Saint Death (18 page)

Gently he reinserted the cartridge back into place, loading it up so he could continuously fire the available five bullets he had at his disposal.

“Last thing I need today is to be playing Russian roulette out here,” he said.

A sudden thumping from behind the car at the Alaska Airlines terminal caught his attention. He looked over to see a man with sandy blonde hair and glasses wearing a tan sweater with olive green cargo shorts and black, leather sandals. He was in his mid-thirties. He had a backpack on, the kind often used by Europeans traveling around the States on short trips. It buckled under his waist. He was the picture of normality, a stranger who'd come to explore the wonders of Southern California and ended up trapped in a nightmare, except for the missing chunk torn from his right arm. Blood stained the sides of his torn sweater. Edgar slowed as he reached him, realizing it was already too late for the man.

“Thank God,” the man shouted, his voice slightly muffled through the glass. “I thought I'd never see another living soul again. You've got to help me. My wife is up in the food court. She's pregnant. She was attacked, but I fought them off for now. Please. We need help!”

Edgar slowly lifted the gun to the man's head, pointing it at the glass window. Instantly the man's face went white with fear. He babbled incoherently, raising his arms as he backed away slowly trying to wave Edgar off.

“It's for your own good,” Edgar said. “Trust me.”

He hesitated for a moment. He knew the man was a goner, knew he was doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery, but he still wasn't used to killing living people. It was part of why he'd chosen to be a pilot when he entered the service, instead of a foot soldier. He preferred that if he had to kill somebody he did it as far away from the target as possible. The look on the man’s face was like a dagger in Edgar's heart. He lowered the gun and the man stopped and panted, clutching his chest.

“Jesus, man,” he shouted. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

Just then a group of mutilated-looking TSA personal came from behind the ticketing counter. There were three of them, all in uniform, their faces contorted with sickness and hunger. Blood poured from their eyes and their skin looked bubbled from some kind of radiation poisoning. The man turned around and let out a high-pitched scream as they lunged for him with unnatural speed. The first TSA agent tore into his jugular while the second agent bit at his face. Soon they were all covered in the man's free flowing blood, slipping and falling down into a pile of screams and snarls. Edgar felt sick as he watched, powerless to do anything to help. The man's screams fell to a low whistle as they feasted on his steaming hot guts. They were on him like hunters on prey, devouring what they could in greedy bites. Edgar cursed himself for being so weak.

If you'd have done what you were supposed to do he wouldn't have had to suffer any more
, he thought.
Instead your cowardice and mercy have now made you a new enemy to fight off.

He turned back around and saw that there was a stalled BMW on the bridge blocking the rest of the cars. Holding up his shiny long barreled gun he charged toward it, moving quickly past a hotel shuttle and a series of blue vans by the curb. He felt pain in his hip as he ran, but he told his mind to ignore it. He couldn't afford anything else slowing him down now.

There was a black Jaguar smashed into the back of a white Honda Accord in his path. With a running start he jumped onto the hood and slide all the way across, just like the
Dukes of Hazard
. He landed on his feet clean on the other side.

“Always wanted to try that,” he said as he sauntered up to the BMW. It was still running. “Must be my lucky day.”

There was another kid in the passenger seat. Unable to unbuckle himself, the angry boy thrashed and growled as Edgar approached.

“What's with all these kids today?”

The boy snapped at him over and over. Edgar leveled the long barrel of the gun at the boy’s face and pulled the trigger. The kid's face imploded into a mess of stinking, decaying brain matter, drooling puss, and coagulated blood. He fell against the restraint and lay still. The gun kicked back hard, almost causing Edgar to drop it. He stared at it in wonder, his ears still ringing from the deafening sound of the shot going off. All around him he saw signs of movement. More of the creatures were stirring now, brought to life by the sound of the gun.

“Time to go,” he said, sliding into the BMW. He shut and locked the door, then put on his seat belt once more, just in case. He put the car in drive and headed over the short bridge toward his terminal. A woman in a long dress stumbled toward him; she had blonde flowing hair and the bloody face of a demon. He swerved around her easily in the M3.

“Sorry honey,” he said as she roared at him, “I've got a flight to catch.”

He punched it over the bridge and out onto the road, turning right into the narrow path where passengers generally said their tearful goodbyes while exchanging long hugs. A line of blood-smeared, empty cabs stood there now. The image of them sent a cold sensation through him, but he forced his mind to stay focused. He was so close now, but there was still work to do.

The BMW covered the remaining distance to the front of ticketing at Terminal 5 in under a minute. A former motorcycle cop stood near the plate glass windows. His eyes were solid black. He chewed mindlessly on his own arm which drooled a bubbly black gunk – like used motor oil – down the front of him.

“Fuck this shit,” Edgar laughed.

He turned the wheel hard at the last second and slammed the front of the M3 into the cop at full force. A look of surprise crossed the man's face as his body went through the airport glass, right along with the front of the car. Razor sharp shards of the window noisily rained down on the car for what felt like a small eternity. The cop squirmed but remained firmly pinned under the front of what remained of the luxury vehicle.

Edgar threw the door open and took off at a run for the escalators, glass crunching noisily under his feet. He held the gun high in his right hand. He was going to make it no matter what the cost. There was no other choice in his mind.

I've come too far to give up
, he thought.

At the security gates he saw another TSA agent, a big Mexican guy. His barrel chest had been pried open by a scrawny twenty-year-old skater punk who leaned over him and gnawed on his lifeless bones. He looked up and snarled as Edgar raced toward him. Edgar had time to see that the young man's nose was pierced in the middle, like a bull’s nose.

“Toro motherfucker,” Edgar screamed.

