Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die Page 24

  He didn’t give her time to complain, instead turning to the trailer. With sure movements, he unhitched the trailer. He pulled something from his back; it looked like an extra sling. He pulled it over his head, and somehow attached it to the trailer. “Wish you hadn’t killed my damn bike.”

  “It was mine; I paid for it,” she said as she turned to use the NVG to sweep behind them. Down the hill, she could see a group of them, huddled over a pair of bodies. Those were people she’d killed, she realized. Even from that distance, she could hear them ripping and tearing flesh. They grunted and snapped at each other as they fed.

  Kathy swallowed hard as she watched them cannibalize the dead. Gods, what is going on in their minds?! One looked up at her, its eyes shining with an ethereal white glow in the scope. It stood. “One of them is standing.”

  “Kill it,” he said, working on the improvised strap arrangement.

  “But, it’s just standing there looking at us.”

  “Don’t think about it, Kathy, shoot it.” She hesitated. “You weren’t hesitating earlier,” he reminded her. “If you’d had another round in that revolver, I’d be dead right now.”

  She had to admit he was right. She took a breath and let it out, like her father had taught her. As it sighed through her lips, she settled the crosshairs on the creature’s breast bone. It cocked its head, and she fired. The recoil was significant, but less than she’d been expecting. She recovered and saw that she’d killed it with one shot. The others set upon it, just as another dozen came loping up the trail. Most joined, a few looked her way. “More company,” she said.

  “Ready,” Cobb barked. She glanced at him, which was difficult because everything looked a little darker after the brightness of the scope. He’d arranged the sling over his neck and arm, leading down to his butt, where he’d attached the trailer’s tongue. He pulled, and the trailer followed. She could see the cords standing out on his neck from the exertion. The trailer had to weigh hundreds of pounds. But she’d felt his muscled legs and knew he was up to the challenge. “Lead, I’ll follow,” he ordered.

  “Like hell,” she said, returning to the scope. A pair was running toward them. Boom, boom, boom. Both hit the ground. “I got this.”

  “I hope so.” She heard him grimace as he pulled the trailer up the hill and over the ancient ruts in the trail. After a minute, he called out. “Check left!”

  She spun the rifle, looking. There was a pair of women wearing sports uniforms racing in, low and fast. She killed them without thinking. Her first shot caught the leader in the center of the chest, the second nearly decapitated the other one. The damage inflicted by the rifle amazed her.

  Cobb grunted, sensing her question. “Hollow-point deer rounds,” he said, “I was saving that mag for a special occasion.”

  “Honored,” she said, and they continued up the hill. Another came from behind. It took three shots to put it down.

  “You only have 16 shots left,” he warned her.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Long practice,” he grunted.

  “Huh,” she said. Bang! Fifteen rounds, she thought. It gave her something to think about other than the teenage boy she’d shot in the shoulder, blowing his arm off, then watching a dozen others set upon him.

  They walked up the hill, Kathy a few feet behind Cobb, firing his rifle only when she absolutely needed to. She swung the gun from side to side every few seconds, and listened for his instructions when the crazies flanked them. She was down to two bullets when she heard him sigh, and the trailer hit the ground. “We’re here,” he said.

  Kathy backed up to the trailer. Cobb was hitching it to another vehicle that looked like a rugged dune buggy that would have been right at home in a Mad Max film. “What’s that?” she asked.

  He finished hitching the trailer and took his gun back. She gladly handed it over, and pulled out the plastic pistol. He swapped mags, but didn’t drop this one, carefully sliding it into a bag on his shoulder.

  “It’s a UTV,” he said, then added, “Firing!” The announcement kept her from jumping out of her skin when he fired. “Utility Task Vehicle. Think of it as a cut down 4x4 farm truck that can go almost anywhere.” She admired its utilitarian design. It had a cargo area full of gear and a gun rack with three rifles over a passenger area big enough for four people. “Jump in and cover me,” he said.

