The Terminal Page 4

Still, I wanted to know if there were any bullets already inside it, and if so, how many. There must be some way to check on that. Why didn’t guns have a gauge like cars did for gasoline? Nothing fancy, just a simple “E” for empty and an “F” for full with a little meter in between. Would that have been so hard? According to some of Dylan’s silly first person shooter games, there were guns that could pick off a rat over a mile away. In the dark. A full/empty meter seemed like base model equipment next to that. If I made it out of this alive, I was going to write a letter to the manufacturers explaining my idea. Maybe they’d buy it from me and I’d make my second million. The first would be public appearance fees as the sole survivor of THE NIGHTMARE THAT DESTROYED O’HARE.

  “Ok, Dirk. Quit with the day dreaming. Someone needs help.” I gave up on figuring out the gun and stuck it back into my waistband, hoping that if the time came when I needed to use it, I’d act on instinct and somehow manage to save the day. Or something. Maybe those shoot-em-up action movies would pay off after all.

  The sobbing started again, a bit fainter this time, as if the person making the cries were running out of fuel or battery life or was just plain tired. Maybe it was a little kid and the poor thing was frightened and exhausted from this ordeal. I listened carefully, trying to orient myself on the sound. It was definitely closer up here than it had been downstairs. Good, I’d made the right choice coming up here.

  I took a few tentative steps in what I thought was the right direction, keeping low, one hand poised to grab the gun if I needed it. My every sense was alert, focused on detecting either the cry or the person making it. I felt like a guitar string that someone had tightened just till the breaking point. My nerves felt like schizophrenic gremlins were dancing a jig on each and every one of them. I was so focused on following the sound of that voice that I didn’t notice the guy in front of me until we almost bumped into each other.

  I, of course, being wound tighter than Scrooge on tax day, went for the gun. Shoot first, ask questions later. The dude looked as scared as I was. Eyes as wide as saucers, he held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. I raised one eyebrow at him in confusion, then remembered the gun I was holding and tucked it back into my waistband, trying as hard as I could to calm my breathing and slow my pounding heart before he noticed how terrified I had been. That was close. Damn close. What if he had been one of those fucking aliens? I’d be dead by now. Dirk cold cuts. What if those killer instincts had kicked in and I’d shot him before I had a chance to collect myself? I’d be a murderer, not much better than those fucking aliens, but without their badass physiques. Best not to think about it, in either case.

  The man who stood before me was short, maybe 5’5”. He had that odd sort of thin at the extremities, thick in the middle body type you sometimes see on construction workers or day laborers. He had a fat head over a thick neck and what Dylan would’ve called a baby face, despite his cheesy Guido mustache that looked like two triangles facing away from each other over his thin, greasy looking lips. He had a bad comb over, too. The kind that makes you wonder if he looks at himself in the mirror each morning after he styles his hair and actually thinks he looks good. He was wearing a loud red Hawaiian shirt covered with bright blue and yellow hibiscus flowers, open over a stained wife beater and a thick rope of gold chain with a gaudy oversized cross dangling from it. Like his god was going to help him now. Where was he while meteors smashed into O’Hare International, killing hundreds, if not thousands, my Dylan among them? Same place gods always were when you needed them: Nowhere.

  The Guido also wore gray sweatpants, black Velcro sandals and, of course, black socks. The guy was a walking cliché and I bet he didn’t even know it.

  “You, uh, you the man in charge?” he asked in a reasonable Joe Pesci impersonation, pointing his chin at me and narrowing his eyes.

  “Me?” I asked him, wondering if he’d lost his mind. “Oh, the gun? No. I’m not in charge. I’m just trying to survive.” I said.

  “Yeah.” he agreed, gesturing over his shoulder. “Us, too.”

  Behind him were two more people, pressing against the wall in an attempt to remain hidden lest I decide to shoot their friend, I supposed. Now that he’d survived our initial encounter, they seemed to be relaxing a bit.

