Leap of Faith
This is less a story than an attempt to credibly bridge Dead Air and Blood Harvest. It begins where Dead Air ends, and ends where Blood Harvest begins. The ending is thus rather quiet; we need the four survivors in half-reasonable shape for the beginning of Blood Harvest.
Zoey had to bellow in Louis' ear, the noise in the cargo hold was so overwhelming. "Thank- Goodness-That's-Over." Louis, sprawled over the decking just to her left, nodded in reply, not venturing to speak. The engines were roaring, the plane shuddering as the pilot forced it higher and higher, and every piece of metal around them seemed to be buzzing, rattling, or banging. It was like being stuck in a spinning clothes dryer with a couple of buckets of golf balls let loose around you.
Still, anything beat the sound of the infected howling for blood. Their blood. Her blood. Zoey closed her eyes and shuddered in retrospect as she reviewed the series of close calls that had culminated with them scrambling onto the plane, bullets flying everywhere and a comprehensive assortment of body parts from the infected scattered across the tarmac. They'd been cutting it finer and finer. Could it really be true that all that was over now?
She turned to her right, and saw Francis and Bill through the dim light. Bill had already hauled himself to a window and was studying what could be seen of the land below through the darkness and occasional cloud. Francis had plastered himself against the bulkhead and was hanging on for dear life. She thought he looked a little white. Well, more than a little. Petrified white. Bug-eyed white. I'd better say something, she thought, and worked her way along the deck until she was beside him.
"You-seem-a-bit-nervous," Zoey said, very loudly. Francis gave a frozen nod. "I-hate-heights," he replied, even louder, eyes still wide open in a fixed stare to his front. "Always-got-drunk-travelin'-by-air," he added. Then he went back into his semi-catatonic state, a sort of preemptive rigor mortis.
The plane had reached altitude and leveled off by now, and their footing was much more secure. Zoey tentatively rose to her feet and walked the length of the dimly lit cargo hold. She noted with surprise that on both sides of the cargo door there were anchors for static lines for parachutists. There were even half a dozen chutes still there in racks along the wall. She smiled. She'd parachuted once herself on a dare, and had liked the experience so much that she'd done it half a dozen times more, before finding it too expensive a hobby and taking up bungee jumping instead. She glanced back at Francis and wondered how he felt about bungee jumping. Think I can guess, she said to herself, amused. But I shouldn't feel too superior. I wouldn't get on one of his overpowered bikes for all the tea in China. Everyone's got a weakness.
Zoey noticed that Louis had risen to his feet as well and was examining the parachutes in the left-hand rack. She walked over to join him.
"Have you ever jumped, Louis?" she asked.
"Actually, once, yes I did, Zoey" Louis replied. He still had to raise his voice a bit, but something close to ordinary conversation was possible again. "I was given it as a birthday present by some of my colleagues. It was a bit of a double-edged gift, if you ask me." He shook his head and smiled. "Well, no harm done anyway. I got it done without breaking any bones, though I would not care to do it again." He glanced over Zoey's shoulder to where Bill was sitting. "I wonder where we end up next."
"No idea. It just struck me that we never actually did ask where the pilot was planning to go," Zoey mused. "I hope we don't have a welcoming committee of infected waiting for us at the other end."
"Well, you'll have to use the intercom if you want to ask him," Louis said. "I've already tried the cockpit door and it's locked or jammed. I can't get the handle to move an inch. Guess he did that to keep the infected out before we arrived, just in case any did manage to scramble on board."
Zoey shrugged. They didn't have any useful advice to give the pilot anyway. She wasn't even sure which direction the plane was flying in. She walked over to the window opposite Bill, on the left side of the plane, sat down, and began searching the darkness for any clue to their location.
Louis considered trying the intercom for a moment, then shook his head and went over to sit by Bill, who turned away from the window to face him when he heard Louis sit down.
Louis grinned. "You'll notice I'm not saying 'We made it' any more. But so far, so good."
Bill smiled back as he recalled the lecture he had given Louis on that rooftop, so long ago now. "Sorry I was so harsh, son," he said. "Sometimes I used to forget you people had never been in action before. You've done well for a bunch of beginners. Better'n I'd have done in your shoes, I think."
"No need to be modest, Bill. I don't think we'd still be alive if it wasn't for you. I used to shoot a lot, but damned if I'd ever seen a lot of the guns we're using now. I'd probably be putting the bullets in backward or something."
"You're smarter than that, Louis. You'd have... Zoey? Something happened?"