  She didn’t need further encouragement. She slid across the driver’s seat to the passenger side in time to see a creature slinking up behind the UTV. She aimed the pistol and was surprised to see the sights glow in the dark. They made aiming almost instinctive, even at night. She fired twice, and it went down. The gun had half the recoil of her S&W .38. “I think I’m in love,” she said as the H&K roared several times. Cobb jumped in, and with a push of his finger, the UTV barked to life.

  “Maybe we should take it one step at a time,” he said as he stomped the gas, and the machine rocketed ahead with amazing acceleration.

  “I meant the gun,” she said.

  “Sure, you did.”

  * * *

  The inside of the hangar was bedlam as the survivors ran around making sure there was no way for the crazies to get in. The building’s skylights didn’t let in enough light. It only took a few minutes for someone to trip and hurt themselves in the gloom.

  “Great job,” Andrew said, clapping Chris on the shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Chris said and grinned. “You have a plan bringing us in here?”

  “We’re out of the fallout…”

  Chris looked concerned. “So that was a nuclear bomb that destroyed Monterrey?”

  “The biggest FAE wouldn’t do a tenth of that,” Andrew told him, then saw his look of confusion. “Fuel air explosive. It’s sort of a poor man’s nuke, without the radiation.” Chris nodded. “I can only assume they did it to stop this pandemic.”

  “You mean the zombie apocalypse,” someone said. Andrew turned and saw a young, twenty-something male in cargo jeans and a Portal shirt. “Well, technically a nombie apocalypse.”

  “Those aren’t zombies,” Andrew said. “They were passengers on my plane. Some of them got sick during the flight, then a bunch went nuts and started trying to eat everyone else.” The man nodded and gave him an, “Isn’t that what I just said?” look. Andrew narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like this guy one bit. “What’s your name?”

  “Wade Watts,” the young man said.

  “Look, Wade, this disease isn’t like that. They aren’t zombies; you can shoot them, and they die. And what the fuck is a nombie?”

  “That’s why I said nombie apocalypse. Nombies aren’t dead, zombies are.” Chris, who was standing a bit behind Wade, gave Andrew a “What the fuck?” look. Andrew rolled his eyes.

  “Did you have a plan when we almost got our asses eaten to get in here?” Chris asked Andrew. They were trying to ignore Wade, who had begun explaining the difference between nombies and zombies to a couple of shell-shocked women who looked like twins.

  “That,” Andrew said, and pointed to the dominant object in the hangar.

  “Are you kidding? What are we going to do with that thing? I mean, we don’t know the first…” Chris trailed off as he saw the black, embroidered wings stitched above the left breast on Andrew’s multi-pocketed flight suit. “Oh.” Andrew winked. “You’ve flown one of those?”

  “Not exactly,” Andrew admitted, and looked up at the craft.

  “What did you fly?”

  “Fighters.”

  “Seems a tad bit different.”

  “I landed that A380 out there,” Andrew told him.

  “The one on the end of the runway?” Chris asked. Andrew nodded. “We saw it when our pilot set down. It looked like you skidded off the end of the runway and almost flipped.”

  Andrew grunted. “There were…extenuating circumstances.”

  “Whatever,” Chris said. “It looked pretty screwed up to me.”

  Andrew made a face, walked over to the office,
and found the file for the plane. Chris tagged along as Andrew began the ground check. Andrew was surprised to see it was a U.S. Air Force plane, and as he came around the left side, he stopped in complete surprise. “Holy shit!” he yelped, and jumped into the air. “I don’t believe it!”

  “What?” Chris asked, looking from the plane with its strange protuberances to the pilot.

  “You don’t know what this is?” Andrew asked.

  “Should I?”

  “Oh man, wait until you see.” Andrew continued the check, finally climbing inside. Chris continued to follow, looking at the interior equipment, seats with TV screens, and strange belts hanging from the ceiling. Andrew went forward and mounted the steps, hopping over the console and into the pilot’s seat with ease. Chris watched from the cockpit door as Andrew took the pilot’s thigh board and strapped it on, running the interior checklist. When he turned to the second page, he sighed. “I should have known there was a reason this was here.”

  “What?” Chris asked. “What do you mean?”

