When the Dead Rise (Book 1): The Beginning (21 page)

By the time she made it down to the trailer, the fuel gauge was dangerously low but there weren't many zombies left stumbling around. "I hope you've figured it out because I'm outside, and we're low on fuel," Aisha snapped into the radio.

The door cracked open and Jenkins head popped out, glancing around the area, assessing for threats. Upon deciding it was clear, he nodded and exited with Rudy close behind; Kev wasn't with them. The two men didn't look at one another as they clambered up the side of the roller and squished themselves into the cab beside her. Jenkins cheek was swollen and red, Aisha noticed, and Rudy wore an expression of resigned defeat.

"Where is Kev?" she barked, not wanting to move forward until someone explained.

Rudy glared at Jenkins who sighed and shook his head. "He'd gone into shock."

"What did you do?" she almost lunged out of her seat at the sergeant.

"He shot him in the head," Rudy said flatly, not moving to help Jenkins.

Holding up his hands in an attempt to fend her off, Jenkins tried to explain, "His pulse was too fast and too weak, his skin was moist and clammy, he'd been unconscious for over two hours and his lips were turning blue. He wasn't going to get the immediate medical help he needed, and if we tried to move him, it would have caused his heart to fail."

"I should make you get out," Aisha hissed.

"I punched him for even making the suggestion, but he was right Aisha." Rudy looked out the window, focusing on something far away. "I doubt Kev would have survived the trip. It was the merciful thing to do."

"I thought you were out of bullets." She turned on Jenkins again.

"You always save one for yourself." Jenkins didn't look her in the eye when he spoke. "We'd better get to the south side of the bridge if we're going." He nodded towards the rubble of the collapsed bridge; zombies were already crawling out of the wreckage and advancing on the survivors.

"You'd better hope two of the trucks work because you sure as hell aren't coming with me." Shifting the roller into drive one last time, Aisha drove away from the remnants of the battle they'd fought... and lost.

Volume 9: Final Layover

Gate A26...

Pharmaceutical sales rep Stewart Witt hated layovers, but as a man who traveled for his job, he often found himself stuck in airports. While traveling from Chicago to Miami, he disembarked at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, thankful that he had a relatively short, hour and a half layover.

Throughout his travels, he'd become accustomed to airport security practices but upon disembarking in Dallas, he recognized the signs of heightened security protocols. Men in uniform walked amongst the travelers, watching the passengers with wary expressions. Security, with a fleet of dogs, weren't allowing anyone to enter the city, guarding the doors that led out of the secure area and into the main terminal. A voice, repeating the same message every five minutes, droned over the loudspeakers.

"Due to the civil unrest growing in the southern end of Dallas, no passengers will be allowed to leave the airport premises. For those passengers who are on a layover, we ask that you please wait patiently at your gate; all other passengers must speak with their airline to make alternate arrangements. All inbound flights are currently being diverted to Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City until this matter is resolved. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause."

Every television in the airport was tuned to the news. Blaming the rioting in Austin and Houston on several major oil spills, the reporters repeatedly urged those with family or friends out of state, to leave the area until the matter could be resolved. That if people were unable to stay with family, they should travel north to Stillwater Oklahoma where FEMA had set up a relief camp. Video footage taken from a helicopter showed swarms of people fighting amongst one another in Dallas' streets, but there was little else in the reports detailing the spills and the nature of the riots. Texas' governor gave a speech about people needing to work together throughout the crisis and assist others in need wherever possible. Stewart regretted his choice of layover locations.

In the airport, large groups of angry people crowded around the ticket desks, shouting about the injustice of not being allowed into the city while a steady stream of panicked people flowed in from the check-in area. Fear, irritation, and anger were the most prevalent emotions amongst the travelers and Stewart was thankful he didn't have long to wait. Knowing he didn't have time for his usual routine, he settled into a seat by his gate and pulled a journal out of his carry-on. The chaos around him fed his imagination.

Throughout his travels, Stewart had grown accustomed to waiting for his connecting flight, and over the years, he'd learned a few tricks to pass the time. It was his routine, after disembarking, to find a restaurant nearest to his connecting flight, sit at a table overlooking the crowds, and order a sandwich with a beer. While waiting for his food, he'd review his next stop - what doctors he was visiting and which drugs he would promote. After his food came, he'd turn his attention to the crowded walkways and filled seats, waiting for someone to catch his attention. Upon finding an individual who interested him, Stewart would then make up a story about who they were, where they were going, and why.

