Hello! It's been a while! But here's chapter 2!
Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride
She knew Denver International Airport like the back of her hand.
She knew the parking garage, both terminals, the baggage claim, and was on a first name basis with a flight attendant by the name of Elise. For some reason, though, she had never wanted, or had never been, on platform five.
There were many reasons. The garage was never full enough to force drivers to the shadeless, hot roof - or, depending on the season, covered in snow - of Terminal East, and it was a hassle just getting all the way up there, then coming back to find the car scorched or buried.
So it was a bit obvious why Maximum Ride's heart filled with dread when she saw that the first four platforms read FULL in a heartbreaking shade of red on the lowest level of the parking garage. She knew it was silly, how much she didn't like a platform, but it was better than some of her other ludicrous fears.
Max put her Jeep in row D, squished between two unfortunately coloured Mini Coopers, and grabbed her navy duffel with one hand while sliding out of the driver's seat.
Although she was constantly flying to Denver from her home in New Zealand, Max hated airports. She hated the nosy security guards, and the throng of rushing people lugging large carry-ons. She definitely hated how close everyone was on the shuttle, and how she could hear several different conversations ranging from English to Swahili at all times. Max looked around, shoving her itinerary into her back pocket. Today, I'm starting to believe people when they tell me I'm a pessimist. I can't blame them.
After checking in, Max strode over to the escalator, passing a woman in a traditional cow girl outfit working the information desk. She tipped her hat to Max and asked her if she needed anything.
"No, ma'am." Max looked over to the gaping pit that was security. The crowd was enourmous, throngs of people being whisked through the endless line. She would be there for an hour at least.
"There's one thing you could do, ma'am," Max said, not tearing her gaze from the TSA guards in their unfortunate royal blue attire.
"What's that?" She gave Max a small smile, like she was the first person today she could help.
"You could make the lines shorter." She laughed. Max repositioned her shoulder to the strap of her duffel.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," she said, "but you're a hoot. My hat's off to you." She took off her ten-gallon hat, digging a hand into her messy hair. Max flashed a quick smile before stepping down the escalator, hoping the lines would go speedy.
Security was the main reason that Max hated airports. Even if there wasn't a long line, it was always extremely annoying to take off her shoes, have the TSA agents look through her bag, and, the most nerve wracking part, stepping into the reader completely exposed with her arms over her head. She dreaded the day they would miraculously find something, something she didn't have, and then treat her as a terrorist threat.
Of course, Max knew that it was completely irritation, but a girl could have fears, right?
She stepped in line behind a woman with beautiful fair skin and a silky green dress that crescendoed over her waist into thin curls. Max stared down at her tight jeans and sneakers, shrugging. She was no Irish goddess, but she did care about what she looked like.
Just not to the airport.
Max's phone buzzed in her back pocket. UNKNOWN CALLER, it read.
"Hello?" She asked, pressing the cell to her ear. There was no response. "Hello? Hello?"
A raspy voice answered on the line. It was quiet, so quiet that Max almost thought it was her own breath.
"They're coming."
Her eyes widened. Who the hell are you? She thought, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, an erratic thump. She didn't notice that the person had hung up until she heard the dial tone wake her from her stupor. She hit the end button of her throwaway flip phone and sighed.
Who the hell is coming?
The rest of the way to the top of the line was exhausting. Max's head was pounding, a heated inferno that kept knocking incessantly on her skull, saying, "can you feel this one? How about this?" Her mind was wracking for an answer. Who was that man? His voice was a ragged whisper, a ghost of a sound on the receiver. It was difficult to think about the words, the intention of this person. Had it really been a warning?
Max gave her ID to the TSA guard with an irritated expression on her face. He made a quick joke about New Zealand for a second and then asked her to say something to her with her accent before giving her back her ID and her boarding pass.
Stupid fucking Americans.
With a flourish, Max dipped her head under her duffel and heard it splatter against the ground, kicking the heels of her shoes off to get her feet out, simultaneously taking off her bracelets and belt. It must have taken her only a few moments to retrieve her repulsive flip phone and throw the damn Nokia into the bin, because by the time she was done, the man behind her scoffed in disbelief. If Maximum Ride was one thing, she was quick.
Max stepped in line to get to the reader behind the beautiful Irish woman. She realized that she had forgotten to put her pen inside the bin, and held it out in front of her so that the guards could see that was the only thing that she had.
This was the worst part of the airport. The reader.
The guard gave her the signal to step into the cylinder, and she did, her arms just above her head with the pen in between her hands, her body facing sideways.