  “It was dead-lined,” Andrew explained, pointing to the form. “The aircrew had to shut down its #3 engine on the way down.”

  “Can’t it fly on three engines?”

  Andrew thought for a moment. He was familiar with one- and two-engine aircraft; it stood to reason the plane could fly with three. It might be tricky on takeoff, but it should be safe enough. Even in the cockpit they could hear fists banging on the metal of the hangar, and it sounded like the number of crazies outside increased every minute. Flying the airplane out of here was definitely a better choice than walking. “We’re going to need to find out either way,” Andrew said. He pointed to the fire truck. “Go move that thing into the alcove over there, then start getting everyone aboard,” he said. “I’m going to start the preflight.”

  “Will do,” Chris said and headed down the ladder.

  Andrew flipped the master power switch and noted the battery charge, then the fuel level. He grimaced as the fuel gauges calibrated. There were worse things than having a bad engine. The plane’s tanks were less than half full, and he knew there was no way he could refuel. Those facilities would be out on the runway, which was swarming with crazies. It was half a tank or nothing.

  Andrew started the auxiliary power unit. Watching the gauge, he confirmed it was working and providing power. The battery charge level began to head in the right direction. He spent a few minutes looking over the controls, trying to familiarize himself with the aircraft’s operation.

  The cockpit was huge, designed for three crewmen. And, like many military craft, engineers designed it to be robust and redundant. Andrew could occasionally hear people climbing into the plane behind him, noting with amazement the vast amount of technology. He left the cockpit and headed aft.

  Andrew ignored the survivors’ questions and swung down the boarding ladder where Chris was helping the last of them climb aboard. He looked at the big bay doors, listening to the people pounding on them from the other side, and he considered his options. It sounded like there were at least 100 of them out there. He looked around and considered for a time; how long he didn’t know. Eventually, Chris put a hand on his shoulder.

  “They’re all aboard,” the man said. Andrew chewed his lip and nodded. “That obnoxious geek, Wade, is playing with the computer consoles in the back,” he added.

  Andrew panicked for a moment. Was the master arming key still in the cockpit? Yes, he was sure it was. He trotted to the big doors and examined the overhead mechanisms, weighing his options. He was pretty sure he could rig the doors so they would slide open without anyone having to manually pull them. The problem was the crowd of nut jobs outside. They couldn’t stop the plane from rolling out of the hangar, but they could damage the props. He wasn’t sure if he could get off the ground with only two engines.

  Out of curiosity, he walked behind the plane to the main doors. As all the banging came from the other set of doors, he knew no one was behind these. Apparently, their brains were so addled, none of them thought to check this side. He went to the small, man-sized door, and opened it with a simple turn of the knob. It wasn’t locked.

  Andrew slowly pulled the door open a few inches, and peeked through. There was no one nearby, so he opened it another couple of inches. He could see a few people wandering around, not too far away. They seemed listless and confused, looking this way and that as if they couldn’t decide where to go or why they were there. He saw another group near a hangar on the opposite side of the field, about a quarter of a mile away.

  Feeling brave, he pulled the door all the way open, stuck his head out, and looked in both directions. He saw a pair of nut jobs near the left-hand corner of the hangar, and another one by the right. Farther to the left were dozens more, slowly wandering down the runway. Andrew pulled back inside and closed the door.

  “Chris!” he yelled.

  “YO!” The other man came running.

  “Grab some of that rope, and the big ladder from the fire truck.”

  Chris looked at him suspiciously. “Why do I think this is going to be dangerous?”

  Andrew went into the office and found some buckets of grease. Chris returned. Ten minutes’ worth of work, then they tossed the ladder to the side of the hangar. Andrew surveyed the setup and nodded.

  “You sure this will work?” Chris asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Andrew replied. As they walked back to the plane, he unslung his rifle and handed it to Chris. “Think you can hit it?”

  “This kind of rifle really isn’t my thing.”

  “I have to fly the plane. So, unless you can fly a multi-engine turboprop…”

  “Right,” Chris nodded and took the rifle, examining the mechanism. “I’ve fired ARs before. Hey,” he said, noticing the selector switch, “is this what I think it is?” His skeptical look turned to a gleam of enjoyment.

