Life in the Time of Zombies Read online

  I checked my watch to find it was just after eleven and wondered why no one was answering the phones at the office. After the long tone, I said, “Carole, this is Kevin. What’s with the recording? Anyway, I am at SFO. My nine thirty appointment didn’t show, but I spoke to some other folks here including the head of security. Surprise, the accounts of the problem yesterday don’t match. I’m going to see what else I can find out. Be in later this afternoon.” I pushed 624 on the phone to learn that my voicemail contained “no new messages”. This was another surprise since I had been following several stories and typically had at least ten new messages every time I checked the voicemail.

  I decided to head back to the coffee shop and sit down to plan my next move. I also realized that I had failed to get the waitress’s name, which I would need if I used her statement.

  Like every other part of the airport, the lack of people in the coffee shop was striking. In fact, it was deserted. I waited at the counter expecting to see someone pop out of the backroom and apologize for making me wait.

  After a minute, I tentatively called, “Hello?” There was no response. I walked from one end of the counter to the other looking for anyone. I saw no one. Finally, I pushed through the little gate which separated the customer area from the area behind the counter. Even given the unusual circumstances, I felt a twinge of guilt at trespassing into an area forbidden to me. I walked slowly passed the silent coffee makers and empty glass coffee pots.

  At the other end of the counter, I found a swinging metal door with a little square of glass. The glass was yellowed and scratched, but it revealed more than enough of the room on the other side.

  I saw someone sprawled out on the white tile floor. I could not be sure it was the waitress from earlier because someone in blue airport coveralls was leaning over the body blocking my view. I thought that I was spying on some romantic tryst and started to turn away. Far be it for me to intrude upon young love. However, just as my eyes were leaving the little window, I saw the blood. It was spreading slowly out from underneath the body.

  I have never considered myself much of a hero, but I was a little ashamed at the brief consideration given to slowly and quietly backing away from the door and just leaving the airport. Instead, I reached out and pushed open the door. Unfortunately, the door squeaked, and the person in the blue airport coveralls turned at the sound.

  In the blue airport coveralls, there was a pale young man with curly blond hair, glasses and a bushy, untrimmed beard. All of him was covered in blood. When he saw me, he stood up and appeared to be shocked to the point that he was unable to speak. His mouth moved, but no words came out. After a few seconds of this, his ability to speak returned, and he bawled, “I found her like this!” He looked at me then at his clothes and seemed as if he just noticed that he was covered in blood. As if to contradict what he saw, he yelled more loudly, “I found her like this!”

  In a voice I had not used since I was a teacher, I assertively said, “Let’s just take it easy.” I looked at the name etched in dark blue lettering above his right breast. “I believe you, James, but you need to sit down and quietly wait for the police.”

  The young man in bloody, blue coveralls looked at me as if he could not believe the words he was hearing. Suddenly, he lunged toward me, and, for a brief moment, I thought that I was dead. Fortunately, James was more interested in getting out of the area than doing harm to me. He threw me out of the way and ran out the door.

  I watched through the still-swinging door as he scurried like a frightened animal around the counter and out of the coffee shop. Then I turned to look at all of the blood. The place had obviously been the scene of a massacre. I doubted James could have done all of this by himself and that all the blood was from one Asian waitress. The thought occurred to me the people who did this could be coming back. It was a thought that did nothing to keep me from panic. There was some sort of scratching and moaning sound from just outside the door. I am certainly not proud of this, but I immediately lunged for a nearby cabinet and moved inside. It was a tight fit, but I shut the door and could just see a little of the room through the small slots of a vent.

  It was certainly not the best vantage point for observing whatever went on in the room, but it got considerably worse when something suddenly slammed against the door and blocked the vent. I huddled there in the dark for what seemed like an hour although I couldn’t actually say since I was too afraid to move even to check my watch right then. Besides, it didn’t even occur to me to wonder about time until much later. There was lots of banging and grunting and sounds of things sliding. Standing out from the stream of sound was the surprisingly calm voice of a man saying, “I have to catch my flight.”

  I huddled there in the dark listening to the strange noises and expecting the door to be thrown open at any moment. But the door was never opened. Instead, whatever was blocking the door just seemed to move away and everything was quiet. Even so, it was a while before I gathered enough courage to nudge the door open. Given the surroundings, the creak it made sounded like a roar. I stopped pushing and waited a while for some reaction to the sound. When there was nothing, I again pushed gently on the door.

  This time I managed to push the door fully open. Before moving out of the cabinet, I listened for the sound of the people responsible for this bloodbath. There was only silence. Eventually, I managed to unfold myself from the cabinet and step outside. The first thing I stepped in was a wide pool of blood. The entire cabinet door was covered in blood and, as I discovered to my horror, so was my hand.

  All of a sudden getting my hand clean of the blood was the only thing that mattered. I scrambled to the back of the room and over to a large wash basin, which was obviously used for cleaning the coffee pots as some were still piled next to it. I twisted the knob and was grateful for the scalding hot water that shot out. I scrubbed my hand with a brush that was next to the sink. After my hand was raw from the brushing and the hot water, I felt some calm returning to me. I grabbed a dish towel and was drying my hands as I turned to survey the scene.

