Anxiety and fear of failure gripped Hong as they headed for runway number five.
19
The airport a few miles outside of Titusville, California, had never been a major hub. Its runway was one of the longest in the state, but few travelers wanted to land in a small town at the edge of the desert. The army built it during the Cold War, but for years it had only been used for local flights and the occasional drag race.
It hadn’t changed much since the Apocalypse. On one side of the runway sat half a dozen wingless DC-7s propped up on cinder blocks, surrounded by piles of junk that were once bolted to them. On the other side of the runway, a dilapidated control tower, under a thick layer of sand, teetered dangerously in the wind.
The Titusville runway was about to have its busiest day—and its last. First came the rumble of far-off engines. As the noise grew, the dirty glass in the tower’s windows rattled like decayed teeth in diseased gums. Then a huge transport plane with a red star painted on its belly appeared on the horizon. Five more followed, each staggered by five miles.
The North Korean pilots faced a difficult challenge. They had to land just a couple of minutes apart, with no ground control to guide them, on an unfamiliar runway covered in sand. The entire operation had to be synchronized like a ballet.
The first Ilyushin-62 skidded as it landed, but the highly trained pilot managed to bring the plane to a stop. He rolled to the far end of the runway as the next plane began its approach. Following his lead, the next four aircraft landed without a hitch. However, each time one of them landed, it kicked up a huge cloud of dust and desert sand. Under normal circumstances, the next plane would have overflown the airport for a few minutes to let the cloud settle, but the sixth plane didn’t have enough fuel to wait, so the pilot took a chance and came in for his landing.
The big plane hit the runway at the wrong angle, at least sixty miles an hour too fast. The landing gear snapped like a twig and the nose of the plane dragged along the pavement, sending up a shower of sparks. One wing caught the base of the tower and upended the rotting structure. Then the plane cartwheeled three times and exploded in a fireball.
From the cockpit of his plane, Hong looked on helplessly, cursing a blue streak. The generals hadn’t had enough jet fuel for their return flight, but they’d supplied diesel fuel for the tanks and trucks. Now, some of that precious fuel was burning in huge, hot waves.
This complicates things. We’ll have to find fuel along the way. No use dwelling on that now. “Kim!” he bellowed.
Lieutenant Kim Tae-Pak was one of Hong’s most trusted men, a veteran of many missions into South Korea.
“Unload the tanks as fast as you can. You could hear that damn explosion for fifty miles. I want to be far away from here if anyone—alive or dead—comes snooping around.”
The lieutenant saluted and rushed off. As he walked down the runway, Hong studied the surroundings. He picked up a handful of sand, then let it sift through his fingers.
American sand. We’ve invaded our country’s most hated enemy—what’s left of it—and no one can stop us. A shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t know how this mission would end, but they were making history. For the first time in two hundred years, soldiers from an enemy country had set foot on American soil.
Twenty minutes later, a convoy of fifteen tanks and two bulldozers headed east out of the Titusville airport. Behind them, flames engulfed their planes. Hong had burned his ships. The ruins of the United States were all that lay between him and Gulfport. That and millions of Undead.
20
The next day I woke up with cotton mouth and a nagging headache. I’d stayed up late, drowning myself in a bottle of whiskey and self-pity. Prit had joined me but hadn’t offered any advice. Just having him there eased my anxiety. He knew all too well that sometimes there’s nothing you can say.
I was caught in a dilemma. On one hand, the clean, germfree world of Gulfport disgusted me as much as it did Lucia. On the other hand, it seemed like our only option. Wandering around in the Undead wasteland the United States had become, we wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.
“What do you think, Prit?”
My old friend stirred his coffee and collected his thoughts, choosing his words carefully. “When I was very young, I lived on a collective farm on the steppes in Central Asia. Our school was a beautiful wooden building that had been painted red. We were taught that our way of life was the pinnacle of human endeavor and that the Soviet spirit was at the heart of a worker’s paradise. We knew nothing of the West, except that it was the Motherland’s enemy. One day, when I was eight, I was on my way to school when I saw a policeman arrest a man. At first I thought he must be a thief or something like that.” Pritchenko smiled sadly as the childhood memory came alive. “What did I know? I was only eight. Later I learned that the man was arrested because his son, who was a soldier stationed in Berlin, had defected to the West.”
Prit paused for a moment, his mind far from Gulfport. “I always wondered what motivated the man’s son to desert, knowing the price his family would pay. What drove a man to make a decision with such painful consequences? How much did he suffer when he made that decision?”
The Ukrainian looked me in the eye. “I know more about suffering now than I did back then. I also know that, to make a drastic decision, a person must feel he has no alternative, no matter the consequences. I don’t think you’ve reached that point yet. Plus you let the responsibility you feel for us weigh you down too much.” Pritchenko shook his head. “I’m your friend and I’d die for you if I had to. I see your point of view and Lucia’s too. But I’ll stand by you, whatever you decide.”
“Thanks, Prit.” I choked up as I looked into Prit’s eyes. He’d hardly aged in the two years since we met. Except for those missing fingers on his right hand and a few wrinkles around his eyes, he was the same short-tempered, half-crazy guy who’d stuck by me in the ruins of Vigo. And one of the best people I’d ever known.
We had spent half the night talking and laughing about all the times we’d cheated death and all the things we’d do if the Undead ever disappeared for good. We had finally dozed off in front of the crackling fireplace.
When I got up, Pritchenko was lying on the couch, snoring like a freight train; Lucullus was curled up on his lap. I dragged myself to the bathroom, took a long, hot shower, shaved, and put on one of the suits hanging in a closet. It was a size too big, but I looked pretty good. It felt strange to be in a suit and tie after so long.
I went to Lucia’s room. Her door was locked. I knocked softly, but she didn’t answer.
“Lucia,” I said to the closed door. “I’m sorry for what I said last night. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Everything I do is to make sure we have a future.” I wasn’t sure what to say next. “Let’s talk when I get home tonight. We’ll straighten everything out. I love you.”
I left the house feeling empty inside. A beautiful Lexus sat in the driveway with keys in the ignition. I assumed it came with the house. Since the town was too far away to walk to, I got in and started the engine.
As I drove through the empty streets, I realized that, for the first time in years, I wasn’t trying to outrun anyone or anything. And yet, I kept catching myself looking around in a panic or accelerating through tight spots, as if a mob of Undead were after me.
The Apocalypse had changed me. Were those changes for the better? Would they last forever?