Zoey had gotten up from her window and walked over to Bill and Louis. She stood there, hesitant, almost hovering. There was a very odd look on her face.
"What's up, girl? Look like you've seen a ghost," Louis said.
Zoey cleared her throat. "Guys...this is a prop plane, right?"
Louis and Bill looked at each other, puzzled. It was a damned odd question to ask. But they held their tongues and waited for Zoey to go on.
"Well guys..." she continued, in a slightly shaky voice. "Prop planes... there isn't supposed to be fire coming out of the engines, is there? Like, maybe a little bit?"
"Shit!" Francis had heard what Zoey had said, and the news jolted him out of his paralysis. He scrambled to the window she'd been looking through, and stared out into the darkness. Louis and Bill were hot on his heels. Zoey didn't bother following; she just sat down on the deck and awaited events, with an I-told-you-so look on her face, muttering "Here we go again" to no one in particular.
The outboard engine was trailing flames and the fire was slowly getting worse. In the light from the flames, the three men could see that the inboard engine was smoking as well. In retrospect, it was easy to guess why. There had been a huge rush along that side of the plane, under the wings and engines, just before they had managed to take off. It had been spray and pray time, and obviously some of the bullets, pipe bombs, and propane tank explosions they had used to defeat the horde had damaged the plane as well. "Friendly fire, I guess," Bill muttered. Francis looked at him sourly. "That's the least friendly fucking fire I've ever seen, Bill," he remarked, but Bill was watching the flames as they slowly spread, and paying him no attention.
All four of them jumped in unison as the intercom rasped into life. "You back there! Get to the intercom! We've got trouble!"
Zoey stepped up to the unit on the bulkhead and pushed the button to speak. "We can see. One engine on fire and the other trailing smoke."
"Damn! I hoped one of them would hold. Anyway, we're going down. I'm going to try to ditch it over water near an island, to stay clear of the zombies. And you have to decide what to do. I can't get you into the cabin, door is broken. And if you stay in the cargo hold when I put this plane down on the water, you'll break every bone in your bodies even if the landing is a success, and then you'll drown."
"So what do you propose we do?" Zoey asked, but the answer to that question was already pretty clear, and her guess was confirmed when the rear cargo hatch began to inch open.
"You're going to have to get out. Jump. Do it now, I can't hold this plane at altitude for more than another few minutes. Put a chute on, hook up the static line, and jump. The line'll open the chute for you. I hope that military feller with you's done it before and can show you. But if you're still in this plane in five minutes, you're probably dead."
"Right. At least three of us have jumped before. We'll be gone as soon as we can."
"Don't talk, go!" But Zoey was already at the parachute rack, hooking a static line to a chute and shrugging her way into it. It was too big for her. Damn, damn. This could be tricky. Everything was soldier size.
She pulled the harness tight, trying to think of what she knew about spilling the air from the chute to steer it. Bill was already set to go, as was Louis, though he didn't look very happy about it. But Francis had frozen again. He was fumbling with the straps and not making much progress. Bill and Louis moved to him quickly and got the harness on as if they were dressing a corpse for a funeral. Then they began to move Francis back toward the open cargo door.
He wasn't happy about it. "Guys, I think I'll take my chances here," he complained. "It's not going to end well if I jump out of this fucking plane. I don't mind a rough landing."
"Of course you won't mind it," Bill shouted. "You'll be dead! Out we go, easy as pie, just close your eyes." Louis clipped the static line onto Francis' parachute while the two of them chivvied him closer to the roaring dark wind of the open hatch.
Zoey glanced out the window again. The outside engine was a mass of flames now, and the inner one was beginning to trail fire as well. She ran to the intercom.
"Gone in thirty seconds," she said. "Thank you, sir."
"I'll be OK. Good luck to you! Now get the hell out of here!"
She ran back to the rear of the cargo hold, but Francis was still delaying and arguing. It looked like they were getting ready to throw him out. Zoey decided to take matters into her own hands. She slipped behind Francis – he was too distracted to notice – and went down on her hands and knees. Louis checked to see that Francis' static line was clear, and then he and Bill unceremoniously shoved Francis backward as hard as they could. With an undignified shriek, he disappeared into the night. But his static line tightened and then went limp, indicating that his chute had opened.