  The young waitress was on her back with her hips twisted one way and her head strangely twisted the other way. As I moved closer, I could see that her eyes were open and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Nothing about her suggested any sign of life. In the next instant, my assumption was immediately wiped away as I caught a slight shiver from her foot inside her blood-stained white tennis shoe. The movement did not fit in the scheme of things. Everything I saw signaled a corpse. The still pool of blood beneath her, the sightless eyes, and the grotesque angle of her head all painted a picture of a violent death.

  My rational mind managed to explain away the movement as simple muscle spasms, and that explanation satisfied me until she tried to get up.

  The young woman moved from side to side and raised her head. Her neck was still bent awkwardly to the left. I was struggling to make sense of what I was seeing when she spoke.

  “Wha…what…hap… happened t…to me?” She stuttered and slurred, but her words could be understood. Her eyes were still glassy as she slowly turned her head to look at me.

  I took me a few seconds to respond. Replying to someone who was just a moment earlier to all appearances dead has a way of taking your breath away. Eventually, I managed to say, “Well, I don’t really know, I...uh...came in and there was a man in...airport coveralls named James and...”

  “I f-feel cold,” she muttered slowly as if she had not heard me. Sluggishly and with difficulty, she raised herself at the waist. She looked down at her bloody body surveying the damage. Until this point, I had not noticed that her right shoulder looked as if a bite had torn away a chunk of the flesh and her left cheek had four parallel deep scratches as if fingernails had ripped down the side of her face. I couldn’t see other wounds, but blood covered most of her light green uniform making it look black.

  “You shouldn’t move!” I yelled. “Don’t move! I’ll go find a doctor!”

  I was stan
ding a few feet from her, but somehow she managed to twist around a reach my leg. I felt her hand grab hard into the skin of my calf.

  “No, s-s-stay here,” she hissed as I yanked my leg free and backed away.

  “You need a doctor!” I cried out as I spun around to leave.

  When I reached the doorway, I looked back at her. She was still struggling to stand even as she slid her body toward me. A trail of smeared blood stayed on the white tile floor behind her. “Stay,” she hissed again, but I was already out the door.

  Chapter 2

  Once out from behind the counter of the coffee shop, I began to question what I had just seen. The waitress was dead. I was sure of that. But if the waitress was dead, how could she be moving? I shook my head at the ridiculous mental flips I was performing. The fact was that the waitress was talking and moving. I am certainly no doctor, but those seem like pretty clear indications of life. And the more time I wasted by playing games with myself, the less chance she had of remaining alive. With my new dedication, I hurried out of the coffee shop in search of some medical assistance.

  Unfortunately, my enthusiasm was not going to make people appear out of thin air, and that is what was needed. I had thought the airport was slow beforehand, but it was nothing in comparison to what I now saw. The place was absolutely deserted. Even the few stragglers stumbling through the terminal on their way to catch a flight were gone. There was not even an announcement of an arriving, departing, or delayed flight. It was silent, and this lack of sound was incredibly unnerving.

  Almost in a panic, I ran over to the airline ticketing counters sure that someone would be found there. The emptiness of the counter area hit me in the stomach. I have never had what others refer to as a panic attack. In fact, I have always been less than sympathetic when I have heard men describe their response to stress as shortness of breath, a racing pulse, and inability to think rationally. My sensitive response has usually been something along the lines of pansy or mama’s boy. But now I was faced with my own symptoms of a pounding heart and difficulty catching my breath.

  From the ticket counters, I ran mindlessly along the wall to the customs area. None of the agents I had seen earlier was in sight. No one was in sight for that matter. As I spun around the way I had come, something outside the massive glass wall overlooking the tarmac caught my eye.

  In front of a wide open door in an enormous dark blue metal hangar about a hundred yards away, a large truck with a dark green canvas canopy over the bed screeched to a stop. I stopped and watched for a moment until as expected ten or fifteen soldiers piled out the back. Without having been conscious of it, I had moved forward and was now almost pressed against the glass. As the soldiers stepped into formation behind the truck, I forgot everything else and began tapping on the glass trying to get their attention. Of course at such a distance, there was little chance of making enough noise for them to notice, but that did not stop me from pounding harder and harder on the thick glass. Finally, the pain caused by the glass brought me back to reality and an awareness of things around me.

  The first thing I noticed was something on the floor far down the terminal from me. As I watched, it became clear that it was the young waitress still dragging her limp legs behind her and leaving that hideous snail trail of red. Whether it was from curiosity or admiration of her determination, I was transfixed. It may have been my imagination, but I thought she was hissing “stay” over and over.

  I might still be staring like an idiot except for the ear-splitting wail of an alarm that suddenly began. It was some sort of fire alarm most likely. All I know for sure is that the blaring rattled me to the bone and made the situation even more disorienting.

  I looked back to the hangar to find that the soldiers were no longer in sight.

  Where had the soldiers gone? Why were the soldiers here? How can I get to the soldiers? These were the questions that pushed through the fog of my mental, emotional, and physical turmoil. And it was then that I felt someone behind me.

  I spun around to find a short, stocky man in a dark suit creeping up on me.

