LZR-1143: Evolution (11 page)

“Where is the fucking vial, Captain? I know you don’t have much time until you go the way of the goddamn zombie, so just redeem yourself one tiny little fucking bit. Where is it?”

Finally, his eyes seemed to track.

They locked on my own, as he whispered harshly, spittle flying freely from his rage-inspired lips.

“You. You did this. You brought that goddamned virus on board my ship, and you have the temerity to lecture me, boy? I follow orders for a living, son. I spent my life protecting this nation, and was flying sorties into Baghdad when you were still popping pimples in junior high school. So you know what, movie star? You can go to hell.”

He coughed wetly.

“But I hope I get there first, because I will be waiting for your ass with a red hot pitch fork, you cocky son of a bitch.”

He looked away, spitting blood on the floor as he did so.

Time was up, and I was frantic.

I flicked the safety off, and pulled the hammer of the pistol back with my thumb demonstratively. His eyes came back to mine, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

“What? You gonna kill me, son?” he taunted, gray skin reflecting the red glare of the emergency lights.

“‘Cause if you are, you best get on with it.”

The ship canted sharply again and my footing slipped.

I looked around, noting the curving shape of the Bridge-Tunnel disappearing into clouds and fog as the weather worsened. The wind outside washed over the large windows and the rain blew in clouds of light mist.

The flight deck was now dipping into the crashing waves, whitecaps licking the tarmac.

I gave up. Removing the gun from his head, I leaned over, staring directly into his rapidly deadening eyes with an unwavering glaze. I suddenly realized what he was telling me.

“You destroyed it, didn’t you?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“You realized what you had, and what you had done, and you destroyed it, didn’t you?”

He simply glared, before spitting a final sentence at me as I turned my back.

“Let’s just say, you’re never gonna fucking see it again,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair.

A thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Then he coughed again, spattering blood on the floor.

I moved toward the door, hoping against hope that the choppers had remained close.

“I did what I had to do, you crazy shit,” his voice followed me, echoing in the empty room. “And it’s your goddamned fault. Now get the hell off my ship so I can die in peace!”

He coughed again, a wracking, dying cough.

I slammed my hand against the metal bulkhead in anger, turning to him as I walked out of the hatch.

“My goddamn pleasure,” I said, slamming the hatch behind me.

I moved quickly down the narrow steps, careful not to twist an ankle as I descended. Finding the entrance door shut against the outside, I took a deep breath and raised my gun. There were creatures out there, I knew.

I wasn’t sure where I was going to go when I got outside, but there was only one way I was getting off this barge, and it was through those creatures.

The hatch opened slowly, and I stepped through. There were hundreds of them, most following gravity as they milled around. In my mind, I imagined them confused and confounded, as their last chance at a fresh meal had somehow taken off into the air.

As I climbed slowly onto the deck, the ship lurched once again, dipping further forward. The hatch behind me slammed into the metal side of the ship, and their heads turned, almost as one. Eyes locked on me, and they began to fight the pull of gravity toward the sea, shambling toward me as the ship sank.

Shit.

A group of ten emerged from behind the conning tower, knocking into a rack of fire equipment that had tumbled to the deck. I drew my pistol and emptied the magazine into the group, firing awkwardly as I ran. Several shots scored hits, but I wasn’t going to save myself with a pistol.

I was being pushed toward the stern of the ship and I looked around, seeking any shelter or safe haven. Any weapon.

My eyes fell on the last plane lashed to the deck, nose pointed at an angle toward the tower and the front of the ship.

I had never driven a fighter jet before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Chapter 11

Truth be told, it was their fault for leaving it unlocked. If they didn’t want people playing with their toys, they couldn’t complain about me having some fun. Especially if it was the last thing I ever did.

I sprinted past the large banner lying trampled on the flight deck, ropes that used to hold it aloft lying prone on the canted deck like downed spider webs. Stumbling briefly as a portion of the paper tore under my boot, I looked almost bemusedly at the words printed on the roughly and hastily made sign that the Captain had intended to welcome me to his reception:
U.S.S. Enterprise Welcomes Mike McKnight!