"Let's go! Check the lines!" Louis was clear, and jumped; Bill followed him. Zoey, last out, dove headfirst into the darkness, as usual panicking at the last moment with the thought that she'd somehow forgotten to secure her static line. But she hadn't, and her chute snapped open, pale in the darkness. She could see another chute not so far away, she assumed Bill's. So they three would probably land within a reasonable distance of each other but... Francis was going to be a problem. She sighed and thought, You are so going to owe me after this is over, and then realized the sentiment was foolish. If it was ever over, and all of them safe, she would be far too relieved to think of settling scores.
Francis later told everyone that he couldn't remember anything of what happened in the plane or in the air. He must have lost consciousness, at least for a time. When he came to, he was swinging gently in the air, about fifteen feet off the ground. It was light already when he woke, just before dawn.
His chute had caught on one of the arms of a power pylon, fortunately without shorting anything out. The power was probably dead anyway. Francis winced as he realized what might have happened if it had been live and he'd hit in a slightly different place. He'd seen a buzzard make a careless landing on a pylon once, in Texas down near the Mexican border. Damned thing had exploded, taking a couple of transformers with it, burning buzzard bits and feathers and shit all over the place, and nearly two days before the power was back on. No air conditioning, no cold beer, and it had been the very height of summer. God, they'd cursed that fucking bird.
He moved his head cautiously, keeping his eyes half-closed, looking to see if his entrance had attracted the attention of any of the infected. Nothing to the left... to the right... to the center... below. Below. Oh crap, he mouthed silently.
Sitting almost directly below him, of all motherless things in this motherless world, a fucking witch. Great. Completely out of reach for the time being, fortunately, and not looking at him, but still... He'd lost his shotgun, too. Only a punk-ass pistol and a pipe bomb, neither of which was going to impress that witch very much. It wouldn't be a really bright move to drop onto its goddamned head either, even if he knew how to release his harness, which he realized he didn't. He'd sprain an ankle or break a leg, at least, from this height, and witches were so tough that jumping on its head would probably just piss it off. A creature that could survive being shot at close range with a hunting rifle wasn't going to suffer fatal damage from a biker dropping in, steel-toed boots or not.
Then again, the ground was pretty open and it was easy enough to see. The others will take it out when they find me, Francis thought. And then: If they find me. He suddenly realized that he didn't actually know whether anyone other than himself was still alive. Too busy with his own panic, he hadn't noticed if they'd managed to get out of the burning plane.
As the light grew, the witch continued to sit on the ground below Francis, instead of wandering off, as he had hoped it would. Go away, Francis mouthed at it silently. I hate groupies. You're not my type anyway. Too damned skinny and I never did like red nails. Come back when you've gained some weight and got yourself a hot bike and some decent 'tats. Or indecent ones. That'd be ev'n better. But it obviously wasn't on his wavelength. It squatted there stubbornly, as if guarding a prize, leaving Francis high and dry and swinging in the breeze.
Three hours later, Francis was still in suspension, the witch was still occupying the space immediately below him, and the situation was deteriorating by the moment. Natural bodily processes had brought him to the point where it was imperative to pump ship, but there he was, stuck high in the air, far from the nearest public convenience, or handy roadside bush for that matter. And gravity and a light, constantly shifting breeze being what they were, it wasn't hard to guess where any attempt by him to water the roses was going to end up. His experience with the creatures was limited and imperfect, of course, but Francis was fairly certain that the witch wouldn't appreciate being pissed on. And if it started to scream, there was a very good chance it would attract other infected, perhaps including specials like the smoker and the spitter, both of whom would find him a sitting duck. Or a pissing duck. Whatever.
He had to get the witch out of there, even if it was only temporary. What to do?
Francis discreetly checked his pockets and ammo pouches. Nothing much there but ammunition, pistol rounds and shotgun shells, and a couple of magazines for the submachine gun he didn't have any longer. Hm. The loaded magazines had some heft, at least, and would travel a fair way if he threw them. Would that do any good?
Certainly throwing them at it would be a complete waste of time. A creature who could absorb half the bullets in the magazine and still rip his ass off and hand it back to him gift-wrapped with a bow on top wasn't going to be deterred by being boinked on the head with the magazine traveling at the sort of speed he could hurl it by hand. But as a distraction perhaps? Francis remembered that the only times the witch had wandered away was when there had been some motion or sound in the surrounding brush and it had crept over snarling to check it out. It had moved slowly on those occasions, Francis recalled, probably fearing an ambush. That might give him just enough time to balance pressures.
