Zombie Flight

Zombie Flight - chapter 11- Cockpit

If you're a member of the senate, you take more than your fair share of tours of "out of bounds" areas. Baseball dugouts, mayors' offices, factory floors—you name it. The view from an airliner as it carves through the air at thirty-eight thousand feet is still amazing. The moon sank slowly into the dark as the first glimmer of rising sun mixed color into the sky like blood in the water.

The high-pitched hum of the jet engines penetrated everywhere, even into the cockpit. A gentle reminder that forty thousand tons of machinery and two hundred and eighty passengers continued to defy gravity.

Captain Greg Henning was as large as Kylie Chan the copilot was small. They sat in expansive furry seats with a gap in the front crotch region, where they could pull the steering yoke back for takeoff. They were each hemmed in by two glowing screens—banks of buttons and switches above them, between them, and on top of the screens in front.

Serious senatorial charm was going to be required for these two to let me make a call to find out what the hell was happening back in the States.

"You wouldn't want to get your signals crossed up here." I opened with the sophistication of a brain-dead yokel.

I caught the disappointment in their eyes as they turned, despite the effort they made to hide it. They didn't seem to appreciate their senator wearing dirty jeans and sporting a hobo beard like some bum. Great planning, Steele. The disappointment was mutual. Their eyes sparkled, way too clear.

This whole infection nightmare scenario had to be some kind of mistake, but I had to know for sure. I had to be subtle about it, but I was seriously out of practice.

"How long have you two been infected?" I blurted.

Henning didn't seem surprised. "Seven months, and Kylie here only for three. We're one of the highest-ranked crews in the whole airline. For heck's sake, Kylie's taken this beast off autopilot, because she can avoid turbulence better than the computer. We're performing on turbo. A lot of copilots become infected just to help them make the jump to captain. Mustangs are now the employees of choice at all the larger airlines."

"It didn't used to be like that," Chan said, leaning back. "You don't know how much of a big deal it is for us to be flying. Let alone us flying together. For a while they grounded Greg—total scare campaign like the early days of HIV, but now we're out and proud."

"So much prejudice," said Henning. "And me a pilot with twenty-five years' experience, with a perfectly manageable condition—"

A bang sounded in the distance, but Henning ignored it. "That bill will mean that my children don't have to worry about hate crimes. How would you feel if your sister—"

My hand shot out, and I grabbed Henning by the ear. "And how the hell do you know anything about my sister?"

"Argghh!" Henning jacked his head back fast and reached for my hand, but I held on. His leg pushed against the yoke, and the Dreamliner lurched downward.

"Senator! Senator Steele!" Chan yelled as she pulled back on the yoke, stabilizing the plane. "Let him go if you don't want us to crash!"

"The embassy staff told us about your sister," shouted Henning. "There is no message. I'm sorry—we needed to plead our case."

For a moment the scene froze. Chan had put the plane on automatic pilot, ready to launch herself at me.

I let go of Henning's ear and stepped back, breathing heavily. "Okay, okay. I only just found out."

Henning turned around, nursing his ear. "You don't know what it's like. People have been poisoned, there've been hate crimes, crazy stuff. None of us wants our family to be at risk." He screamed as something bulged under his shirt and started moving.

"What the hell is that?" I said, jumping back.

Henning clutched Chan's hand, his face set in pain as his stomach settled.

Tears ran down Chan's face. "You don't understand, Senator. If you kill the worm, you kill the host. You've got to support this bill."

"What do you mean?" It didn't make sense. Worms were small. That thing pushing his shirt up couldn't have been a worm. I felt a shiver of fear but squashed it down.

They stared at me with their clear eyes—his green, hers brown. Hand in hand with the moon behind them like a postcard. Hell, they were scared, not dangerous. God, how must Jan be feeling now if I was ready to lynch these pilots on a hunch.

"It started when a few kids gave their teacher some Mebendazole as a joke, back when Mustang first arrived in the States, you know," said Chan. "Just a joke. Their teacher died in agony on the floor of the classroom. Shortly after, the first incidents of deliberate food tampering happened. It was in all the newspapers, until they realized the attention was making it worse. The police are powerless, and it's still happening. All from a simple over-the-counter worm treatment. That's why your support for this bill is vital. We have to get these killer drugs off the shelves. The drug companies should be spending time making OxyContin and Bennies, so Mustangs can live normal lives and contribute, not be murdered."

Something in the intensity of her gaze was giving me the creeps, but as I thought of a response, a thin knock came at the door. As it opened, a Wedge Airlines badge on a white shirt came into view. It was Nola. She hesitated, then came into the cabin, closing the door behind her, making an already cramped cockpit even tighter.

I moved backward towards the pilots, sensing something. Her face was deathly pale, making her freckles stand out. Faint red welts trailed up her neck. Her eyes flickered, and she was having trouble focusing.

She leaned back on the door handle, until we heard the distinctive click of a lock.

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