He pointed the gun straight at the monster as he ran toward him and squeezed the trigger. This time he was ready for the recoil and it didn't throw him off. The kid's head exploded as the bullet tore through it. Bits of brain matter and skull fragments flew in every direction. A fine mist of spoiled blood lingered momentarily in the air. Edgar gracefully leaped over his body like an Olympic runner jumping a hurdle. His gate was no more than a few minutes away now. All around him a sea of monsters stirred; former people who'd been transformed into demon hellspawn, hungry for living flesh and blood. They'd been packed against the windows, ramming their heads into the glass that looked out onto the runways. Over and over they banged their bodies fruitlessly into the invisible barrier, like stubborn flies stuck in a screen window on a hot summer’s day.

They turned toward him in unison, drawn by the sound of the gun blast. Edgar could feel himself slowing despite his will power to ignore his pain. It wasn't just his libido that had been affected by the ravages of time. He'd atrophied significantly since his time in the service as well, despite regular trips to the gym. He felt panic rising in him. He could feel it coming, feel himself blacking out, but he fought it with everything he had.

“Don't stop,” he shouted at himself, raising the gun at the zombie closest to him and obliterating it's face with one squeeze. He used the remaining bullets to clear his path, taking down three more attackers before getting tangled in the ropes at his gate. A man in a trucker hat and a shirt that said HUSTLER HOLLYWOOD caught his foot and began trying desperately to pull it into his wretched, open mouth. There were blisters all over his face. Edgar kicked at the man, popping one on his right cheek, which oozed slimy green discharge onto his chin, looking like he was wearing a goatee.

“Let go of me, you fuck!”

He used the butt end of the revolver to fight him off, feeling the bone give like he was cracking through a walnut shell. He rolled over and crawled onto the plane through the boarding ramp, shutting and locking the door behind him. He knew he should check the plane for more of them, but he didn't want to waste any more time. Quickly he scurried into the pilot's cabin and bolted himself in. He collapsed in his seat and tried to catch his breath. He'd done the impossible. He'd made it out in one piece.

*** *** ***

Edgar came to with a start as the instrumentation gave off a loud ding.

He'd been drifting off, lost in the ugly memories of the morning. The sound of gunfire strafing the side of the plane brought him hurriedly back to reality.

“What the fuck was that?”

But he knew exactly what it was, and more importantly why it was happening. It seemed impossible to imagine that there was anyone else alive, much less that they would want him dead, but it made sense in a sick kind of way the more he thought about it. Whoever was in control of the world now didn't want to take any chances of this infection getting out.

“Of all people I should have known,” he said, shaking his head. “I was in the military. I flew missions. I know exactly how this is gonna end, too. If only I could get one of them on the horn and let them know. Shit!”

A loud warning went off and he saw that he had lost one of his engines. A fighter jet sped past him at the same time the opposite side of the plane was peppered with bullets. It sounded like it hit right next to him. He ducked down and covered his head with his shaking hands, but he hadn’t been hit. The cabin pressure remained steady, but now he could see that his fuel was dropping. They'd hit his fuselage and his gas tank. They'd also taken out another engine. There was no way he was going to make it to Hawaii now. The best he could hope for was to either touch back down at LAX or attempt a soft landing in the Marina.

“No way I'm going back to the airport after what I had to do to get out,” Edgar said. “No way.”

It took some effort to get the plane turned back around and pointed toward land again. In that amount of time he saw he'd lost most of his fuel. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to make it back to the shore now. He gave the aircraft all he could, accelerating as hard as he could while the plane trembled and shuddered.

“I don't understand why you are doing this!”

But he knew even as he said it that it was a lie. He'd been in the service. He knew how they operated. It was perfectly clear what the plan was – wipe out all survivors and contain the threat. They couldn't afford to play it any other way. Even if he could get to them, even if he got a General on the phone and pleaded with him, there was no way of them knowing whether he was lying or not. Plus he could still be a carrier. It was as simple and terrible as that. They were going to obliterate everyone who had come in contact with the sickness, including him.

“So this is how it ends,” he said, a calmness coming over him at last. He noticed his hands weren't shaking anymore. The realization of his impending death had taken all the fear away. It was all over except for the final impact. It was a relief in some way, knowing that he wouldn't survive it. It meant he didn't have to kill any more of those demon creatures that used to be people. The plane would be torn to pieces by the force of it hitting the ground, and in all likelihood, he'd be shredded with it into something unrecognizable. The upside was that it would be over as quickly as it began. Plus there was no chance in hell that he was coming back as one of those mindless things.

“Thank God for small miracles,” he laughed, as his mind began to pour over the happier moments of his life.

The plane started to descend as it reached the shore. He no longer had the fuel or the desire to keep it up in the air. He saw what looked like people fighting in the streets of Venice, in between the buildings and out on the streets. It made him sad. He didn't want his last thoughts in life to be about all of this. He closed his eyes and turned his thoughts back to his wife, Theresa. He'd been so in love with her at first. In the beginning, he thought he'd never get her attention – that he'd never win her over – but somehow he had. He shut out the thoughts of all that had happened since then – everything that had gone wrong – and just pictured her as she was on their wedding day. She looked so bright and happy in her white dress standing next to her father, Clint. There was so much love, so much promise in their lives back then. It was the last thing he wanted to remember. He pictured himself lifting her veil one more time and kissing her.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest had said.

Edgar felt a stream of joyful tears leaking down his face at the tender memory, and he laughed ecstatically. He tucked his thumb into the palm of his left hand and felt for his wedding band. The smooth metal felt good as he turned it around in a circle.

“I love you baby,” he said, just as the plane smashed into the ground, tearing it in half. There was a loud rush of air…and then an even louder explosion…and then nothing at all.