Flight or Fright: 17 Turbulent Tales (23 page)

Zombies on a Plane

Bev Vincent

Your co-pilot, Bev Vincent, has published over four score short stories and a few books of non-fiction, but this is his only story thus far that involves airplanes. The title was inspired by a certain movie starring Samuel L. Jackson, but you won’t find a single thirteen-lettered epithet in the following tale. Yippee ki-yay!

The guy wearing the Phish t-shirt told Myles he can fly anything, and if he’s lying they’re all dead. It’s that simple. The guy—Barry, who looks like he’s under thirty—says he trained to be a pilot “over there,” where it all started, but he’s skimpy with the details and it sounds like an idle boast, the kind of line someone trots out in a bar late at night to impress women. If women were still hanging out in bars, that is.

“A lot of people said the war was a bad idea. I supported it at first,” Barry says with a shrug. “Never figured it would turn out like this.” An understatement if Myles ever heard one.

Myles met up with this small group of survivors—nineteen in total, counting himself—in the auditorium of an inner city school, a place with strong doors and sturdy locks that provided temporary sanctuary. Once Barry announced he could get them airborne, Myles presented his sketchy plan. Just like that, he became their leader.

“We’ll go someplace remote,” he tells those gathered around him, apparently attracted by the aura of confidence he cultivated during thirty years in sales and middle management. “A place where we’ll be safe until all this is over.” No one asks what they’ll do if “this” is
never
over.

Heading for the airport seems like their best option. The city’s overrun, much of it on fire, and people are being killed in the streets. Those that aren’t consumed by their attackers get up again a few seconds later to join the ravenous army of the undead. Myles wishes his plan didn’t rely on the unproven skills of a guy who looks like he’s never worked a day in his life.

But if the others want to treat him like their leader, he’s going to lead, goddammit. Under his direction, they raid the cafeteria for food and the work shed for tools and weapons. Barry also claims he can start the bus parked near the loading dock if they can’t find the keys. Myles doesn’t ask if he learned this trick “over there,” too, but Barry proves up to the task. Maybe there’s hope after all.

The fuel gauge on the aging school bus registers something less than a quarter of a tank. The last working gas station in the county ran dry six days ago, and the promised supply tankers never showed up. Probably never would. They have enough gas to reach the airport—barely—but if Barry can’t figure out how to get one of the planes going, they’re screwed. Seventeen people follow him and Barry onto the bus like rats after the pied piper.

The bus is a piece of crap, but it runs, so long as they take it easy. Every time Barry pushes it past fifty kilometers an hour, the engine light comes on, so he eases back on the accelerator. They can’t afford to break down. They haven’t seen many of those abominations outside Halifax, but no place is safe. Those devils can pop up anywhere at any time, and Myles’ group has only knives and axes for weapons. Like gasoline, bullets are a precious and rare commodity.

Fifty kilometers per hour is fast enough, though. If there’s a plane with enough jet fuel to get them wherever they decide to go, it can wait for them to lumber along the highway. When he was in field sales, before being forced into a desk job, Myles hated the long trek out to Stanfield International, but today he’s happy to put distance between himself and the city.

There’s no other traffic as far as the eye can see in either direction. They pass stalled vehicles on the side of the road, but when they slow to check if any occupants need help, the bus wheezes, hiccups, and threatens to stall. Barry eases it back up to fifty, the only speed at which it seems content. Myles thinks he sees a head pop up behind the steering wheel of one car after they pass, but he can’t be sure, and it could just as easily be one of
them
instead of a real person.

He pushes the fleeting glimpse from his mind. It might have been a trick of the light, after all, and even if it wasn’t, they can’t save everyone—he’s not even sure they can save themselves. Never give up, though, that’s his mantra. His most rewarding sales were the ones where the other person intended to buy from a competitor and Myles won him over with persistence and passion.

He wonders what will happen after the zombies kill nearly everyone. Will they wander the planet in a futile quest for food until they fall to pieces and writhe on the ground like a child’s toy with failing batteries? Seven billion zombies searching for the few remaining survivors of the human race?

Then there’s the fact that even if his group escapes, they won’t live forever. They’ll all die eventually, and when they do, the virus—or whatever it is—will bring each of them back as one of those creatures. All they can do is forestall the inevitable and hope that somewhere people are working on a solution.
Mankind has survived for thousands of years. This scourge won’t eradicate us
, Myles thinks.
Someone will find a way to cure this plague. They always do.
This belief is what drives him. Otherwise he might as well set himself on fire and be done with it.

When they reach the airport, Myles tells everyone to hold on tight and orders Barry to crash the bus through the fence that separates the parking lot from the runways. The bus lurches and pulls to one side as the fence wraps itself like chain mail around the bumper and the windshield, but they make it through and onto the tarmac.

There are several Airbuses and Boeings parked at the terminal, but Barry opts for a commuter jet, big enough to hold them all but small enough that they’ll be able to land it wherever they want, even on a remote airstrip designed for private aircraft. It’s an Embraer ERJ-145 with a range of at least 4000 kilometers, according to Barry. Maybe a little more, since they’ll be flying light. Enough to get them far from here.

But that’s the catch—where should they go? Barry releases the jet’s door, which drops to reveal a set of stairs. He ducks inside and emerges a few minutes later with a set of navigational maps. Myles spreads them out on a bus seat while Barry and a former taxi driver named Gilbert hotwire a fuel truck and pull it up next to the Embraer’s wing.

Alfie, who in another life was a financial analyst, leans over the seat back. “How about Alaska?”

“We can’t get that far. We could make Labrador or northern Ontario.”

“Too cold,” Terri, the former yoga instructor, says, hugging herself. Myles isn’t surprised. She’s complained about everything since she joined their group.

“Snow slows them down,” a barber named Phil says.

Even if that’s true, they have to go someplace where they can survive, perhaps even grow crops. Also a place where they can stay in touch with the rest of the world, so they’ll know when the situation improves. Myles doesn’t share his thought process with the others, though. He doesn’t want them to realize he’s as uncertain as they are.

“Look,” Emily yells. She’s the youngest of their group, a teenager who has barely said a word since they left the city, concentrating instead on trying to reach someone—anyone—on her iPhone, clicking the keys with her thumbs.

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.