It was a chance, but better than gambling the witch was into golden showers. Francis took a deep breath, winced at a twinge from his bladder, and transferred two submachine gun magazines from his left to his right hand. Then, when the witch glanced in the opposite direction, he flung them as far as he could, into some brush that appeared to be on the edge of a slope. They sailed through the air and landed, and the ensuing clatter suggested they had gone bouncing down a rocky bank. Then Francis unzipped and waited, not at all patiently.
He didn't have to wait long. The witch spun in the direction of the noise and growled, concentrating on identifying any possible threats from that direction. Then it began to move off, slowly, keeping a sharp eye on the bushes into which Francis had thrown the magazines. Meanwhile, as soon as the witch was far enough away, Francis began frantically playing fireman, whipping his stream about like a five year old boy intent on demonstrating the superior directive powers of male anatomy as the high point of a juvenile session of you-show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine. It wouldn't do to leave a puddle, he realized, so he did his best to share the wealth.
Suppressing a groan of relief at the bliss of his inner emptiness, Francis put the parts away and zipped up. Didn't want Zoey to catch him with his fly open, after all. The witch was still poking around the bushes with its back toward him. It looked as if it had found something interesting there, and was in no hurry to come back to its usual post. As he watched with half-closed eyes, it stood up and looked in his direction, only to growl softly and go into a crouch, as if it were under attack. Then it straightened up, turned again, and moved further away. In a few minutes, it was out of sight.
Francis knew that he couldn't be the reason for the witch's retreat, but he felt badass all the same. Yeah, run away, bitch. Got the message finally. I ever see you again, I'll pop a cap in that skanky ass of yours. Now he could begin thinking of how to get himself out of the mess with the parachute. Would it be better to cut some of the cords and hope that the rest ripped slowly and checked his fall, or just resign himself to a bit of damage and drop straight down from where he was hanging? He scanned the area to the front and the sides; nothing visible. The witch seemed to be gone for good. He'd have to take what was going on behind him on faith, though; he couldn't twist around that far.
Putting his pistol away, Francis reached up with a knife and began considering where to cut first. Then he froze. Something was coming up behind him, something with a heavy, clumsy tread. He suspected it wouldn't be anything he'd be glad to see. He could hear the something coming closer and closer from behind, and then stopping. Please, please, please let it be a stray cow dammit, Francis thought. Sounded heavy enough for one, anyway.
There was a loud gurgle and a long, disgusting belch. That doesn't sound like a cow, Francis thought. It's more like a...
At which point the boomer emptied its entire load over him from below and slightly to the rear. And Francis knew only too well what THAT was going to mean. Fortunately his pistol had escaped the spew. He whipped it out without thinking, twisted around, and put a shot into the belly of the boomer, who was almost directly below him at that moment. And regretted it at once: the boomer exploded with voluptuous grossness, showering him and all the surrounding area with body parts and more bile. So much for making a quick, quiet getaway.
Then, Francis began to chuckle in pleasurable anticipation. Something had occurred to him. Suddenly, he was about as happy as anyone covered in stinking slime could be. After all, although he was thoroughly soaked, he remained too high to be reached by any of the ordinary infected. Provided no specials put in an appearance, he was going to be treated to a front-row seat while every infected in the area tore itself and its neighbors apart trying to get to him, and failed. And there was that pipe bomb as well... Popcorn time. If he had brought any.
It was violent, chaotic, and gruesome, it seemed to go on for just about forever, and Francis loved every minute of it. The infected ran toward him, of course, but they collided right under him and turned on each other. He began "calling" the struggle like an announcer at a pro wrestling bout:
And here we go, skinny black dude kicks the feet out from under middle-aged Hispanic farm worker. Now old white lady is into the rumble. BAM! Skinny black dude gets it in the head from old white lady and WHAM! Hispanic farm worker bites skinny black dude in the leg...and slugs him in the nuts, OH that must have hurt... looking bad for skinny black dude... but NO, skinny black dude kicks Hispanic worker in the head, steel toed boots it looks like, and Hispanic farm worker is OUT, rollin' around, he won't be back for a while, broken nose... but what's this, he let his guard down, skinny black dude gets it in the head AGAIN from old white lady, she's got him by the neck, look at those fingernails! And skinny black dude's DOWN and twitchin' with his throat ripped out...
