Threnody (Book 1) (36 page)

Epilogue

October 2, 2015

Stomach roiling and sweat beading on her tense forehead, Dr. Lin San sat with white-knuckled grips on the armrests of the Embraer KC-390 as it passed over the coastline of the continental U.S.  Though the turbulent air that mercilessly assaulted the massive plane for the last couple of hours of the nine-hour flight had abated, Lin’s body still quaked with its nauseating memory.  Reluctantly, she gazed out the window at the night sky, but was unable to discern any details of the land passing far below the clouds. 
I wonder what conditions are like on the ground?  Surely it can’t be that bad or it would have been all over the news.
To Lin, the worst part was simply not knowing what to expect. Apprehensively, she diverted her attention back to perusing the data given to her by General Montes.

Meanwhile, the two-man crew of the KC-390 worked diligently on the business of flying the plane to its intended destination— Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, GA.  Their orders were to transport the personnel directly from Brazil, with a single in-flight refueling along the way.  Though a military transport would not typically utilize a civilian airport, they were granted special clearance to do so, given the nature of the situation and the airport’s proximity to the CDC labs.  A U.S. military detachment was scheduled to meet them upon landing to ensure the safe ground transportation of the personnel to the CDC facilities.

As they came to within fifty miles of the airport, the copilot thumbed the radio switch, and said, “Atlanta center, Brazil National KC-390, fifty miles south, inbound for approach to ATL.”

After waiting several minutes and receiving no acknowledgement from the air traffic control center, the copilot again called, “Atlanta center, Brazil National KC-390, approximately forty miles south, inbound for approach to ATL.  Do you copy?”

Both the pilot and copilot stared at the radio with growing concern at not having confirmation that the ARTCC associated with the busiest airport in the world had them on radar.  With notable fear in his voice, the pilot said, “Why the hell isn’t Atlanta center responding?  Given the number of aircraft in the airspace over Atlanta at any one moment we’ll be lucky if we avoid an in-air collision!” 

The pilot’s comments only served to further unnerve the copilot, generally ratcheting up the level of tension relentlessly nudging its way into the cramped confines of the cockpit.  As they flew closer and closer to Atlanta International, they began their slow descent while still desperately awaiting a reply from Atlanta center, or anyone on the ground, for that matter.  Dropping below 14,000 feet, the copilot dialed the frequency for Atlanta control, the terminal radar approach control facility in charge of the immediate airspace around Atlanta International.

“Atlanta approach, Brazil National KC-390, twenty-five miles south, inbound to ATL, no contact with Atlanta control—I repeat—no contact with Atlanta control.”  Though they slowed the big plane considerably, they knew they would be over the airport in less than five minutes.  While they anxiously awaited a reply from approach control, the two men nervously began their preparations for an unauthorized landing.

As they continued their descent, the copilot took in a sudden, sharp inhalation that reverberated painfully through the pilot’s headset.  “Damn it!  What the hell was that about…” the pilot roared.  Dauntless of his anger, his words crumbled as he peered out the window in the direction of the copilot’s gaze.  The impossibility of what he saw left him utterly speechless.  Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport was burning.

The main terminal building, once home to more than 200,000 passengers per day, was engulfed by a blazing inferno indubitably ignited by the smoldering wreckage of the Boeing 737 that had its nose half buried in the side of the building.  All five runways were enveloped by a gridlocked tangle of aircraft of all sizes.  The only runway not obstructed by a large commercial airliner was rendered just as useless by a small, single engine Cirrus inexplicably parked at an angle on the middle of the tarmac.  While many of the aircraft appeared intact, the copilot could see at least one ground collision that left two runways blocked. 

Just north of the airport another conflagration raged, presumably the site of one or more downed aircraft from the looks of the surrounding devastation.  Given that the airport is the busiest in the world it came as no surprise that it was quickly consumed by pandemonium as soon as Atlanta center and approach control went offline.  Realizing that landing at Atlanta International was not an option, the pilot instructed the copilot to scour the maps for an alternative airport while he tried unsuccessfully to raise anyone on the radio. 
What is going on here?  Where the hell is everyone?