  The woman appeared to be in her early to mid-fifties. She had obviously dyed, permed strawberry blonde hair. She was wearing what had once been a smart looking papaya colored business suit over a cream colored shell top and tasteful jewelry. Her lined, haggard face was still carefully made up with expert skill and expensive beauty products. She had a long run in one nylon and her coordinating pink flats were scuffed. Her short nails were manicured and painted in a shade that matched her suit and shoes. I pegged her as a banker of some sort, or a “Financial Executive”. I was hardly impressed.

  Behind her was a mocha skinned teenage boy with thick, plastic rimmed glasses, braces, and a bad case of acne. He wore a black t shirt with a picture of some cartoon character with yellow and orange horns growing out of a mop of emo hair on the front. His own hair was dark, tightly curled, and cropped close on the sides of his head. He had the strap of a laptop bag slung over his shoulder and was clutching the main compartment protectively to his side.

  Greaseball appeared to be their leader. He gestured towards Miss Priss Banker and said, in his bad My Cousin Vinny voice, “This here’s Melissa.” She smiled that all-too-familiar practiced smile and reached around the kid to extend her hand in greeting. I eyed her warily, but didn’t move to shake her hand. She looked uncomfortable for a second before stepping back to where she had been. I don’t like touching people. Especially strangers. It’s the end of the fucking world, ok? To hell with social niceties.

  “And this is Mike.” The kid licked his lips, looking uncomfortable. “It’s Michael.” He said in a quiet voice, the kind of voice that’s used to being ignored, I thought.

  “And I’m Joey.” The way he said “I’m” made it sound like “om” and he actually gestured to himself as he said it. Oh boy, what a class act.

  “And you are?” He asked, melon wobbling like one of those bobble head figures you see on tacky people’s dashboards.

  “I’m done with the introductions. Let’s get our asses out of here. If we make it through this, we can chit chat later.” Joey looked a bit off put, but held his tongue. I was the man with the gun, after all.

  “Ok, tough guy,” he put his hands on his ample hips, making the shirt swell out over his considerable paunch, “What’s the plan?”

  Geez, I’d only just met the guy and already he was giving Yoga Pants (RIP, 90 minutes ago) a run for her annoying money.

  “I’m getting to that.” I said in what I hoped sounded like a confident, commanding tone. “First things first. I came over here because I heard someone crying. Let’s find whoever it is and see if we can help them, too.” That sounded like a heroic thing to say, besides being the truth. Also, it gave me some time to think up an actual plan, which seemed like it might be a good thing to have right about now, especially considering the fact that I’d gone from 0 to leader in one jerky Guido.

  “Y-yes,” said Melissa, “We heard it, too. It sounded close by...” She trailed off as the sobbing started again. It was definitely close, but with all the debris, human and otherwise, scattered all over the place, it was tough to tell where exactly it might be coming from. They don’t tell you this about airports, but they’re basically giant echo chambers, once the throngs of people have been cleared out. Or cut into hunks of bloody chum.

  I looked around the area in wide sweeping arcs, seeking movement of some kind. The others followed in suit. Maybe I could get used to this whole “being a leader” thing after all.

  I debated calling out, but decided against it. I didn’t want to risk any of the Big and Uglies overhearing me and coming for us. I also considered telling whoever was crying to shush before they attracted unwanted attention, but I figured that was probably a waste of time and
effort. It was most likely best to keep searching until we found the source of the crying, then go from there.

  Across from us was a help kiosk for one of the airlines. The small podium-like desk was flanked by two 7 foot high posters attached to big plastic bases featuring smiling stewardesses with equally plastic features. One had been knocked on its side. Blood had been splattered across the perky blonde flight attendant’s face, making her look like some sort of vampire. The other one bore a gash down the middle, the halves of the woman’s image falling away from it like dead rose petals. The desk was up against a wall, tucked between a support column and a bank of monitors that now displayed hissing static, those that hadn’t been smashed, of course. A plastic holder once containing travel brochures had been tipped over and smashed, the brochures scattered around like rectangular autumn leaves.

  Michael was checking around a vending machine (also smashed, mostly looted. Clots of dried blood stuck to whatever was left inside) while Joey and Melissa scanned the area like state troopers on patrol for speeders. But I was fixated on that kiosk. It felt to me like the sort of place a kid might duck behind to hide when things got scary. So I carefully tiptoed over, my fingertips brushing the handle of the gun. I wanted to be ready in case of one of those ambushes I kept envisioning, but I didn’t want to risk shooting whoever was crying like I’d almost shot Joey. That certainly wouldn’t win me any hero points.

