The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle (18 page)

“I did not know that,” Captain Morgan replied patiently.
Daniel’s mouth dropped. How could this guy be so calm right now? No sense, no
feeling, he thought. Bloody jocks.

Afraid that any missile fired at his own wingman might lock
onto the A380, Captain Lewis closed in, his trajectory perfect for a strafing
run. He opened fire and, with less than a mile distant from Alpha two’s target,
the hot, orange stream of projectiles chewed into its wings and across the
fuselage. With a shock that was felt on the airliner, the small fighter
exploded, the slugs from Captain Lewis’ nose mounted Gatling cannon cooking off
at least one of the missiles under the stricken bird’s wing.

Then tragedy struck. Most of Alpha two’s canopy remained
intact through the explosion. It flicked up and over the wreckage and its
trajectory coincided with Lewis’ flight path. It struck the nose of the jet and
as it shattered, the thick Perspex was sucked into the air intake. Black smoke
belched from the tail pipes as the Perspex melted and burned. The engines
flamed out, never to restart.

“Well, guys, looks like you’re on your own,” came Lewis’
calm voice. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t been able to raise the AWAC plane
since I began to engage Billy, so my guess is they have their own problems
right now. Good luck with your trip. Land safely. I’ve got to glide this old girl
as close to the coast I can get, and see what happens. God be with you.” With
that he broke communications, not wanting things to get maudlin. He’d just shot
down a man he’d flown with for the last ten years; the pilot didn’t want
anyone’s sympathy, even if it was from someone who knew what it was about.
Anyway, there were more things to keep him occupied right now; he knew there
was no-one underneath to offer him a ride once he hit the sea.

The manager for Denver’s international airport was in his
office, when he heard the noise. He was nursing a lousy cold that had come on
that very morning; it made his head ache, and he had to blow his nose every
couple of minutes, which was really pissing him off. In spite of his blocked
nose and popping ears, the sound was one even he couldn’t miss. It was a low
frequency crump, it shook the glass doors to the awards cabinet strategically
placed opposite his desk. His blood froze, that sound was unmistakable. He had
served in Afghanistan years ago, in logistics admittedly; even so, any front
line participant understood the sounds of violence, and that was the sound of a
fuel-laden explosion. As his window rattled, he looked up.

His office, on the top floor of the south east corner of the
main terminal building, overlooked the sweep of flatness that was Runway 35R,
the desert behind it stretching away into infinity. The air was cold and crisp,
the sky cloudless. Approximately half a mile from the threshold of the runway,
a plume of smoke and fiery orange flowers rose into the early morning sky.

“Oh, dear God,” he muttered.

He picked up the phone and placed a speed-dialled call to
his chief of emergency services, Terry McGuire.

“Hi Terry, Arnie Martinez here, I think there’s just been a
crash off airport, south of three five right.”

There was a pause, before he heard a klaxon sound,
unnaturally loud, partly through the phone’s receiver, partly through the glass
of his office windows.

“Yep, already got it. Thanks, Arnie.
Gotta
go.” The connection was cut, and he could see half a dozen fire trucks and
tenders rushing to the site. He put a call into the tower.

“Tower here,” the voice spoke, clearly irritated at the
interruption.

“ Arnie Martinez here, what’s going on?”

“A 727 on final just went down approximately half a mile
short of the runway.”

“What was the problem?” Martinez asked, exasperated at the
lack of information sharing.

“The pilot was erratic, there seemed to be arguing on the
flight deck. Before they went in, we heard a scream. That’s it.”

“Thanks. I’m coming up,” he said tersely, before hanging up.
At least it seemed the airport was not going to be liable for this, he thought,
racing for the office door, grabbing his mobile, and a portable radio that had
been charging on his desk.

Running out onto the main concourse, he found that the
loitering passengers were strangely immovable, not responding to his calls to
‘make a hole’. It was as if they were in a trance. Looking more closely, he
noticed most looked pale, stricken with something. Perhaps the news of the
accident had reached them; either that, or they had his stinking cold. If
they’d heard of the crash, he would have expected pandemonium, not this freaky,
and rather unnerving somnolence. The main terminal hall was disturbingly quiet.

He entered the shuttle train waiting area, just as a train
was pulling in. The doors hissed open and he worked his way into a carriage.
No-one seemed to want to get on or off; not that he cared, there were more
important things on his plate right now. The journey between the three stops
seemed to take forever. It appeared a fight was breaking out at the penultimate
stop, for terminal B. Security personnel were struggling with two men, one had
blood down his front. Jeez, at this hour? What was it with people, he wondered.
That was the problem with this new world of cheap flights, they let anyone in.
Bring back the good
ol
’ days when you had to have
money to travel; in those days a better class of traveller abounded.

