Adam Baker - Impact

He reconsidered his decision not to stop for rest. He wanted to cover as much ground as possible before sunrise. But if he drove himself to walk ten hours straight he might collapse.

Ought to conserve some energy for the following night. And the night after.

Better stop a moment and eat.

He came to a halt and stretched. Didn’t want to sit down. If he sat down his legs might stiffen up, make it impossible to walk.

He tore open a protein bar.

The eastern sky had begun to lighten. He must have walked most of the night. Might be able to cover a couple more miles before sunrise. Then he would have to pitch camp, arrange a survival blanket as a parasol.

He finished the energy bar and pocketed the wrapper.

He blew to warm his fingers.

He allowed himself another sip of water.

He reslung the canteen over his shoulder, tried to ignore the slosh of liquid that signalled the declining water level within the canteen.

A glance back. A trail of footprints receded to the horizon.

He touched his toes, swung his arms, then resumed his journey. He strode double-pace to cover as much ground as he could before sun-up, mouthed ‘…one, two, three, one, two, three…’ to set a rhythm.

He crested a high dune, and found a limousine.

Frost stumbled through the tear in the cabin wall. Her flight suit snagged and tore.

She hurriedly shunted equipment trunks against the aperture, sealing it shut.

Frantic scramble up the ladder to the flight deck. She disregarded jarring pain from her injured leg.

She threw herself into the pilot seat and pulled down the blast curtains, blocking out a blood-red sunset.

Hancock climbed the ladder and switched on cabin lights.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Frost ejected her pistol mag and thumbed bullets into her palm. Four rounds. She reloaded, chambered, sat clutching the gun.

‘Seriously. What’s the deal?’

Frost sat, panting hard.

Hancock crouched beside her. He clicked his fingers for attention.

‘Hey. Lieutenant. Look at me.’

She looked at him. She slowly got her breathing under control, regained her composure, ashamed of her panic.

‘We need light,’ said Frost. ‘Lots of light. We should dig trenches and fill them with fuel. Circle the plane with fire.’

‘Slow down. What the hell is going on? Are we under attack?’

‘The bastards are out there, circling the plane.’

‘You saw them?’

‘Fuckers are getting bold. It’s like they got a purpose, a schedule.’

‘What did they look like?’

‘Pinback, Guthrie, Early.’

‘You saw their faces?’

‘They’ve come for us.’

‘Slow down,’ said Hancock. ‘I’ve seen thousands of infected bastards. So have you. They’re dumb. They got the intelligence of an earthworm. They don’t stalk their prey.’

‘Maybe there are different grades, like ants. Drones. Soldiers. Queens.’

‘It’s a fucking virus. A protein chain. A string of RNA. It doesn’t have a social structure. It can’t dictate tactics, strategies.’

‘It out-flanked humanity without much trouble.’

Hancock struggled to his feet.

‘Show me. I need to see for myself.’

The dying light of day.

Hancock staggered across the sand. He stumbled and fell. Frost reluctantly left the plane, gripped his arm and helped him upright.

She kept her pistol drawn, fearful of the gathering gloom.

‘Where were they?’

‘Over there. The ridgeline. Moving east, like they were on some kind of patrol.’

‘Sure it was Pinback and the guys?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s Noble? Did he see any of this?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘The fuck?’

‘He went for help.’

‘Dammit. We got a job. A mission.’

‘He’s headed for the target site. Figured he might be able to find something of use. A truck. A radio that actually works.’

They stood by the wing, weapons drawn, surveying shadows which seemed to lengthen and reach for them.

‘This is fucked up,’ murmured Hancock. ‘We’re through the looking glass. We’re into nightmares.’

‘Keep your eyes peeled.’

‘I’m not even going to blink.’

They circled the wing, crouched and shone their flashlights into deep darkness.

They inspected the engine, examined the intake turbine and exhausts.

‘You think they were fucking with the plane?’ asked Frost.

‘They got to be somewhere close by. Maybe they’ve built themselves a nest.’

They climbed onto the wing and peered into tears in the aluminium skin, inspected internal spars, control lines and fuel tanks looking for a telltale smear of blood.

‘Look,’ said Frost. She crouched and trained her flashlight on the wing surface. ‘See?’

Footprints.

They slid from the wing and dropped to the sand below.

They walked the length of the wrecked aircraft.

Hancock examined tears in the buckled hull.

Frost kept her flashlight trained on the roof of the plane in case they got jumped.

The broken tail section. Buckled support struts and fluttering insulation foil.

Frost shone her flashlight over surrounding dunes.

‘Hey. Look.’

Prints trailed across the sand. The tracks terminated in a small depression.

‘Looks like they went below ground,’ said Hancock.

The lower cabin.

They shunted equipment trunks against the wall fissure once more to create a barricade.

They leant against the ladder, wiped sweat and shared sips from a canteen.

‘Ought to check the bomb bay,’ said Frost. ‘Make sure the package is secure.’

Hancock switched on his flashlight and climbed into the crawlway. He inched along on his hands and knees until he reached the payload door.

He pulled back the hatch and peered inside. His flashlight played over the ribbed walls of the compartment, the massive rotary launcher, the missile.

‘Are we cool?’ called Frost.

Hancock didn’t reply. He climbed from the crawlspace and stood in the stifling cave-dark.

He flicked the light switch. Red night-mission lamps.

He cautiously crept the length of the compartment, murmuring.

He checked the launch apparatus, checked wall stanchions and roof girders.

‘You all right in there?’ called Frost.

‘Yeah,’ said Hancock. ‘Yeah, we’re clear.’

The flight deck.

They sat facing each other.

‘Let’s think it through,’ said Hancock. ‘Guthrie was infected for sure, right?’

‘Yeah. Advanced stages of infection. The rot, the spines. Must have been pretty far gone when he climbed aboard the plane. Looking back, he had his suit zipped to his neck and gloves on his hands during the briefing. Didn’t think much of it at the time.’

‘You shot him in the head.’

‘Yeah. Took a pretty big chunk of skull and brain. But maybe not enough to take him out the game. Plenty of frontal lobe damage, but it’s not like these bastards need much higher brain function. His cortex might be intact. Basic motor skills. Enough to keep him animated.’

‘So he could be walking around out there.’

‘There’s a chance.’

‘Pinback. You saw him die, right? Crash injuries.’

‘His spine was shattered. Guess he died of organ failure. The internal haemorrhaging and tissue cavitation associated with a massive impact. But his body might have been fresh enough to host the virus, if he were infected soon after death. Maybe Guthrie got to him, brought him back to some kind of life.’