World of Ashes (44 page)

             
The Cessna’s engines roared to life, and at the last possible moment Lee and Ethan jumped inside. Not bothering to taxi to a runway, the pilot slammed the throttle balls to the wall and raced diagonally down the airfield. It seemed that about half the gangbangers were shooting at their plane alone, and the other half at the poor souls manning the airport. An expensive sports car, what looked like a Ferrari to Ethan, started chasing after the plane, some asshole with an Uzi was spraying-and-praying at them. Both Ethan and the pilot hauled back on the yolk when the plane neared takeoff speeds. Slowly the tail dipped and the nose rose skyward. Their wheels left the ground and they seemed almost home free when someone on the ground re-manned the SAW, which was almost directly beneath them now, and opened fire at less than fifty feet. Dozens of 5.56mm rounds slammed through the plane, bouncing around inside and spewing oily smoke through the air vents. Insulation and aluminum ripped through the cabin in a cloud of fiber, but they made it aloft and were out of range just in time for the Ferrari to clip the front wheels of the Humvee because the driver was watching them and not what was in front of him. The Ferrari was obliterated in a high-octane explosion of fiberglass panels and flaming tires. It skidded alongside the plane on three wheels, the two men inside waving about as they burned to death at 120 miles per hour. The Humvee was flipped backwards into the air by the crash, landing on its roof and squashing the gunner.

             
Ethan looked back at Lee with a smirk, “Think he shouted ‘Rollover’ three times before the truck landed on him? His CO will have to reprimand him for that.” Lee tried not to laugh. Morbid humor was always the best humor when you only just made it out alive.

             
After climbing to over a thousand feet the pilot grabbed for his headset on the floor. He pulled it up and stopped, looking at the blood dripping out of the earphones. He and Ethan both shared a wide-eyed glance at the amount of bright red blood on the floorboard, almost literally spurting from a hole in the pilot’s leg. It was arterial, and in a panic he let go of the controls and tried to apply pressure to his wound.

             
“Lee!” Ethan shouted over the din of the engines. Lee saw the blood and tried his best to get where he could help, but they had other problems. The gunner had been luckier than they thought and the port engine sputtered. Looking down at the control panel Ethan could clearly tell they were losing oil pressure in the engine, and on top of it all Allen was in the back seat laughing hysterically, fumbling with his Mp3 player’s earphones. Apparently Allen Broadwick and Shock weren’t very well acquainted yet.

             
“Allen! Give me a tourniquet!” Lee shouted. He had to kick Allen in the face before he woke up. “Tourniquet! Now!”

             
Wide eyed again, Allen reached into his med pouch and took out several different kinds of bandages. Lee grabbed the one he wanted, but before he could turn around the pilot’s eyes met his, unmoving. He was dead and they were in a plane where CPR was impossible. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, he’d already bled out. Now they had a 300lbs sack of potatoes between them and the side of the control panels that hadn’t taken a bullet.

             
“Shit fucking fuck!” Lee unbuckled the pilot and together he and Allen dragged him into the backseat. Allen didn’t seem to mind sitting next to the dead man, and had Ethan thought about it, he might have expected the boy to ask the dead man if he wanted a bag of peanuts.

             
“We’re losing all kinds of fluids, I have no idea how to fly this fucking thing!” Ethan said, putting the headset on, “Mayday Mayday Mayday, this is…” Ethan grabbed the checklist from a clipboard covered in blood. By the luck the flight number was listed in bold letters and highlighted, “Flight three seven seven eight niner out of Tupelo Airfield, bound for Sullivan Regional, does anyone read me?” There was silence. Ethan repeated himself as warning lights lit up the cockpit. Ethan and Lee struggled to haul the yolk to the right to compensate for the engine. It was labor intensive and the sweat stung their eyes, Lee’s boots slipping in the sloshing pool of blood on the floorboard.