Finally, the last stop brought the train to an automated
halt. Rushing out, he made his way to the staff only elevator doors and
inserted a key that brought the lift to his floor. He tapped his foot as the
mirrored and fluorescent-tube lit box took him to the top, to the control
tower.

The doors opened to a scene of managed chaos: people with
headsets staring at screens, others rushing around with bits of paper, shouted
instructions, and the burble of controllers talking to pilots, handing them on
and off to other sectors. All looked normal, up until he saw Terry’s face.

“What’s up?” he asked his emergency guy, fearing the reply.

“We’ve sent teams out to the accident.” He pulled his boss
to one side, away from the general hubbub. “It wasn’t an accident, I don’t
think.”

“What do ya mean?” Arnie asked, a chill running down his
spine and wishing it was April 1st. He blew his nose with a noise that made
Terry feel sick. He ignored it, and gave his report.

“Well, it started with an argument on the flight deck,
someone seemed to get angry. Then there was a struggle, you could see the
erratic flight of the plane, it dove and then climbed once again. The problem
seemed to be resolved; then there was a scream, we heard female voices. The
pilots were both male on this flight, so someone else had entered the cockpit.
Then it…” using his hand, miming the last part of the flight into the ground.
Arnie shuddered when Terry’s hands slapped together.

“Any other problems?” he asked, hoping the answer would be
no.

“There appear to be two other aircraft in trouble. One seems
to have been resolved without further incident, we’re just watching the other
one right now.” They walked over to a controller’s screen. They saw a plane,
highlighted in red, flashing its way from the south towards runway 34L on the
west side of the airport. Behind it an orange line recorded its path; it had
drawn an almost child-like scribble across the screen. It was clear that
whoever was flying, or trying to, was having a problem or two. In less than a
minute, they would see if this person could actually land the thing, without it
ending up like the 727. Arnie realised he was holding his breath, and let it
out with a quiet hiss. All those watching this screen were silent, except for
the controller, who was issuing directional instructions to the pilot.

“Is the person flying the plane actually a pilot?” Arnie
asked no-one in particular. Another controller heard the question.

“He’s a PPL, with time on light aircraft. He’s all they’ve
got.”

“Jesus. Really?”

“Yes.”

They continued to watch in silence as the poor bastard
struggled to maintain control. They could see him out of their window now,
landing lights bright and clear, as he approached the runway. Considering his
experience, the stand-in pilot was doing pretty well. The speed and attitude at
which the plane hit the ground was the only thing that would count now. He was
one hundred and fifty feet from touchdown, undercarriage down and locked.
Looked okay so far.

“
Agh
!” the guiding controller
threw off his headphones suddenly, and rubbed his ears.

“What in the name of all that’s holy is going on?” Arnie
shouted, admonishing the controller.

“He screamed in my ears,” was all the man said. They looked
out the window again and saw the plane, a twin engine Embraer airliner suddenly
veer to its right, aiming directly at the Concourse A building. It was flying
on its side, as if in a steep turn, when the lower wingtip contacted the
ground. It spun end over end like a cartwheel, the engines flying off like
missiles in random directions. Flames and smoke erupted from the dying plane as
it finished its cartwheel, crashing into a cargo plane taxiing towards the same
runway’s threshold. The two planes enmeshed, and the resulting fire and
explosion of full fuel tanks shook the windows in the tower. At the same time
the fireball blew out the larger panes of glass in the nearby concourse
building. As the blast entered the newly-exposed terminal building, they could
see people being blown around like skittles, piled up in heaps of writhing and
unmoving bodies.

“Oh, Jesus,” Arnie muttered; around him cries of horror
erupted, most cringing as the needle-tower they perched in rocked with the
force of the blast. Gradually silence took over, everyone too stunned to talk.
In the distance, out towards Denver itself, they saw another two explosions,
and smoke columns rising.

“Is this a terrorist attack?” Arnie asked as he grabbed
Terry’s collar.

“I don’t fucking know!” he shouted back, wrenching the
terrified manager’s hand from his clothing. Terry stormed over to his office,
and picked up his radio. “Echo Romeo zero-one here, I need managers to report
in. NOW!” Slowly his people called in, delivering the bad news. It appeared
that some sort of mass hysteria was affecting most of the passengers in the terminals.
A few of the reports came in more garbled than others, succeeding only in
raising more questions than answers.

