A Time to Die (22 page)

He’d already fired seven shots before opening up on auto. The rifle went through the last thirteen rounds in a second and a half, the bolt locking open. For his thirteen rounds, three of the ten were down, wounded or dead.

Andrew stared at the gun in confusion for a moment as the survivors bore down on him. The seconds seemed to stretch out as he pulled the trigger again and nothing happened. “The gun is empty,” a voice said calmly in the back of his mind, so calmly that he almost jumped.  He pulled it off his shoulder and rotated it, showing the open cylinder. He was about to hit the mag release when he realized he’d never get the new one in before they were on him.

He threw the gun into the truck and dove in after it, arm pulling the door closed behind him as the first of them slammed into the side of the truck with enough force to rock it violently toward the driver’s side. A pair of men, both in nice business suits, rushed around the front as he slammed the selector in drive and stomped on the gas pedal. The engine roared like a gored bull and surged forward, up, and over the two men. They showed no signs of surprise, pain, or anything like that as their heads disappeared over the heavy metal guard. They only looked at him with dark need. Need for his life.

The firetruck rode up on one of them, surprising him on how a human body could lift such a heavy vehicle. A part of his mind had just expected it to squish the man flat. In fact, as the rear wheel rode up, it started to spin. Andrew looked in the mirror to see the big wide firetruck tires throwing a rooster tail of blood at least twenty feet into the air. He felt the bile rising in his throat for the second time in as many hours.

At least a dozen crazies crashed into the back of the vehicle in one long series of thumps. The impacts were hard enough to actually lift him off the squished corpse and propel him forward with enough force to bounce his head off the seat back.

The fire truck’s tires squealed and smoked as they bit into blacktop once more and he accelerated, leaving the crowd of blood thirsty creatures in his wake. Andrew drove all the way around the last hangar, slowing as he took the corner to look back. The vast majority of the crowd was howling and pursuing him. Good, he thought as he spun the wheel and passed behind the hangar. The rear of the hangar was only meant as an area where planes could be moved around or temporarily stored. The doors were usually kept closed. Because the runway side was closed he’d expected this side to be closed as well, so he was surprised when he found the doors wide open. What he saw inside surprised and excited him even more.

“Okay,” Andrew said, his jaw setting in determination as he rounded the far corner and turned back towards the runway. He was craning his neck to look back at the A320 so he didn’t see the trio of crazies that rounded the corner of the hangar right in front of him until a split second before he hit them.

“Shit!” he cried and hit the brakes just as the first one was slammed by the firetruck’s heavy duty steel bumper. Metal crumpled, flesh was torn and bone pulverized as he hit the guy at just over fifty miles per hour. Andrew saw the bumper guard bent frighteningly from the hit, until the blood from the victim sprayed back to splash the windshield, so he didn’t even see the other two.

The first hit rocked him forward, his chest slamming painfully into the steering wheel. He felt popping ribs and bit his lip. The second two just jammed him into the wheel twice more, like a jackhammer on his already tortured ribs. The big diesel engine didn’t even sputter. Andrew looked for the windshield wiper control, taking a moment to find it. Everything was inconveniently in Spanish. He flicked it on and felt his stomach stir again as the blades swished back and forth in the gore. He ran the washer fluid, revealing that one of the hit and runs was on the hood, still very much alive and reaching for him. Several more of the smarter ones, those like the ones on his hood who’d realized he was circling the hangar and cutting across the front to head him off, careened off the side of the firetrucks. One threw a hand out and caught his driver’s door for a second until Andrew heard a tearing sound, then he was gone. “God,” he said and ground his jaw.

At last, they were behind him again and he raced towards the A320. He had a half a minute so he pulled the M-16 across his lap and hit the magazine release. The empty steel twenty-round magazine clattered to the metal floor and he fished into his pouch for another as he took his foot off the gas. Smacking the bottom of the mag, he popped the bolt release with his palm and felt the bolt slap home. “Okay he said, hitting the brakes as he came around the A320 to where he’d seen the people inside.

He was only a few yards away this time. They must have heard his engine approaching because as he came around they were jumping up and down, yelling and waving. He slowed but didn’t stop. The dozen crazies there turned as he approached, realizing that new prey was at hand. Andrew rolled down the window. “Go to the slide on the other side!” he yelled. “Be fast, we won’t have long!” He thought he saw one of them nod as he stomped the accelerator and went around the tail of the plane, just underneath and to the rearmost slide. He brought the truck to a stop and jumped out, weapon at port arms and ready.

The dozen crazies who’d been by the slide came towards him. But Andrew noticed they all seemed slower than the others. Many had blood on limbs, or they limped, or some other problem. He shouldered the rifle and fired. Five quick shots and three of them were down.

“What do we do?” yelled a voice from above.

Andrew looked up and saw a woman, one of the ones from the other side, standing in front of the slide. Several more men and women were behind her.

“Jump!” he said and fired twice more. Two went down, but weren’t dead.

“But there are more of them coming!” she complained and pointed. Andrew craned his neck. The crowd that had chased him to the hangar were returning. Fast.

“I know, damn it! I don’t have enough bullets to get them all. Get down here, I have a plan!”

“But…”

“Just fucking do it!” he roared, firing the rifle out. He dropped the mag and slid in another, releasing the bolt and firing right away. He could feel the heat of the barrel through the old style non-ventilated foregrip. He looked up and she was just standing there, afraid and uncertain. “I want to help, but if you don’t come down, I’m going to leave!”

Andrew resumed firing. Half way through the magazine he saw the big yellow emergency slide rock and a man came shooting down. He heaved a sigh of relief as another followed almost immediately.

“What do you want me to do?” the man asked from behind. Andrew could hear the shaking in his voice.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Sure.”

“In my pack, there’s several pistols, take one!”