  When I got to the upended poster, I stepped carefully over it. Between it and the kiosk was a mess of garbage and chaos. Clothes, mostly. I hoped they didn’t still have people inside them. Or parts of people, anyway. There were also cardboard boxes, folders, and a few trash bags that had likely been looted from the cans nearby.

  Yeah, I thought to myself, this looks like the kind of ramshackle fort a kid would build to protect himself. I knelt down, and in my friendliest possible voice, I said “Hello? Are you here? I want to help you.” And I realized with sudden startling clarity that it was true. I did want to help. Me, Dirk Bradley, humanitarian. Gee, and all it had taken to make me give a damn about another living thing was the end of the goddamned free world. Go figure.

  A few of the clothes started moving as a dirty, bloodstained hand pushed them aside and a pair of brown, tear stained eyes looked up at me. She had tucked herself in under the kiosk and pulled everything close at hand over her small body to stay hidden. Smart girl, I thought. If not for the crying, I might not have found her at all. Then again, I didn’t know how well those cavemen fucks could hear. Or smell, for that matter. Maybe it was just luck that kept them from finding her first.

  I reached a hand out towards her and she took it. It was so small in mine. Warm and soft. Real. I helped her to her feet. I guessed she was about 12 years old, though I don’t spend a lot of time around kids so I wasn’t too certain of that. She was a bit shorter than chest height on me, with soft, rounded features and a nose that made me think of Peter Pan for some reason. She wore blue flowered high top sneakers, white jeans, and a pink and white striped top with yellow trim under a red coat with a hood that looked a few sizes too big for her. Her long brown hair was pulled into a messy, tangled ponytail, though the mess might’ve been a result of the chaos of the morning. It would’ve been understandable. A line of freckles stood out on her slightly olivine face. Metal gleamed from her mouth as she spoke. Braces.

  “Are... are those things gone?” she asked timidly.

  “No.” I said, already pulling her towards the rest of the group, “But we can’t wait around for that to happen. We don’t know if help is coming. We have to take care of ourselves. We have to get out of here. Ok?” I could see hesitation in her eyes, along with doubt, fear, and uncertainty. God, I sucked at this whole recruitment speech thing. “But you’re with us now. There’s safety in numbers. We’ll look out for each other.” She took a small step back from me, looking around as if for an exit. Crap. What if she bolted? She’d most certainly be killed. I was again stunned to find myself actually caring about that possibility. What if she screamed and drew the attention of those alien fucks? God damn it! I had to do something to win her over.

  I gave her my most charming and hopefully sincere smile. Ah, the old Bradley Grin. Gets them every time! Only this time it wasn’t just plastered to my face like some sort of Halloween mask. This time I meant it.

  “Come with me.” I said, reaching again for her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, taking my hand and squeezing it for what felt like reassurance. Gee, 27 years old and I never knew I’d have such a way with the ladies.

  Melissa turned and saw us, her mouth forming a momentary “O” of surprise before she covered it primly with her manicured fingers. She rushed over to us or, rather, the girl and took her by the arm. She smiled warmly. “Oh, sweetie!” she gasped, hand to her chest, “You must be so frightened! What’s your name?” The girl turned from me towards the older woman, dropping my hand like a hot rock. That’s fine. Whatever. I’m just the guy that pulled you out of a kiosk of doom and death, that’s all. Just old chopped liver.

  “I’m Hannah.” The girl said. Melissa wrapped a motherly arm around Hannah’s shoulders and began to guide her towards a bank of seats that was still more or less intact. I’m betting she had kids of her own somewhere. I hoped she’d live to see them again.

  Hannah and Melissa sat down, seemingly making some sort of conversation with each other, which I thought was weird, given the circumstances. I mean, sure, make the girl feel at ease and all, but we’re in the middle of a godforsaken war zone. Let’s not forget that fact. Still, I couldn’t help listening in. Part of me was curious about how a little girl had found herself hiding in an abandoned travel kiosk in the middle of hell.