“Well?” Arnie had composed himself once more, and walked
into Terry’s office for an update.

“It seems there’s a hysteria spreading through the terminal,
probably as a result of the crashes. I’ll know more soon.”

The radio crackled as another report came in. The sound
quality was poor, all they heard was something about bites, and what appeared
to be screams in the background.

“Damn it, can’t your guys keep a lid on this? What are they
doing?”

“Their goddam jobs. With all due respect, will you shut it,
until I can get more information in?” Terry was a professional, but there was
something about people covering their own arses that made him snap. Arnie often
affected him like that.

Arnie went quiet, and stood there glowering and sniffing as
more reports came in. None made much more sense, but almost all carried the
words ‘bite’ and ‘mad’.

“I’m going downstairs to see what’s going on. It’s useless
staying up here.” Terry said, realising an on-site appraisal would be
necessary. His secondary fire and medical crews were making their way to the
new crash site; he’d also heard a senior officer put out a call to the Denver
Fire Department for back up personnel and ambulances. He needed to find out
what was going on in the termini.

“I’ll come with you.” You would, Terry thought. Arnie wasn’t
going to be easy to shake off at this point.

They travelled down in the elevator, and when the doors
opened at the bottom, chaos reigned. It appeared groups of people were chasing
and fighting each other; people lay on the floor screaming, bloody pools and
footprints were everywhere. A few of their security people could be seen using
their batons, laying into individuals as if they were fighting for their own
lives.

“Fuck, this is a lawsuit waiting to happen, isn’t it?” Arnie
observed. Terry just glanced sideways, and resisted the urge to borrow one of
his men’s batons. What he wanted to do right now could potentially be seen as
self-defence.

The elevator doors opening attracted the attention of a
group a few yards away, kneeling around a fallen woman. As they looked up,
Terry’s jaw dropped. Their faces were blood covered, flesh hanging from their
teeth, looking like a pride of lions disturbed while feeding on their kill. The
woman’s abdomen was torn open; she seemed to be still alive, her head was
turning from side to side, her mouth voicing silent words.

Terry put his hand to his gun, just in case. The small
movement disturbed the human pride; as one they got up and ran hungrily towards
the pair. Drawing his gun, he took aim at the lead person, a man in a business
suit, his tie slick with gore. The crazed, opaque eyes were enough for Terry.
He pulled the trigger and a hole appeared in the man’s chest. It didn’t break
his stride. The second shot went high, and caught him in the throat, splashing
blood on the nearest of the pack. This fresh, flowing blood bath diverted their
attention, and they went about tearing the suited man to pieces, right in front
of the disbelievers in the elevator. The doors pinged, and began to close.
Terry let them.

Once closed, they were hoisted upwards; it only served two
levels. The silence in the lift made them wonder if they had just seen the
carnage, or whether it was a nightmare. The presence of the pistol in Terry’s
hand was the only evidence they had, that they hadn’t just been hallucinating.
The doors opened out onto the control area once more, where, much to their
relief, all looked more normal. At least no-one was eating anybody.

Terry went over to the two security officers, whose post was
in the tower.

“Make sure no-one goes either down or up in the elevator.
Lock the fire escape doors, let no-one in or out.” The two looked surprised at
the order.

“Isn’t it illegal to lock those doors, sir?” one asked.

“Yes, but it appears we might just be under siege. I’ll tell
you more when I know more.” The two nodded, and went to carry out their orders.

The senior controller noticed the activity; she was good at
her job because she was observant.

“What’s going on?” she asked Terry, following him into his
office.

“I’d love to tell you, but I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Are we under attack?”

“Again, no idea. Something’s happening, for sure. The
terminal concourses seem to be under some sort of attack, but it’s more like
rioting. I don’t think it’s terrorists, but I’m about to call out the National
Guard under emergency powers.”

Her faced paled at the news. She had the horrible feeling
that what was going on outside was going to be as life changing as 9/11; she’d
heard rumours about other areas back east. She nodded, and left his office. Her
first port of call was to phone her husband.

Terry picked up his own phone, and made the call he never
dreamed he would ever have to make.

“Put me through to General Howard, code red,” was all he
needed to say, his caller ID would have identified the origin of the call. The
call went through almost immediately.

“General Howard speaking.”

“Hello General. Terry McGuire, Chief of Emergency Services
here. Denver International Airport is under attack; we’ve had several planes
come down, each one seems to have been the result of some form of assault in
the cockpit. All of our termini are being overwhelmed by something we cannot
control. The perpetrators seem to be the passengers. They appear to be feasting
on each other…”