Nice welcome, Captain.

Scrambling up the short metal ladder and slamming the cockpit glass down behind me, I settled in to the small seat, staring at the controls in front of me.

I had actually trained on one of these before, but I’d be damned if I remembered much.

Well, maybe ‘train’ wasn’t an accurate word.

I had been given a day of familiarization training, which was essentially a pilot telling me what many of the knobs and buttons did, when I was filming “Airborne Assault” with Van Damme. I tell you, that guy made an awesome copilot. Nothing like a Belgian-French accent to strike fear into the hearts of a squadron of Libyan MIGs.

I sat down hard and looked at the cockpit display. How hard could it be to figure out how to operate the guns?

Oh boy.

There were definitely a lot of buttons. And dials, and knobs, and lights, and computer screens.

Okay, on second thought, this could be a little problematic.

Hundreds of creatures were clustered together and moving toward me.

I had grossly underestimated the number of them that had been able to get on deck after the helicopters took off.

Well … at least the plane was facing the right direction.

Toward the bad guys.

I leaned forward, pressing a large button strategically located in a spot that could have been an ignition, or an ‘on’ button, or something similar. The aircraft shook suddenly, and for a moment I thought I had succeeded. Then I realized that it was just the flight deck of the massive ship shifting, its bow canting sharply forward as it took on water. The Enterprise was sinking fast. It was only a matter of time before she was lost beneath the waves forever.

The airplane shifted slightly against its chocks, vibrating and then stopping. I scoured my head for any vestige of knowledge that I could apply to the situation. I vaguely remembered the pilot mentioning a touch screen something-or-other ...

The best I got was a blurry memory of playing Top Gun on the Nintendo.

Jesus. I was going to die on this ship.

I leaned back, craning my head to see over the nose cone.

Yep, they were still coming on strong. Nice to know something in this crazy world was reliable.

My attention snapped back to the chore at hand.

One button had to activate the onboard electronics. Without the plane being powered on, it wouldn’t do anything, right? So if you’re looking for an ‘on’ button, you can’t do too much damage. Just press buttons.

When stuff lights up, you’re golden.

Can’t see anything wrong with that plan. So I started punching buttons.

Until one punched back.

The voice was small and feminine.

“Full weapons lock confirmed. Cannon disarmed.”

Shit.

That was pretty much the opposite of my intent here.

Punch.

“HUD activated.”

Okay, now we were getting somewhere. A heads-up targeting display appeared on the front quarter of the windshield, glowing letters and numbers flashing with electronic mirth.

Punch again.

“Unable to comply. Fuel insufficient.” Useless piece of ...

Punch.

Suddenly a deep roar from the back of the plane. Engines were spooling up. Then lights, then computer screens. Finally, weapons dials. The little picture of a cannon on the computer screen to the right lit up green. It read 2500.

Bingo!

This part I knew. From years of playing arcade games and two different movies about hero-pilots, I was finally comfortable.

Once it was powered on, I knew the gig.

I grabbed the controls, inadvertently pushing the stick forward as I shifted my weight. The plane shot forward against the chocks abruptly, responsive to the movement.

Crap.

Didn’t mean to actually move.

The zombies were close now, my incompetence in the cockpit allowing them ample time to play catch up. A group of seven or eight were in the front, all in some form of bloody disrepair or another.

The Enterprise shifted again. Valiantly she was holding herself afloat, seemingly by sheer will. Her forward compartments had to be full of water by now, and the middle of the ship was destined to follow. Sickeningly, I watched the bow droop again, and more water crash against the flat top of the flight deck.

It was now or never.

I slowly moved the stick to the right, lining up the target sight in the HUD with the first group of zombies. Purposefully, I depressed the safety switch and squeezed the bright red trigger.

“Weapons lock engaged. Please remove the safety before firing the Vulcan cannon.”

Son of a
bitch
!

