nose, it sounded more in rage than in pain, but Lisha didn’t wait to see what effect her attack had. She turned and rather unathletically vaulted the sushi bar, scattering food in all directions and almost tackling several people who’d been waiting behind her. “She’s turned!” Lisha screamed.

“What?” asked a man, his plate full of sushi and one piece halfway to his mouth.

Lisha turned and pointed at the wild eyed and bleeding cook. Blood was running down the woman’s face in streams, the bridge of her nose laid open to the bone and her gaze was locked squarely on her attacker. “Like earlier,” Lisha barked. “She’s a…” A what, Lisha thought. “She’s a fucking zombie!”

The room exploded into pandemonium. Half the people just got up and bolted for the exit. The remaining half was about evenly split three ways. The first were those that stayed seated, uncertain or not believing what was happening. The second hunched down or in some cases dived under their tables. It was the duck and cover instinct, and Lisha doubted it would help in a zombie attack. The last third were the few who were useful. About four people moved to intercept the now insane cook.

The man the cook was next to shook his head in surprise as Lisha backpedaled away. He caught a vicious forearm to the face and went sprawling, sushi and all. Another man came at her, part of the reactive group but with poor planning.

“Now calm down,” he said and raised a hand. The girl grabbed the hand, pulled it in and bit him. He screamed and tried to pull the hand away. She only bit down harder. Even as Lisha reached the door she could hear bones crunching. His screams became visceral. Luckily one of the other men who’d reacted had scooped up on of the metal-framed plastic cafeteria chairs and he’d maneuvered sideways.

The man who’d been bitten punched the cook in the shoulder with his off hand while jerking his injured hand back with more screaming. It finally came out of her mouth, minus two fingers. Blood pumped as the man cradled the ravaged stump in numb surprise. The zombie cook spotted Lisha by the door and backhanded the injured man out of her way, then sprinted towards the doctor.

The second man with the chair tried to respond to her sudden burst of speed by upping his planned attack. He swung at the back of her head with all his might. Unfortunately, she’d accelerated far faster than he’d been prepared for. Another man had seen his move and decided it was a good one, he’d been approaching from the other side. When the woman suddenly sped up his attempted tackle found only empty space, and a chair to the face. The plastic exploded into fragments and the steel bars crunched bone. His head rocked from the impact, eyes wide in surprise. His legs gave out and he folded like a bad poker hand.

Lisha did all she could think to do, she turned and ran. Dimly she was aware of the alarm klaxon blaring, though she couldn’t think of why. They only used that during fire drills, right? She sprinted for the next door down the hall. One of the workers’ bunk rooms, she thought. The girl was in hot pursuit and obviously in better shape. Lisha only managed a half dozen uncoordinated steps before she felt her long braided hair grabbed from behind and pulled with maniacal force.

“Oooouch!” Lisha cried out as she was pulled off her feet to land with an “Ooomf!” on her bottom. Her pursuer appeared to be caught off guard with how quickly Lisha went down because she flew over Lisha’s shoulder. Teeth snapped bare inches from her ear.

Lisha dared hope for a second that her attacker would somehow crash hard enough to hurt herself, but the young, fit woman hit and rolled like a gymnast, coming up in a crouch a bare dozen feet away. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lisha moaned, and struggled to her feet. The girl would be on her in an instant. There would be no time to turn and run. Besides, she had to admit that Rubenesque did not lend itself to defending against a zombie attack.

The girl snarled and prepared to leap and Lisha found herself thinking of some stupid Woody Harrelson movie and the word cardio. It was such a ridiculous thing to think of at that moment that she laughed. Being attacked by a bloodthirsty zombie in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and she fucking laughed!

The girl cocked her head at Lisha’s sputtered laugh, either confused by her prey’s unusual reaction or just not sure how to proceed. Lisha used the instant to look around for something, anything with which to protect herself. Behind her people were pouring out of the cafeteria and going the other way. She looked to her right and there was an old rusty metal cabinet with a glass face. Behind glass marked ‘Break in case of fire’ was an equally rusty fire extinguisher.

She didn’t hesitate. Lisha threw an elbow into the glass, feeling it crunch under the blow and the icy cold feeling of multiple cuts through her lab coat. Ignoring the pain, she snatched the surprisingly heavy bottle out just as the cook pounced. She didn’t have time to swing, so she just brought it up, bottom first, and thrust it out. The bottle connecting with the woman’s face with a hollow ‘clang!’ The blow knocked her aside and to the floor. She knelt there, shaking her head.

“Hit her again!” a man’s voice said behind her.

Lisha didn’t know who it was, but the advice seemed sound. She took a step forward, the woman looking up at her and growling like a feral dog. She swung the extinguisher as hard as she could against the side of the woman’s head. It connected soundly, slamming her to the side where her head rebounded off the wall with a sickening smacking sound. The zombie landed in a heap on the floor, out like a light.