“I found it!” exclaimed the copilot as he pointed to the map.  “Dobbins ARB is just twenty miles north of Atlanta and has a runway large enough to accommodate the KC-390.  I only hope we can get someone on the radio before we violate the restricted airspace over the base.”

Nodding his head in approval, the pilot keyed the speakers in the plane’s cabin and informed the passengers of the situation on the ground, as well as their intention to divert to Dobbins ARB.  Even from within the insulated cockpit, he could hear the sudden increase in volume as the passengers reacted to the direful announcement.

As the lights of Dobbins ARB came into view, the copilot breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the primary runway appeared unobstructed and usable.  Having been unable to contact anyone at Dobbins, the pilot also let out a slow exhalation when he saw no fighter jets being scrambled to intercept the large jet currently inbound on an unauthorized trajectory through the military installation’s restricted airspace.

Overall the base appeared relatively inactive, though neither the pilot nor the copilot knew anything about the base’s current level of operations.  Intent on landing the big bird, neither man took notice of the large group of seemingly agitated people amassed around the main hangar and barracks complex.  The group, on the other hand, definitely took notice of them as they began their final approach to the base.

Safely on the ground, the pilot and copilot congratulated one another on a successful, albeit unorthodox landing, as the majority of the roughly forty people on board the KC-390 prepared to disembark. Though the jet also carried a variety of sophisticated military and scientific equipment, including some of the most modern and devastating firepower in Brazil’s arsenal, most of it remained stowed as the occupants of the jet hurriedly moved to get their feet on solid ground after the long, nerve-racking flight. No sooner than the big jet had taxied to a stop on the tarmac adjacent to runway 11/29, the hydraulics hissed as they slowly lowered the twenty-foot rear cargo ramp.  The nearly thirty Brazilian soldiers eagerly waiting for the ramp to fully open caught a glimpse of several U.S. soldiers and personnel anxiously anticipating their arrival; many more could be seen in the distance moving in an irregular clump toward the steadily opening mouth of the plane.

Just as the door completely settled down on the tarmac, one of the soldiers turned to his comrade, and said, “Do you see that guy on the end?  Something isn’t right with him.  It looks like the front of his flight suit is covered in blood.”  The screaming began before the other man had time to respond.

Everything happened before General Montes, who was seated at the front of the plane with his security personnel and a small contingent from the Brazilian Special Operations Brigade, could intervene.

Dr. Lin San sat nearby watching with concern as the surly General reacted to the tumult unfolding at the rear of the jet.  Several volleys of small arms fire erupted somewhere behind her, causing her to flinch involuntarily with each sharp report.

Despite being caught completely off guard by the attacks of the would-be welcoming committee, several of the well-trained Brazilian soldiers were able to fend off the infected attackers, and retreated into the cargo hold.  For those men, the close quarters hand-to-hand combat resulted in only superficial wounds, including bites, bruises, and scratches—minor injuries to which the otherwise hardened Brazilian soldiers did not give much consideration.

Standing horrorstruck with mouth agape in the safety of the cockpit, the pilot watched as the inexplicable tableaux played out at the rear of the plane.  Turning to the digital display on the flight console, he called up the video feeds from the cameras set to provide external monitoring of the entire perimeter of the fifty million dollar jet.  With frightening clarity, he saw what was happening and sensed what the attackers truly were, or at least what they were not.  His ashen face was devoid of all color as he turned to the copilot, and said, “We need to get the hell out of here, now!  Those things assaulting the plane, they’re…monsters!” 