The bottom right corner of the screen had a picture of a lock, flashing red. It appeared to be a touch screen. From my periphery, I sensed the front rank of zombies were close. Close enough to reach the ladder.

I touched the lock and squeezed the trigger, hoping for the best.

“Weapons lock released,” reported my new best friend.

Almost simultaneously, the twenty millimeter Vulcan cannon came to life.

It didn’t just shoot the zombies.

It made them disappear.

Shambling forms suddenly disintegrated into clouds of red mist. Shreds of clothing floated to the deck, which was already slick with blood. I slowly guided the controls to the left, strafing the oncoming forms at close range. Tracers lit into the crowd, rounds pulverizing flesh and bone and traveling through ten or twenty creatures at a time before moving past and into the water below. Nothing stood a chance against that onslaught. It was a killing field for the undead, and I was in control.

After what seemed like years of fleeing—sneaking and crawling and watching people die—I wasn’t prepared for my response. I quickly lost sight of the fact that these forms, these clouds of red spray and chunks of flesh, had been people not eight hours ago; that only mistakes piled upon mistakes had made them what they were now. No, this was not on the top of my mind.

I just wanted to destroy them all.

I slowly moved the nose of the plane from left to right, feeling the raw power of the twin turbines beneath me. It was a rush like none other. The cannon spewed large bore rounds by the hundreds every second, and I was powerless to stop myself.

Finally, the empty sound of hollow clicking tapped against the hull of the plane like a metallic woodpecker. The cannon icon on the computer screen blinked red, and I realized I was done. I grabbed the lever on the side of the canopy and pulled up, air hissing out of the cockpit as I rose on the seat, looking out onto the flat surface of the deck. Suddenly, I lurched forward, losing my balance and tumbling down the nose of the plane.

The Enterprise had started her final descent.

The blunt, square nose of the ship was fully submerged in the waves. Asphalt sunk into the angry sea as the stern of the massive machine emerged fully from the water, towering over me. Her giant screws turned slowly in the afternoon air, water streaming from the dark metal. The chocks holding my Hornet in place dislodged, and it slid forward as I rolled away, just missing getting clocked by a mounted missile as it glided past me and stopped ten feet further on, held up by the protruding edge of another restraint.

The flight deck was covered in the remains of zombies and slick with blood and rainwater. The clouds had opened up, cutting visibility. I searched the sky for my ride out and almost panicked. The helos were still AWOL, and I was running out of time.

The sound of shattered glass punctured the air as I watched, dumbstruck, as the glass from the control tower fell to the deck in a cascading, rippling sheet. The radar array followed suit, smashing through the remnants of a destroyed Hornet lying shattered against the conning tower. A stream of undead suddenly filtered from the open hatch, falling instantly on the angled deck, but struggling forward and away from the door.

Toward me.

I was alone, I realized suddenly and fearfully. They had left and I was alone.

Then I was sliding again, careening out of control as the flight deck tilted steeply, angling toward the cold sea. I reached out reflexively with my arms, searching for purchase against the slick surface. Blood and rain whipped against my face as my hand slapped against an errant protrusion and arrested my fall.

I was hanging almost vertically from a cockeyed railing, hands burning from the effort. Dark, angry blue waves crashed over the black tarmac, licking the dashed white lines. The gray form of my F-18 slid by in slow motion, the almost comical form of an undead crew member lodged in an engine cowl.

The port wing of the aircraft slammed into the water first, ripping it from the fuselage and changing the angle of descent, forcing the vehicle into the water headfirst. It sank quickly, disappearing deeper into the dark water. The crew member moaned once, the sound lost quickly in the tearing wind.

I hung, feet kicking against the slick deck. Zombies slid and tumbled past me, struggling for footing on the steeply canted flat surface as the ship sank slowly into the channel, the dark linear form of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel winding into the distance. Beside me, the conning tower loomed like a dark sentinel. It was an ethereal dark shape canting awkwardly over the crashing waves at an angle never contemplated by the ship’s designers.