He could feel the pack unzipped on his back and the man rummaging through it. The pack got a few pounds lighter. “Got it!”

“Good!” Andrew fired out the magazine. Nine of them were down. The last three were only a few feet away. They weren’t walking very well, but they were coming at them with wild-eyed intent. “Shoot those fuckers!”

There was no hesitation in the guy. Andrew heard the action being racked, saw the gun pushed out in a modified Weaver stance, the safety swept off, and he opened fire. Boom, boom, boom. The last three went down in the time it took Andrew to reload the M-16. He turned and looked at the guy in surprise.

“Chris Tucker,” the man said, nodding and winking at Andrew, “two time three-gun national champion.”

“Finally some good luck,” Andrew said as he turned to check on the hoard. They were about two hundred yards away and closing fast. “There are extra mags back there!”

“I grabbed two,” Chris said. “I’ll get a belt later.”

Andrew nodded, not knowing if Chris saw it or not. “Everyone down?” he asked, glancing next to him and by the bottom of the slide. He was shocked to see what looked like a dozen people waiting. He was momentarily taken aback. Mostly because he was pretty sure the fire truck didn’t have room for that many people.

“We’re gonna be in the shit in a minute!” Chris warned.

“Everyone in the truck!” Andrew yelled to the crowd. They milled. “NOW!” he yelled and brought the M-16 to his shoulder. They moved.

Andrew and Chris engaged the approaching mob, Andrew from a standing position, Chris dropping to one knee and firing slow and methodically. They were about a hundred yards away when he glanced over and saw everyone was in the truck. The dual back seats accommodated most of them, but there were three men in the back with the firefighting gear. It was almost completely exposed. “Arm yourselves up there!” he yelled at them. One man looked confused, probably didn’t speak English, but the other grabbed an axe and checked the heft. The other glanced at him, nodded, and began looking over the equipment.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Chris said and ran for the passenger door.

Andrew was just feeling glad the somewhat panicked passengers had left the front seat empty for him and Chris when he heard a voice yell from above. “I’m scared!” He looked up and gawked at a middle-aged woman in a business suit just standing in the doorway. “Can you get the airline people to help me?”

“Jesus Christ lady, jump!” Andrew blurted.

“Jump? Don’t be stupid! Do you know what this suit costs?”

Andrew glanced down the runway. Seventy-five yards away hundreds of screaming crazies were bearing down on them. He took a step towards the slide.

“You help her, we all die,” Chris said, matter-of-factly.

Andrew gawked and looked back at him, his eyes wide and breathing hard. He was half a second from telling him to take the truck and go. Then he realized if he did, none of them might survive.

“Hurry!” someone yelled from the truck.

Andrew took one last look at the lady in the door to the plane. She looked out at the approaching mob screaming their rage and sprinting towards them with an almost detached curiosity. “Damn it!” he yelled and followed Chris.

The firetruck’s engine roared as he spun away in a squeal of tires and diesel smoke. Either through a cruel twist of fate or just bad luck he could see the woman clearly in the rearview mirror, watching them go with confusion as the wave of insane flesh eaters crashed into the ramp and started clawing their way up towards her. He pulled his eyes away from the tableau with some effort to concentrate on the tarmac ahead.

Behind him the ravening freaks split up, about a quarter went for the plane with the wide eyed woman in her expensive suit standing at the top of the evacuation slide, the rest continued to pursue Andrew and his survivors in the firetruck.

He kept watching the crowd following them. They had to slow down eventually, right? They’d been chasing him back and forth across the airport for a half an hour, many of them sprinting the entire fucking time!

Andrew drove the firetruck around the backside of the same hangar he’d been around only a few minutes ago, but this time he turned hard and inside. The wheels made a loud squeal as the truck came to a sliding stop.

“Out!” he yelled, “Help me with the doors!” Andrew ran, betting his and everyone else’s lives that the doors weren’t electrical. He spared just enough of a glance over his shoulder to see Chris running for the other door with two men following him. There was one man behind him as well. He reached the inside edge of the door and heaved, grunting with the effort. In a panic, it didn’t move. “Come on,” he growled and put his back into it. The man who’d followed him joined in and they both yelled in their efforts. The door gave a squeal and moved an inch. On the other side the door Chris was wrangling was moving rapidly toward the center without resistance.

“Come on, damn you,” he growled. It moved another inch and stopped. His left stump screamed from the force he was putting against it through the prosthetic. He ignored it. The sounds of a hundred voices growling and screaming were getting closer. He heard the door on the other end hit its stop just as the first crazy careened around the corner of the hangar and raced past the door without looking in.

Andrew almost laughed as he continued to push. Maybe they should have just left the doors alone and hid? Two more raced past and it was then the door groaned loudly and started to slide closed. The next group of several skidded to a stop, turning to face the survivors in the hangar. One of the women by the truck screamed and started running in the other direction. Several more followed her and the group of crazies raced into the hangar after them.

Andrew gave the door one huge final heave, sending the massive steel thing racing towards its counterpart. A half dozen more of the insane people raced through just before they crashed together with an echoing BOOM! And then they rebounded open several feet.

Chris stepped away from his side of the door, drawing the M9 pistol. “Push it back closed!” he yelled to the two who’d helped him as he opened fire. He fired with the same measured pace. Shoot, confirm the hit, shift, and fire again. Every shot dropped a target with a headshot. Six men racing towards those retreating away from the firetruck fell like ducks in a row.

“Push it in,” Andrew urged the one man helping him, “and hold it!”

He turned without seeing if the man did what he’d told him to, swinging the M-16 off its sling and to his shoulder. The doors started to go back together and stopped as a half dozen men and women, eyes wide, screaming incomprehensibly were wedged into the doors. First one then more fell through, clawing to get at the fresh meat inside.