Last Flight Out (© Colin M. Drysdale)
Page 1 I tapped the fuel gauge for the third time
in five minutes. It made no difference, all it did was bounce on empty; I was
running on fumes. One way or another I was going to end up back on the ground
and it would be soon. I circled round, desperately looking for somewhere I
could set the plane down. At least it meant that if I crashed, or more likely
when, I wouldn’t have to worry about there being a fire. Then again, given how
the world now was, fire was the least of my worries. When I’d taken off a few hours before, I’d
done it in a rush and checking to see how much fuel was on board had hardly
been my top priority; instead, it was getting out alive. I’d watched the horde
of infected sweep up the road from the town, drawn by the hum of the generators
and decided it was finally time to bug out. It wasn’t like there was any one
left to evacuate, well not anyone who really mattered. The last of them had
come through the day before and all the chatter over the radio suggested
there’d be no more airlifts. Not now; Not ever. Both the refugees and the
infected had been working their way northwards from Glasgow and the central
belt for the last few days, ever since the outbreak started, and now it seemed
they were here. I could hardly be accused of dereliction
of duty for leaving when I did. I’d done my job; I’d kept the airport open,
allowing as many of the soldiers and marines as possible to get out as they
pulled back time and time again. The word on the ground was that Scotland was finished and all efforts were being concentrated on defending the hastily-erected
blockade at Hadrian’s Wall. That was their grand plan for protecting the rest
of the country. Despite the fact that there were still several million people
there, all desperate for salvation, the north was being abandoned and the
ancient Roman fortification revived more than 1500 years after it last served
any useful purpose. If the strategy was to have any chance of halting the advance
of the infection, and the infected, they’d need everyone they could get and it
had been my job to see that as many of those who’d been responsible for the
failed containment in the north made it there in one piece. It was Dunkirk in reverse, with everyone trying to get south rather than north. But this
evacuation wasn’t by boats, it was by air, and the enemy was so much worse. When the last transporter left the day
before, I was promised they’d come back for me but when I’d put the call in,
all I was told was to hold my position, just in case. Just in case of what, I
didn’t know, but that was when I realised I was being scarified for the greater
good along with everyone else north of the border. Right there and then I
started looking round for other options. It was only a small airport so I had a
choice of just three planes. The fact that I could only find the keys to one of
them meant the decision was made for me. It was a little four-seater Cessna,
the kind where the wings were fixed above the windows. I’d just starting to inspect the plane
when I became aware of a noise in the distance. At first it sounded like
insects scurrying over fallen leaves, but as it grew louder it resolved itself
into the sound of a multitude of feet pounding on tarmac. It took me a few
minutes to get the plane going; by then the infected were at the gates. There
were thousands of them all pushing and tearing at the chain link fence
surrounding the airport. It was the first time I’d seen them in person rather
than just on the news but I’d heard the soldiers, the ones who had been on the
front lines, talking about their wild eyes that seemed to burn with hatred and
anger; about how they could be on you in seconds, tearing into you, ripping you
apart, spilling your guts across the ground while you screamed in agony. They
wouldn’t stop until you were dead. This is what the virus did to you, the one
that started in Haiti and that was now spreading around the world. It was worst
when it was someone you knew, so the soldiers said. I heard them talk about it;
about how they’d made pacts to finish each other off if they became infected
and couldn’t do it for themselves. They’d rather die than become one of them.
Yet, some of them had. I could see them in amongst those that were now surrounding
me, easily visible in khaki uniforms that were stained with blood. The fence
swayed and shuddered; it wouldn’t hold, not for long at any rate. I revved the
engine as the first section fell and they started to surge through. As I raced
along the runway, the infected pursued me, the nearest almost reaching me just
as I lifted off. I was safe and now all I had to do was make it far enough
south to cross the barricade. Then and only then would I be beyond their reach. [ Continue to page 2 ] |