             
Finally another voice broke through, “
Flight Three Seven Seven Eight Niner, this is Little Rock Spotter Station, what are your coordinates?
”

             
“About ten minutes,” Ethan checked the compass, “North, Norwest of Tupelo. We got fucking ambushed, break. Our plane is hit, I’m losing control over the port-side engine, our pilot is dead, Over.”

             
“
Copy Flight Three Seven Seven Eight Niner. Is reaching this destination an option? You will need to turn Due West from your current course.
”

             
The engine sputtered again, “We’re gonna go with
no
on that one, Little Rock.” Ethan looked extremely worried, but then saw the indicator that meant the only hope of reaching home alive. The landing gear was still down, it would slow them to no end, but it meant he didn’t have to do much to land the plane now. If the gear had been up the shot out electronics likely would not have lowered the wheels. “Littlerock, I’m gonna keep us in the air as long as I can, but I don’t know when I’ll have to set her down, I can’t maintain airspeed with the damage we’ve taken.”

             
“
Copy, that. Be advised, Adams Field and Little Rock Regional are Red Zones. Little Rock AFB is your best chance. But if you can’t make it this far, find a grassy field and set her down. We have you on radar now, a rescue bird is already being fueled.”
The Texan controller at Little Rock said. It gave them all a true sense of relief to know that someone was going to come for them, but only so much. They were still in a dying plane with no parachutes. Allen was in the back seat, searching for the right soundtrack to die by, putting one headphone in the dead pilot’s ear, asking if he liked a certain selection.

             
Ethan managed to keep them aloft for some time before the Cessna had finally had it. The left engine sputtered, coughed, revved, and then died suddenly in a plume of black smoke that trailed behind them like an air show gone wrong, the propeller slammed to a halt, shaking the already disintegrating plane violently. He sent one last report, hoping the air traffic controllers really had had them on radar, before picking out a mostly cleared stretch of highway. Ethan shouted for everyone to buckle in and slammed the plane down on the road shortly thereafter, just clearing an overturned double-level car transport. He and Lee both hit the rudder pedals as hard as they could, trying to stop the plane, or even slow it down some before they ran out of clear highway. They succeeded only in slowing down just enough to keep from shearing the wings off as they clipped a burned out Gray Hound bus. The wing snagged halfway through the bus and the plane nosed into the side of the abandoned vehicle, skidded around backwards when the wing dislodged and ramped an ‘05 model Mustang. The landing gear collapsed and the plane bottomed out before screeching to a stop in front of a jack-knifed tractor trailer with JESUS SAVES in faded letters on the side of the. A cartoon of
The Buddy Christ
was stenciled on the cab’s door.

             
“Well. I’m never flying Oceanic again.” Ethan tried to laugh. The
Lost
reference was extremely inappropriate.

             
Lee finally allowed himself to breath and glared at Ethan before turning to check on Allen. The boy was out cold. Lee unstrapped himself and tried to open his door. Naturally it was jammed. Ethan had better luck with his door and managed to push it open. The brothers climbed out no worse for wear and took a look at the plane. Neither could rightly understand how they’d made it aloft in the first place, let alone less than twenty miles from Little Rock. The plane was riddled with bullet holes. She looked more like a returning B-17 than a civilian aircraft. Not bad for such a small plane. Ethan would have to write Cessna a thank you letter. If Cessna still existed. Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.

             
“Let’s get Allen out before this thing catches fire.” Lee stepped up to Allen’s door and tried it. It was jammed too.

             
“I think fire is the least of our worries.” Ethan pointed down the road. There had to be at least a hundred Zims heading their way, more taking notice every second, arms sometimes reaching, moaning and gurgling sounds drifting in the wind as the dried up looking skeletons shuffled toward them.