  “Yes, but don’t waste my ammo.”

  Andrew looked through the fire truck one last time, searching for anything useful. He found a huge medical box in one compartment, and he helped himself to it. All the labels were in Spanish, but he really didn’t care. He grabbed a pair of fire axes as well, thinking he would arm a couple of the men, then he trotted toward the plane, where several survivors watched him expectantly from the door. One pointed, and Andrew turned to look. The chains holding the big back doors were coming loose. He looked again, and realized that the chains weren’t coming loose. Rather, the sheet metal door was tearing, allowing it to spread open. “Time to go,” he said and sped up.

  The people near the plane’s door cleared the way. Chris climbed in behind Andrew, rifle slung over his shoulder. He leaned out and eyed his target.

  “Remember,” Andrew said, “not until I say.” He tapped the intercom speaker next to the door for emphasis. Chris looked up and nodded. “Hey,” Andrew said. “I’m fucking serious, don’t fuck this up.”

  “Okay!” Chris said, rubbing his cheek.

  Andrew nodded and headed for the cockpit. Wade Watts sat in one of the seats, playing with a seat-back monitor. “Don’t break anything,” he told the kid.

  “Can I…you know?”

  “No,” Andrew said, and mounted the cockpit ladder, ignoring the pleas of the annoying gamer.

  Back in the cockpit, he strapped himself into the left-side seat, and began the start sequence for engine #1. As it was spinning up, he took the headset off its hook, settled it on his head, adjusted the mic, and used the thumb control on the wheel to activate the intercom. “It’ll take about a minute to get the two outboards up to speed,” he announced.

  “But, you said three of the engines work,” Chris complained.

  “They do, but I want to use two for better control.” He spoke louder as the motor spun up. There was a dull thrum and a whine as the turbine caught, and he noted the pressure gauges climbing, and the temperature starting to go up as well. He grabbed the pilot’s thigh board, strapped it on and checked the ideal numbers. They looked good, so he
started #4. “It’s going to get real loud!” he yelled.

  The Allison T56-A-15 engines quickly reached peak power, putting ten thousand horsepower at his disposal.

  He looked down from the cockpit and saw the throng of insane people tearing down the doors of the hangar. They squeezed their arms through the jagged metal, tearing their skin and flesh, causing blood to spurt. The first few were almost through.

  Andrew reached down and found the pitch controls. He set the brakes with his left foot, then pulled the pitch lever all the way up. The plane started to buck nose down.

  “Holy shit!” he heard Chris say over the intercom.

  “Wait,” Andrew said, spreading his hand wide to grab the two outer throttle controls. He pushed them up and forward, and the Allison engines began to roar.

  The RPM meter reached the midpoint. Andrew gave it another ten percent and felt the plane start to slide on the hanger’s slick concrete. The first of the crazies was through the door, and looked up at the camouflaged plane in wide-eyed dementia. Andrew stabbed the intercom. “NOW!” he yelled into the mic.

  The sound of the M16 firing was almost inaudible over the roar of the turboprops in the contained area. The scene in the hangar looked like a live-action version of the tornado sequence in the Wizard of Oz; junk of all types was flying around. He gritted his teeth, hoping the flying debris wouldn’t damage one of the engines. A shirt flashed across the cockpit window, and he saw it turned to confetti by the four-bladed prop to his left. “Jesus Christ!” he said, when an aluminum lawn chair careened off the side window.

  Pop, pop, pop, went the M16. Through the rear-view camera, Andrew could see the other set of doors remained closed. “Chris, motherfuck man, get it done!”

  In the back, Chris gritted his teeth as he fired round after round. Standing in the doorway of the plane, its entire fuselage bucking up and down as it skidded backwards toward the door, was like trying to shoot from a ship jumping over waves. It was impossible. He tried to guess how many shots he’d fired. Seven, eight? He had no clue. Andrew knew that crashing into the doors would render the plane unflyable. “CHRIS!”