"Please raise your arms higher, ma'am," the TSA agent said. Max looked over to a dark skinned woman with thick, pointed glasses. She let out an exhale, and raised her arms higher. "Thank you, ma'am."
The machine started, a rhythmic hum that vibrated Max's sock clad feet. "Look straight ahead," the woman reminded her, and Max just closed her eyes, her heart beating quickly. Max expected the cylinder to move in a full circle, closing the cylinder halfway before opening in just two seconds, but she couldn't feel anything happen. She opened her eyes, and the woman was trying to get the reader to work.
Max watched her signal to another TSA agent, who jogged over to help with the small screen. As soon as he got it back to where the screen was supposed to be, the woman with the pointed glasses gave Max a thumb's up, and to put her arms back up again.
The hum began again, Max's eyes squeezed shut, and the cylinder closed.
And it stayed closed.
Max's eyes shot open, and her arms lowered slowly back to her sides. The grip on her pen whitened her knuckles, and she stood, aghast, watching the woman in the pointed glasses tap furiously on the screen with manicured fingers. Everything was muffled, a buzzing in Max's ears. She banged on the glass with balled fists, feeling claustrophobic in the cylinder.
"You can get me out of here, can't you?" Max screamed, the panic rising in her throat almost palpable. The ballpoint pen in her hand was close to being crushed into her fist, and once again she yelled at the TSA agents that were coming closer. They all tried to talk to her, to calm her down, but she couldn't hear anything but the pitch of their perplexed voices.
A wave of fatigue washed over Max, and she felt herself slipping to the ground, her hand against the cool glass. The cylinder was sealed, she knew that, and there was no reason for her to waste any of the oxygen that was left inside of it, especially with hysteria tugging at her insides and her erratic heartbeat pounding in her ears mercilessly. She closed her eyes and covered her ears, hating the panicked hum of voices. She felt like an experiment inside a tank, almost.
Faintly, Max heard a tap on the glass. She looked up to see a piece of paper on the other side of the thick glass. It read:
Don't worry. We're going to get you out of here.
Max settled for watching the TSA agents work, their inexperienced hands moving awkwardly on parts of the cylinder, attempting to pry the glass open or shatter it themselves. The only person who seemed to know what they were doing was the woman with the pointed glasses. She seemed liberated by the situation, as if it was just a challenge for her to overcome, a slope, rather than Max's life.
Boom.
The lights went out. Just for a second, until dim generators powered the necessary parts of the airport. The screen the agents were fumbling at went black. It was getting hotter inside the reader, and Max felt vulnerable, powerless inside the tiny cylinder. This can't be real, can it? Of course not, right? I'm simply dreaming.
No.
More muffled noises of screaming and panic from the crowd. Max faintly wondered about the Irish woman who had just been in front of her. Was she stuck on a shuttle to one of her gates, or was she on the other side being told comforting words just like the rest of the other passengers were?
That's when Max heard it. The first, clear noise since being trapped inside the reader. She wasn't quite sure at first whether or not it was just another muffled yell or not, but she was certain that she was hearing moaning.
All of her senses were on overload, and even through the thick glass she swore that she could smell the repugnant stench of rotting flesh, could hear the shambling of useless limbs against the linoleum floors in security, could almost taste it. The blood.
Oh, that was the worst part. Max gagged, putting most of her face into her shirt, only sparing her eyes from her tight shirt. She used a hand to hold up the falling material, and another to hold the pen. The blood was so strong, it felt like the sharp, metallic taste was filling up each and every one of her taste buds. I must be dreaming.
She looked up, finally, to see if she could find the source of the smells, and she regretted it in an instant. She dropped her pen, and her hand went limp at her side, exposing her mouth and nose to the bloody smell, and her eyes to the splattered blood on the cylinder, covering her vision to the outside in a translucent blanket. The moaning was only louder, and it pierced Max's ears with horror as she saw the first one, eating the woman in her pointed glasses. Hungrily, the information desk worker gnawed at the woman's dark flesh, her hat long off her head and her clothes tattered. Another bite was visible on the cowgirl's arm, and her intestines seemed to be falling out of her stomach, only being kept together by a precarious thread. The woman was screaming, the cowgirl moaning in delight.
No.
No.
Fuck no.
Max stared, helpless, watching the other passengers meet similar fates. There was blood everywhere. It covered the computers, the bins, the clothes of the TSA agents, and the reader that Max was trapped inside.