             
“We have time. None of them are fresh.” Lee started pulling at the door as hard as he could. Ethan helped and together they ripped it off its hinges. Allen toppled out into Ethan’s arms while Lee reached in and grabbed their assault packs, the briefcase from General Vierling strapped securely to Lee’s. The rest of their stuff was forfeit to the Zims. He took one last look at the pilot, and decided the man had one more sacrifice to make. He hadn’t been dead long, perhaps his body would distract the herd, buying them precious time. The dead man flopped out of the plane when Lee pushed and broke his neck upon landing. It wouldn’t matter anyhow, Lee propped the man’s body up on the Mustang’s trunk just before the first Zim reached him and took off after his brother and Allen into the field.

             
“Dude, dude, chill. We’re alive, but we gotta move. Can you walk?” Ethan helped Allen to his feet after they’d fallen over a log in the tall grass.

             
Allen vomited. “What?”

             
“I think he’s concussed. Must have hit his head on the window.” Ethan sighed, having seen the dent the kid’s head had made in the plexiglass on their way out. “Allen, we have to move, are you gonna be okay? How many fingers am I holding up?” Ethan held up three.

             
“Six?” Allen blinked several times, “Why do you have six fingers?”

             
“Shit.” Lee raised his carbine and put down two Zims trying to climb over a concrete divider a construction crew had left behind years before. “We gotta move. Let’s head that way.” He pointed towards a building barely visible behind a hedgerow. The building’s only saving grace was you could see for a good distance in all directions, and there were no Zims around it.

             
They headed that way in a slow moving firefight, putting down any lethargic zombie that managed to get within a hundred meters of them. They kept the highway in sight, still not knowing which road it was. Infected people who reanimated in cars were usually contained, but if any of the windows were open or broken, or if the door wasn’t shut all the way, then that false sense of security would kill you. It was a lesson hard learned over the last winter when scavengers went looking for fuel and parts among the cars. How many people had died for a few gallons of gas?

             
“Is… Is that a fucking airport?” Lee finally asked while taking his turn supporting Allen. Their progress was slow, their gear and unconscious friend were cumbersome.

             
Ethan dropped two more Zims and turned around, “What?”

             
“That!” Lee pointed to an airfield that was clearly visible just half a mile ahead. “Did we seriously fucking crash a mile from a damned airport!?”

             
“Stranger things have happened.” Ethan shot another Zim and took all three backpacks, “Last time I heard dead people were getting up and walking too.”

             
The sign on the fence read Carlisle Municipal Airport. How they’d missed it they didn’t know, but were consoled themselves in the fact that even if they had seen it, the plane wouldn’t have made it there anyhow. After securing the doors to the lobby and pushing desks up against them to block the zombies’ view inside they quickly found a maintenance hatch to the roof and started hauling their gear topside. Allen was still out cold and neither knew how to get him up a ladder as dead-weight without rope; rope they didn’t have. Grabbing for the handheld radio they should have had on them, Lee realized it was gone. He cursed loudly and swatted a flat-screen computer monitor off the main desk.

             
“Jesus, man, they can’t get in here. Let’s just chillax until Little Rock comes for us.” Ethan found a cushion and used it as a pillow for Allen. At least he was breathing normally.

             
“And what if they can’t find us?” Lee put his hands on his hips while pacing the floor. A bang on the door let them know the Zims had finally caught up with them. Within minutes there were lots of bangs on the windows and doors.

             
“I don’t think they’ll have trouble finding us.” Ethan turned his attention to Allen, who was beginning to stir. “Allen, can you hear me?” The young man moaned, but didn’t seem to want to move.

             
“We need to get him topside.” Lee said as some of the glass was heard cracking. Bending down to Allen, Lee did the worst thing possible for someone who had a head injury, but the situation called for stupid movie heroics and he slapped the boy as hard as he could. Allen’s eyes snapped wide open and he stood up faster than a Marine on his first day at Boot Camp. Before the shock wore off on Allen and he was a vegetable again Ethan pointed to the hatch and shouted for them all to climb towards it. Wordlessly Allen did so, and was the first to be on the roof. Ethan and Lee followed. They knew Allen wasn’t going to stay awake for long, and he didn’t. He had just enough time to ramble something about Sponge Bob before laying back down on his pillow and passing out again.