When the infected got too numerous, Francis tossed the pipe bomb off to the side and drew off most of them, a small, noisy crowd that ended up blasted into small, quiet pieces. He cheered and clapped wildly. He couldn't remember ever having so much fun, not for years, maybe not even since his dickwad of a high-school phys ed teacher had tried to show off by making a stupid jump after a ball way out of bounds and had come down legs spread wide to take a fire hydrant in the crotch. Francis had never thought anything could beat that for laughs, but this witless bunch of rot-brains were proving pretty lively competition. It was only that he didn't know any of them personally, and so he couldn't enjoy their demise quite as much.
Two or three were left at the end, wandering around, but Francis had little difficulty shooting them in the head with his pistol. And then the quiet came back from wherever it had been hiding for the previous few hours, and it was a peaceful and pleasant day again, except for all the cadavers. With some difficulty, Francis cleaned off the face of his watch and checked the time. Half past noon. Had it been that quick? He'd thought it had gone on all day.
Now to get out of this mess, with the added advantage of a layer of bodies on the ground under him to help break his fall. He reached up again with the knife, wondering where it would be best to cut.
"If you pull that big ring-headed pin a little further up, the canopy will detach from the harness, you know." Zoey's voice, cool and collected. Dispassionate.
She walked round to Francis' front. "But don't do it until we get a few more things stacked up for you to drop into. We really don't need any broken legs."
Another set of footsteps, and Louis came into view, carefully picking his way through the dead bits and pieces with a look on his face as if he were smelling something bad. He began, "You've got to stop hanging out in neighborhoods like this, Francis..." only to be drowned out by a chorus of groans from Zoey, Francis, and Bill, who was bringing up the rear.
The three others piled every corpse in the neighborhood under Francis, and he dropped down without further incident, other than being decorated with two or three more miscellaneous body parts of no further use to their former owners. He shook himself, and then gave the small mountain of dead an admiring glance. "Anyone got a camera? I'd like to get a photograph with that."
"No, Francis, no one has a camera," Bill said with more than a touch of sarcasm. He paused a moment, and continued in a more approving tone. "But it's not a bad score. Must be nearly every one of the infected in this area."
"We should do this more often," Zoey piped up. "Bait and bash, the key to overcoming the apocalypse."
"Well, Zoey, the next time we can do it with you as the bait hanging up there," Francis began. Louis interrupted, "And then we can work the damsel in distress theme as well. Symbols are powerful things." He coughed. "Have to take a pass on doing it myself, though. Symbolism isn't quite as auspicious for me."
Zoey shrugged, "Let's try to survive for today first. Better get a move on. There's a trail leading up there that crosses a stream where you can wash some of that shit off," she said, turning to Francis, "and I think we're near Allegheny National Forest. I seem to remember those hills up ahead. Went camping here a few times." She paused. "Probably has an escape trail and safe rooms leading through it, like most of the parks. People thought there'd be fewer infected out in the woods, but of course they migrated to wherever the survivors were."
They began moving forward cautiously. Francis noticed that all of them were down to pistols as well. They must have had rougher landings than they admitted. "So how did you guys get together, and how did you find me?" he asked Louis.
"We were lucky. We landed close to each other in some open ground. Never were really separated. We figured you'd be a bit further down the flight path, so we just worked our way back. You weren't quite where you should have been, so it took a while to find you. Of course, when that show started, it wasn't all that hard to pin down where you were from the noise."
"You mean you found me while the fight was on?"
"Yeah," Louis said, and shrugged. "But it looked as if you were having fun, so we left you alone till they were all dead. We were close enough so that if a smoker or something had showed up, we could have gotten you out of the mess. Probably."
"What happened to the plane?"
Louis didn't answer immediately. He finally said, "I didn't see it myself, wasn't facing that way, but Zoey says she saw the wing come off a couple of minutes after we jumped. Pilot must have been killed."
"Damn. And we don't even know his name."
"Wouldn't much matter if we did," Bill chipped in gloomily. "They're not going to be giving out medals for this one. This is just life now. Can't see it ever changing back to what it was."
"We'll get through it yet," Zoey said. She had been drawing ahead of the group, but had stopped and come back when she saw the three others had slowed their pace and drifted into a depression. "Francis' Last Stand will be a story for children on winter nights. Meanwhile," she swept her arm out in a broad gesture toward the hills and forest, "we're all safe, it's a lovely autumn day, this has always been a peaceful place, and we're not seeing any infected up here on higher ground. Maybe it'll just be a pleasant walk in the woods now." She pointed up the trail. "There's some sort of signboard ahead there. Might be directions to the nearest safe room. Supplies. A radio. You never know."
"Or a tank," Francis said. "One way to find out, I guess." They continued up the trail...
the end