She lifted her hands slowly, pressing her palms against the warm glass. This barrier was the only thing protecting her. Those things hadn't even noticed her yet, or hadn't smelled her. She had no idea how they found everyone, but the place was becoming a graveyard.
Max looked back to the dark skinned TSA agent who was being torn apart by the cowgirl, and found her remains lying on the ground while other creatures like the information desk worker stumbled over her body. Dead. A life, gone. And most of these as well.
Reality settled in, and Max knew she was either going to die peacefully in the reader, or be torn apart by the others if she made her way out. There were just too many, probably hundreds, hungry and wanting more than what their clouded vision could provide.
They were all dead, but had come back. No. Zombies? It was overwhelming. This can't be a dream, Max decided finally. I would have waken up by now.
So she made a plan. She took notes of all the exists that she could make out of the security area, only finding the escalators that brought her down to the lowered area or the ones that were straight out of the reader. They lead to the waiting area for the shuttle, and the basements as well. She'd have to take her chances with the shuttle area.
Shaking hands held Max's only weapon, a pen. She removed her socks, knowing they would slow her down, but kept them in her pocket for when she might get outside and blister her feet on the asphalt. The enormity of the situation was beginning to settle in.
Boom.
The lights went on, the electricity returning momentarily to all of the airport. The reader opened again, the scent of death smacking Max in the face. It was even stronger.
The sound of the reader opening again must have alerted some of the zombies, because as soon as it opened, their heads swiveled back to her.
This is my only chance.
Max ran as fast as she could, swiveling through zombies with deft speed. She slid down the rail of the escalator, and a wave of fear that had been infesting Max's body seemed to leave. There were barely any of them down there, but the ones that were there started to notice her. She needed to think quick.
Barefoot, Max ran to the closest shuttle and began pressing the button furiously. There was a winding sign above her that read, ALL A, B, AND C GATES, and she watched it disappear and reappear on the screen twice before it was replaced with something else.
I TOLD YOU THEY WERE COMING.
The doors to the shuttle opened, and Max stepped inside. It was empty except for two of the zombies. More of them, started to realize Max leaving.
"Fuck! Fuck, hurry the fuck up!"
The doors closed. The two zombies were approaching Max with a slow, steady shamble. Rolling her sleeve over her hand, she pinned the first, a woman, to the wall, stabbing her pen in the woman's eye. Blood began to spill onto her sleeve, and was so close to hitting Max's face that she was worried that it would seep into her as well.
Over and over again, into the eye, but Max knew that there was still another, and the shuttle was going to slow down to the A gates and open either more of the zombies, or unaware people on the other side of the airport.
She grabbed the pen out of the zombie's eye, steadying herself with the former woman's unruly, dry hair. At that very moment, the other zombie moaned right behind Max, so close to her that she worried if she was already infected.
"Oh, no you fucking don't," she said, dropping to the ground and pulling on the zombie's ankle. It fell to the ground. Max scrambled to her feet, grabbed the other zombie by the back of the head, and began smashing it into the pole. She yelled, tears threatening to pour over the surface of her eyes, but she refused to let that happen, refused to let the colour red overwhelm her to the point of where she couldn't go on. She had gone on this far.
Maximum Ride was going to survive.
The shuttle stopped, and it wasn't because she had reached the A gate, but the power had gone off again, severing her vision. The only light was from the tunnel she was in.
Max cleaned her pen on the shirt of the first woman and slid it into her pocket, then reached for the looped hand holds at the top of the shuttle, trying to rip out the leather from the ceiling, but it was no use. She couldn't get it out.
The door to the shuttle was similar to an elevator, and it was a known fact that she could slip something inside of it to get it to open, just for a minute. Max grabbed her pen and tried to pry open the door. The pen created a small enough space to where she could get a finger in, and then two, and then her other fingers to open it up by herself. It was dark outside the shuttle, darker than it had been inside, regardless of the ominous light that hung over Max's vision.
"Over here!" A voice hissed, barely a whisper. Max could barely hear it over her heartbeat, but she followed the voice's path to a door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, holding a gun and a few knives. One of the knives was pointed at her.
"Whoa, I'm not going to try anything-"
"Are you bit?"
Max paused. "No, no I'm not."
"Scratched?"
"No."
The voice was obviously male, and he was stern and even. A pale hand extended a long, serrated knife towards Max. "We're going to get out of here."
"Alive," Max added.
"Alive," he agreed. He didn't offer any other words to her as he opened the door out of the tunnel, sunlight hitting her dead in the eye.
I wish this was a dream.