Despite the uncertainty surrounding the last word out of the pilot’s mouth, the unbridled fear it contained was more than enough to spur the copilot into action.  Panic-stricken, the two men hurriedly fired up the jet turbines, and began readying the plane for immediate departure.  After engaging the rear cargo door control, the copilot watched with wide-eyed terror as the unyielding force of the hydraulics pulled the massive door closed with the speed of a three-legged turtle on Xanax, crushing one rev completely, and pinching another in half as it finally closed.  The external camera feed displayed the thing’s motionless legs dangling lifelessly from the rear of the plane like some demented Halloween decoration.  What he saw on the internal camera feed, however, was far worse.  The upper half of the rev’s body tobogganed down the inclined ramp of the cargo door as if it was on some ghastly slip-and-slide at a mid-summer family reunion in Hell.  A putrescent crimson slug trail snaked along in its wake until it slammed onto the flat surface of the cargo hold, with a moist, gelatinous thud like a water balloon refusing to burst after smacking the pavement. Without registering the impact, the half-thing fervently pulled itself toward the few remaining healthy souls on board the doomed transport.

“Corporal Rocha, take two men to the rear of the plane and assess the situation there.  The rest of you form up around Dr. San.  We’re getting off this bird,” said General Montes as he fixed his resolute gaze on Lin, who stood slack-jawed and frozen in shocked terror.  Upon hearing the engines ignite, General Montes stormed off toward the cockpit, cursing as he went.  “What in the hell are you two doing?” shouted the General as he glared at the two men busily turning knobs and flipping switches as they completed their pre-flight checklist.

“Sir, we have to get out of here!  It’s not safe!  No one is safe!” exclaimed the pilot.  General Montes calmly and deliberately drew his sidearm, and pointed it directly at the pilot’s head.  “We are not going anywhere.  We have a mission, and we will complete it or die trying.  Is that clear?” asked the General.

Hearing the commotion of Corporal Rocha returning, General Montes momentarily shifted his gaze to peer over his shoulder.  In that instant the copilot saw his opening and lunged at the General, simultaneously pushing him out of the doorway and slamming it shut.  As the bulletproof door could only be opened from the inside, the General knew there was nothing he could do to stop the crew.

Out of breath and trembling with fear, Corporal Rocha gave General Montes his troubling report.  “Sir, it’s bad.  There are only a few men left inside the cargo hold. The rest were taken down outside or are still out there fighting.  Those still on board have only minor injuries, mostly bites and the like, nothing life threatening.  They indicated that the U.S. soldiers outside the plane immediately swarmed and attacked with tooth and nail, like feral animals.  Not a single one fired a weapon despite many still possessing their rifles and sidearms.  One of them was severed at the waist when the rear cargo door closed and it continued to pull itself forward with its arms like some maniac junked up on PCP!” exclaimed the Corporal.  “When my men moved in to investigate, the thing attacked them biting and clawing before I put a single bullet in its head.  Sir, I don’t know what is going on here, but it’s bad out there.”

Upon hearing the corporal’s report, the General visibly stiffened.  Fixing the larger man with an intense, cold stare, the General said, “Corporal, get that side door open.  It’s time to get off this plane.”

Confused, Corporal Rocha began to protest, “But what about the men in the back of the plane?”

With a fierce determination, the General spoke again as the plane began to taxi toward the departure end of the runway.  “Corporal, I don’t have time to explain now.  Those men back there are already dead.  You have to trust me!  Get that damn door open now!  That is a direct order, do you understand me?”

In less than a minute the side door was open, and the small band of soldiers—Dr. Lin San among them—was dropping to the tarmac.  They took cover as the colossal plane passed by, the whine of the powerful jet turbines intensifying as it gained speed.  On the runway approximately one hundred yards ahead of the plane stood a lone shambling figure moving directly toward the plane, as if engaged in a woefully mismatched game of chicken.  Partly out of fear that an impact with the staggering figure might interfere with takeoff, and partly out of reflex at seeing someone in the path of the plane, the pilot swerved slightly to avoid running the man down directly; inexplicably the man showed no sign of deviating from his current suicidal trajectory.  Just as the jet was about to reach its rotation speed, two things happened sealing the fate of the doomed KC-390, and further validating the age-old adage about every action having an equal and opposite reaction.