For example, if Stewart saw a harried mother totting two screaming children, he'd come up with a story like: the woman is on the run after kidnapping her children from their father. He was a high-level mobster who gave them whatever they asked for, but his position within the mob meant they could easily become targets to rival groups. She's taking them away to protect them, but they fight against her - they want to go back, not understanding the dangers. The woman, however, knows that if she returns she'll be the one to pay, and probably with her life. Disappearing is her only remaining option.

As he sat and watched people interact, Stewart scribbled down notes in his journal; the appearance of the people involved, the motivation of his characters, the fictional events which lead up to their being in the airport, and the outcome of their imagined situations. While he'd always dreamt of becoming a writer and was very good with character building, his attempts always fell short when it came to putting fingers to keys. He lacked the skills to develop his ideas into a full-length manuscript. Instead, he contented himself with filling the journal with his observations and imaginings.

Watching the group of impatient and haggard people waiting for the flight to Miami, Stewart's mind began to fill with stories; one man in particular caught his attention. Sitting in the corner alone, he cast paranoid glances at those passing him by; flinching away from anyone who came too close. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, emphasising his sickly pallor and his body shook with chills. The man seemed to be suffering from the flu given his quiet coughing and heavy breathing, but he also favored his left side, puzzling Stewart with the strange combination of symptoms. The man looked up and noticed Stewart watching him; he flipped Stewart off. Quickly averting his eyes, Stewart's face heated with embarrassment that he'd been caught staring. Letting his gaze drift over the growing crowd around the gate, he made notes about the panicked state of the people, all the while wondering about the cause of the civil unrest in the area. When a man sat down next to him with a weary sigh, Stewart set down his journal and struck up a conversation, determined to find out what was really going on in the city.

"Are you from this area?" Stewart asked; the man nodded his reply. "What's happening out there?"

"People are attacking one another," the man said with a shaky voice. Stewart frowned, not understanding what the man meant; he just shrugged and went on, "I live in Arlington and this morning I woke up to my neighbour screaming bloody murder. When I looked out the window, I saw people wandering in the street. They seemed confused - taking a few steps in one direction before turning and stumbling in another. Some were banging on doors and windows and whenever a car drove down the road, they all swarmed after it making these hideous moaning noises." The man shuddered as if the moans still echoed in his head.

"So are you going on a trip or did you just decide to up and leave because of what's happening?" Stewart nodded to the carry-on sitting at the man's feet. Given his rumpled appearance, it seemed that he'd grabbed whatever clothes had been lying around and threw them on before rushing out of the house. From his left came a loud, rattling cough, but the man went on with his tale and Stewart dismissed it.

"I was supposed to work today, but as I was getting out of the shower I saw a group of people break through the patio door of the house behind mine. I'm friends with the family who lives there so I called to warn them but didn't get an answer. I heard three gunshots and then I thought I heard screaming, but by that point, I knew I had to get far, far away." The man chewed on his nail and Stewart noticed that he'd chewed them down to the quick; they looked painful. "Lately we've been seeing all sorts of reports on the television about rioting in San Antonio, Austin, and the surrounding area. That every time the rioting spreads, the army arrives and starts moving people to that camp in Oklahoma. I didn't want to end up in some camp, so I packed my bag and called to reserve a seat - I didn't care where just so long as I was out of Texas. They had a few seats left on the flight to Miami and I figured that while anywhere would be better than here, the beach would be a nice bonus."

"Did you talk to any of your neighbours when you left?" Stewart's curiosity was piqued. He hadn't really paid attention to the news lately, but he'd at least heard of the rioting spreading through Texas.

There was another fit of coughing and Stewart couldn't help but look over at the man he'd noticed earlier; he looked even more ill than before if that was at all possible. People walking by gave the man a wide berth and those who'd been sitting in his section earlier, had now found seats elsewhere. How could the airline allow someone so obviously sick onto a crowded plane where the contagion could easily spread and infect the other passengers?