  Melissa reached for a half-heart shaped pendant that hung around Hannah’s neck. The girl jerked backwards as if Melissa’s fingers had been electrified. She smiled shyly in apology. “I’m sorry.” she muttered, looking down as if to reassure herself that the necklace remained intact. “It’s just that... it’s special.” she wrapped her fingers around it, clutching it tightly for a moment, before turning it around to reveal a small picture lacquered to the back, probably with clear nail polish. “That’s my dad.” Hannah said. I wasn’t close enough to make out the image, but I could tell by the emotion in her voice that it meant a lot to her. “He has the other half of the heart. He always wears it whenever he has to go away, so that part of me is with him. I keep this half so part of him is with me. That way, no matter what happens, we’ll always have each other. But now...” Hannah trailed off, a tear sliding down her cheek. Melissa hugged her. “Where is he now, honey?” she asked.

  “He was... He was supposed to be here. His friend, Walter, at the Veterans’ Affairs Bureau told me he’d be coming in today from Afghanistan. Walter brought me here himself so we could surprise him when he got off the plane. He even talked the security guys into letting us through so we could meet him at the gate. We got here early and then dad’s flight got delayed so Walter took me to Starbucks and bought me a hot chocolate. We were on our way back to the gate when there was some kind of explosion. Walter shoved me into the kiosk, he told me to get down and stay down. I tried to go after him, but there was so much noise! People were screaming. Walter was trying to get everyone to stay calm and listen to him. Then those things... those things came and they...” Hannah was sobbing openly now. Melissa pulled her close, resting her chin on top of Hannah’s head and rubbing her back comfortingly. Geez, poor kid.

  I fidgeted uncomfortably for a minute, trying to figure out what to say or do. It seemed like I was now their leader and while I was sort of pleased by the fact that I’d usurped that greaseball Joey, I also didn’t have a clue as to what to do or how to get us out of this mess. The clock was ticking. Maybe not literally, unless someone in Washington really had pushed some big scary red button and armed the nukes, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that every second we spent in this nightmare that used to be an a
irport lowered our chances of survival. We had to get out, and fast. But where? And how? Those were the million dollar questions. And it seemed I was the guy playing the game. For keeps. I couldn’t prevent my twisted little brain from conjuring up an image of me, sitting in the hot seat on one of those cheesy daytime game shows. It wasn’t that bad a vision until one of the alien fucks appeared in a knock off Armani suit, complete with gigantic bloody axe, and lopped my head off. Yeah, no thanks. We had to get going.

  Michael ambled over and plopped down in one of the empty seats a few down from Hannah and Melissa. He opened the flap of his black messenger style laptop bag and took out a plastic bottle of Evian. I suddenly realized how thirsty I was. And how incredibly hungry. I guess all that running for your life really takes it out of you. Melissa apparently had the same idea, because she rudely snatched the bottle away from him. His face flickered briefly through a few emotions—shock, anger, resentment—before settling into what seemed like familiar resignation. I supposed that sort of thing probably happened to him a lot. I sort of felt bad for the guy.

  Melissa handed the stolen bottle of water to Hannah, who took a small sip before handing it back to Michael and thanking him, as if he had offered her the water himself. He smiled shyly. “No problem.” he said. I could’ve kissed Hannah for that, for making Michael feel even a little bit better amidst all this madness. Well, if it wouldn’t have been extremely creepy and probably ill advised. Instead, I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, surprised to feel something plastic crinkle beneath my fingers. I pulled it out to see what it was. The sour neon gummy worms Dylan had given me!

  For a split second, I considered sticking them right back in my pocket, saving them as the last thing Dylan had ever given me. Then I realized how absurdly silly that was and ripped them open, stuffing several into my mouth before holding the bag out to the others. Melissa made a face like I had offered her severed fingers instead of strands of fruity deliciousness, but Hannah and Michael each took a few. I wrapped the top of the plastic bag around itself and tucked the rest of the candy back into my pocket. Then I licked the remaining grains of sour sugary dust off my fingers and looked around, wondering for the first time where the hell Joey had gone.