  “There’s nothin’ tuh be ascared about, my son,” he said as he continued to move slowly toward me.

  I suddenly realized that the man must be some sort of preacher. But he certainly wasn’t offering anything of which I wanted a part.

  I glanced around the empty airport looking for anyone to help me or the waitress or... Without thinking, I began running. Panic had again overtaken me. Fight or flight, and I was in no mood to fight. Somewhere in the back of my mind was the idea of finding some way out to the tarmac and to the safety of the soldiers.

  I never looked back, but I heard no sound to make me think the preacher tried to catch me.

  I ran straight through the abandoned metal detector to the boarding area and smacked my shoulder hard on the machine. The gates out to the tarmac were deserted like everywhere else inside the place. I am not sure why Gate 12 struck me as better than any of the other gates, but it did. I trotted through the narrow tunnel to the door that would normally be attached to a departing plane. Now, however, the door led only to emptiness.

  With some effort, I managed to pull the door open and felt the immediate rush of chilly San Francisco air. I looked out over the tarmac from the open door about two stories above the ground. There was a narrow metal ladder attached to the platform just under the door, and I managed to climb down without killing myself.

  Once on the solid surface of the tarmac, I began feeling like myself again. The question now was how to approach the area where I had seen the soldiers without getting shot. Just as I had seen other reporters do when covering dangerous stories in war zones, I got my press ID out of my pocket and held it above my head.

  The hangar where I had seen the soldiers was about two hundred yards away. I was shrewd enough to realize that I had a better chance of not getting shot by staying out in the open and moving slowly. This is why I stepped out from under the platform into the clear area. With my hands above my head, I walked slowly toward the blue metal building. After a few steps, I began loudly saying, “I am a reporter with The Marin Gazette. My name is Kevin Turner. I am a reporter with The Marin Gazette. My name is Kevin Turner.” I continued to repeat my words as I walked slowly forward.

  A few more steps and I felt some presence behind me. I turned to confirm the feeling and found three machine guns pointed directly at my head. A voice boomed from the other direction, “Get on your knees!” I turned toward the sound and saw four other weapons pointing at me. With my hands still above my head holding my press card, I dropped to my knees. A hard shove from behind forced my head all the way to the pavement. The impact brought spots in front of my eyes and nearly caused me to blackout. As I was considering whether to get up or not, pressure on the side of my neck ended the consideration. I managed to twist just enough to see that the force came from the butt of a rifle being pushed by a young, scared-looking soldier.

  “I am a reporter for The Marin Gazette. My name is Kevin Turner.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” A short, muscular, older soldier with a shiny bald head wearing mirrored sunglasses shouted. “Larson! Check him!”

  A muscular soldier with skin so dark it was almost blue stepped forward. He handed his automatic weapon to another and kneeled down near my head. From his shirt pocket, he took out a blue plastic square thing about the size of a pack of cigarettes. He looked at me for a moment as if judging whether I was a threat and then slowly touched my cheek with the plastic thing. After about three seconds, he pulled it back and announced, “Ninety-eight point six!” A moment later, I felt my wallet being pulled from my back pocket, and then the ID was yanked from my hand.

  After a moment, the rifle butt was removed from my neck. I stood slowly feeling a bit dizzy. I reached up to scratch my forehead and pulled back a hand covered with blood.

  The same soldier who had ordered a check of my temperature said, “Wilbur, see to the man’s head injury! Bring him inside once hi
s wound has been dressed.” He spun around with military precision and marched inside the hangar. The other soldiers followed after a moment.

  A nervous soldier with a small green duffle bag appeared next to me. “Wilbur, T” was stamped in clean, white block lettering on his uniform.

  “I need to have you sit over here so I can dress that wound,” the young soldier said obviously trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  Wilbur led me over to an old metal bench at the side of the building. I sat down. The young soldier knelt in front of me, pulled the duffle bag next to him, and opened it. As he rummaged through the contents looking for something, it was clear that the young man was uneasy.

  “So, Wilbur, you’re kind of new at this, aren’t you?” I said trying to put him at ease with my most earnest smile.

  Young Wilbur looked up at me quickly to gauge my sincerity, but one glimpse of my smile convinced him. “So it’s that obvious, hunh?”

  “Well, I have the trained eye of a journalist,” I answered. “Just some tape and a gauze pad should do it. Oh, and some sort of antiseptic might help.” I flashed my heartfelt smile once more.

  “Yeah, no problem,” Wilbur answered a little sheepishly. “That’s what I was trying to find.”

  When he finally found the right supplies, Wilbur began cleaning my bloody forehead. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he offered more to calm himself than to put me at ease.

  “Yeah, it doesn’t feel too bad.” I watched the young soldier for a minute before asking, “So what’s going on here anyway?”

  Wilbur looked back at me as if trying to decide whether or not to say anything. After a few seconds, the words rushed out of the young soldier, “You don’t know? There’s some weird stuff happening. Some freaks in the airport just went off and started biting people. Didn’t you see anything inside?”

  “Not really,” I answered trying not to think about the waitress dragging her body across the floor. “So why is the army here instead of the cops?”