Zombie Flight

Zombie Flight - Chapter 1 - Narita Airport

Neumann bent down to look for any stray legs under the rows of cars. Paranoia had saved him more than once.

The fluorescent lights didn't help—there weren't enough of them, and the gray pillars and ramps of the car park threw dark claustrophobic shadows. The architect who'd built this place could only have had one set of instructions: jam everything in tight.

The ID badge hanging from his hip read "Dr. Roger Neumann, US Embassy, Cultural Attaché." He shuddered, if one of those things was lurking in the shadows, credentials wouldn't help him.

His face clenched in concentration, listening. The thrum of a jet taking off overhead broke through the airport gray noise before tailing off. There were no sounds of footsteps—nothing. Keep it together. No one's in the car park but you and your imagination.

Breath came in fast, short spurts. Too bad the whole place smelled of tire rubber and leaking oil. He crouched behind a Nissan, leaning against a tire, not caring if his suit got dirty. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it, then willed the out breath to come slowly.

If anyone from the embassy caught him freaking out in the dark . . . well, he'd seen too many vets crack up to blame them. Imagination backed up with hard data was a bad combination. The voice in his head wouldn't let up. Damn, he hoped he'd hidden his feelings. If Steele thought he was the mayor of Crazytown, he might not read the dossier. That would be bad because the general couldn't afford to lose another ally, and more importantly, Neumann couldn't afford to lose his daughter's protector—at least not for the duration of the flight.

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket for his nerves—and a .9 ml Browning from his shoulder holster for more concrete reassurance.

He didn't believe in intuition, which just made the abiding sense of dread all the worse. The flame from his lighter showed a face wrinkled with worry. He sucked on the cigarette greedily, but even the reassuring hit of nicotine couldn't take the edge off. Then the noise started again—a shuffling step with dragging feet. He held his breath. Maybe they'll go the other way. Just keep quiet, and there'll be nothing to worry about.

The ping of a cell phone cut through the silence. He flinched, his heart beating in overdrive thumping his ribs. He dropped the Browning into his front suit pocket and fumbled to pick up the call before it rang again. "General Kellis" flashed across the phone screen as he put it to his ear.

"Yeah," he whisper-yelled, nervous. "Make it quick. I think someone's down here."

"Imagine that—someone at an airport," a deep voice vibrated through the phone. "I'm not impressed with your improvisation, Neumann. You were meant to follow the plan."

Neumann paused, pulling his ear from the headpiece for a moment. The footsteps seemed to have stopped, but he still whispered. "A good soldier improvises, General. Steele doesn't care what we do to him. He didn't even know he was still a senator until yesterday. He's a sad, grieving alcoholic. He just wants to vote and leave. His reputation's already nonexistent, and he has no idea he's a pawn. And no, I didn't tell him about his sister. He's not ready."

A roar came down the phone, but Neumann didn't flinch. He merely held the phone further away from his ear. He turned his head and scanned the car park slowly, squinting at shadows.

He took another drag of his cigarette and pulled out a brown leather wallet, then flicked it open and smiled. A string of photo-booth shots showed him with a little girl, arm in arm, pulling silly faces. All this—it was worth it.

Narita Airport had been a nightmare. The Japanese might be strict, but they weren't the problem. He'd spotted more infected travelers in the Wedge Airline Frequent Flyer's area than out in the regular boarding lounge. Steele, the naive idiot, was completely oblivious, chatting up the barmaid halfheartedly when Neumann had found him. Not that the general, pissed off as usual, would care.