"...seemed to be chewing on something." The man was saying when Stewart returned his attention to him; he thought for a moment, trying to remember the context. He was about to ask the man to repeat what he'd just said, but the man continued, not noticing the lapse in Stewart's attention. "I called to her but she didn't respond and then someone slammed into the passenger side of my car," the man's face had gone pale as he spoke and his clasped hands began to shake. "It was the teenager who mowed my lawn. He was covered in blood - like he'd bathed in it or something - and his eyes weren't right either." He leaned in close and Stewart bent forward to hear his hushed words. "I don't think it's rioting over oil spills, happening out there. I think that something is making people sick and causing them act this way; that's why they're telling people to leave the area and only drink bottled water until they're out of state."

Leaning back in his chair, Stewart contemplated everything he'd been told. As a pharmaceutical rep, he knew a little about communicable diseases but not enough to determine what was plaguing the Texan population. He'd have to ask one of the doctors at his home office once he'd returned. After jotting down a few notes in his journal, he turned back to the man and said, "I have to use the facilities. Would you hold my seat for me?"

While Stewart washed his hands, the sick man from his gate stumbled into the bathroom gasping for breath; he dashed into a stall and promptly vomited. The sickly-sweet scent of bile permeated the men's room, but beneath it, Stewart noticed something else - something close to putrefaction. Not wanting to linger in the bathroom, Stewart finished washing his hands, wiping them on the trousers of his eight hundred dollar suit. Not only would drying would take too long but the odours were also growing more intense with each passing minute; he couldn't stomach another second in the small room and his pants could always be cleaned.

Hurrying out of the men's room, Stewart made his way to the gate's desk. The attendant acknowledged him with a nod and he stepped up, ready to demand a seat change if the sickly man proved to be near him on the flight. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, he changed his mind on how he'd approach the situation - the poor woman standing behind the desk looked as if she'd pulled a double shift. She appeared fatigued with dark circles beneath her eyes.

"How may I assist you sir?" she said, trying to smile; it appeared more like a grimace to Stewart.

"There is a very sick gentleman in the bathroom." He chose his words carefully, knowing he'd fare far better if he didn't immediately get the woman's defenses up. "I noticed him sitting over there," he pointed to the area he'd seen the man in earlier, "and was wondering if I could possibly change my seat to the front of the plane. I'd like to put as much distance as possible between us."

The attendant's smile faltered, but she held out her hand for his boarding pass. She typed for a moment before looking up from her monitor. "I'm sorry sir, but you are already booked for seat B5 in business class; we don't have any seats available closer to the cockpit. The flight is almost fully booked and I'm unable to determine where the man you are speaking of is sitting without his boarding pass."

"How are you even allowing him onto a plane full of healthy people?" Stewart demanded, his pleasant demeanor slipping into irritation. "Do you not understand how his germs will spread in such close quarters? What if he's in first-class? Will I be able to move my seat to economy once we board?"

"Sir," the attendant's shoulders slumped as she looked up at Stewart with a weary expression, "due to the rioting, we have an increase in requests for flights out of the area. Your flight is almost entirely booked and I'm anticipating that it will be fully booked by takeoff. We are trying to accommodate all of our passengers, including flying in several more empty planes. I can put you on another flight to Miami if you'd like, but it won't be departing for another two and a half hours."

Stewart bristled, "I have an important client meeting I cannot be late for. Why can't you move the sick man to that flight instead?" Although he hadn't meant to, he realized he was shouting at the poor woman.

"Sir," she said again, this time with exasperation, "I cannot request that he remain behind and wait for the next flight when there is room for him on the one he's currently booked on. I'm sorry sir, but there isn't anything I can do."

"If I come down with whatever he has, I'm suing this airline," Stewart growled, snatching his boarding pass from the attendant and marching back to his seat in a huff.

Flopping into the chair, Stewart realized he wouldn't be making his dinner appointment. Upon arriving in Miami, he'd have to stop at his hotel and shower before meeting with his client; otherwise, he'd spend the evening feeling contaminated. Typing furiously on his smartphone, he sent a message to the doctor, asking to move their appointment to an early breakfast instead. Slipping his phone back into his carryon, Stewart eyed the man who'd saved him his seat. He wanted to write down all he'd told him but instead Stewart asked, "What's your name?"

"Peter Ferris," he replied, extending his hand to Stewart.

"Stewart Witt," Stewart said in turn and shook Peter's hand. "What seat are you in?" he asked, watching the bathroom door as it swung open and the sickly man stumbled back to his seat, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Umm," Peter looked at his boarding pass before saying, "seat D11. Why?"

"Because, they won't move that man to another flight." Stewart nodded towards the man who'd once again begun to clear out the seats around him with his coughing.