0800
Baggage Check A, Pangu International Airport
July 20th, 2016
Summer in Pangu; a busy, busy time to be traveling, sight-seeing, or working in the tourism or aerial commerce fields. With almost 200 flights daily, the Baggage Claim area was bustling with hundreds of commuters, who either ambled about aimlessly, charged through in order to adhere to their busy schedule, or waiting anxiously for their baggage. The area was wide, open, well-decorated, a change from the past year, when the area was infested and run-down. A large, bronze statue of an Australian soldier and a native child stood vigil in front of the Arrivals exit, a memorial for the Australian soldiers who had fought and died to liberate Pangu. Every now and then, someone would throw a coin into the pond that the figures were centered in.
For the most part, people looked "normal," if such a non-Rec War tone was to be taken. People looked concerned with the menial things in their lives, not the undead. At least not through their emotions. How they presented themselves was a different story.
Baggage Claim A had just arrived and folks began picking their luggage off of the conveyor belt. The monitor above the belt read "JET BLUE FLT 1807 LAX/AIR AUS FLT 3109." As the adults picked up their bag, almost every adult male and female took a moment to open up their bags and produce an expression of their angst towards another apocalypse. Some folks carried knives or batons, many carried pistols in holsters on their hips or in shoulder holsters. A trio of Asian-looking businessmen in matching black business suits were each hand-delivered ornate Katanas by airport staff; Samurai had made a resurgence in Japan, and the new trend for Japanese perfectionists was to not only bring honor to their family by acquiring a successful and bountiful office job, but also to lay the spirits to rest as a noble Samurai.
Pairs of two patrolled the airport, two men each, dressed in tan BDUs and carrying MP5s. They didn't look too concerned about all of the weapons around them. The only times they ever did anything other than march around or talk to one another were when they saw a sick person. They looked for exhausted, feverish-looking people. Coughing, too. The infected would have these coughing fits throughout the thing that would go from mucous to blood, and the blood was infected. All of the airports had scanners, but every now and then, some infected got through. Fortunately, while technology may have fallen short of its objective in such cases, human eyes were able to spot them quickly, and human hands put them down before they could walk out of the tarmac. Sometimes they took them away from the bystanders, pop them quick with a suppressed weapon out on the tarmac. Sometimes they had runners who didn't want to be shot out back.
Cal groaned, his eyes bloodshot and tired behind a pair of black-tinted Aviators as he focused his gaze on the conveyor belt. His clothes reflected his mood; a pair of worn blue jeans, his 12-year-old desert boots, a tan rigger belt with a leather holster on the right side, a dirt-flecked tan t-shirt, and an unbuttoned, wrinkled, short-sleeved khaki shirt. A worn OD green assault pack was hanging from his left shoulder. He had an unkempt beard from having not shaven in several days, and his stench was one of expensive rum, cigarettes, and Febreeze. He hadn't brushed his hair, which was starting to get a bit long for comfort. Constant days and nights with no sleep, running through slums and getting flagged by poorly-trained cops. It was the life.
He thought about the night before, when he spent the night at the Joburg Airport. At an hour 'til midnight, he was slamming back shots of Bacardi with a collection of off-duty pilots and stewardesses. At midnight, he was in the arms of a blonde stewardess in the airport bathroom. By one, he was back to drinking. Two brought about an hour-long crying spell briefly and constantly interrupted by singing.
Airport security made an attempt to apprehend them, but before they could arrive on the scene, Cal had already absconded to a storage closet to sleep. He just barely caught his flight to Perth, drank again during the 9-hour flight, and then caught a flight from Perth to Pangu, this time sleeping.
His eyes blinked, and began to track their target. He watched his black roller bag enter the pickup area, traveling around on the conveyor belt. He watched it as though he was watching a zombie ambling about. His eyes never left the target. As soon as the bag arrived in front of him, he quickly picked it up and turned away from the claim, setting the bag down on a bench. He leaned down and unzipped the bag, removing from it a slide-locked Beretta 96, a double-stack magazine, and a clip-on plastic magazine pouch with two magazines. He clipped the pouch onto the left side of his belt, and then he picked up the pistol.
The 96 was chambered for the .40 S&W, a better manstopper than the 9mm. Virtually any bullet could be used to kill a ghoul, but guys liked Cal crave power in their sidearm. Humans were still dangerous, now more than ever. Cal kept the barrel pointed in the ground as he held the weapon in a firm grip in his right hand, trigger finger on the frame above the trigger. With his left, he shoved a magazine into the bottom of the pistol, before charging the weapon. The weapon clicked loud; it was live. A few people looked over momentarily, acting as though guns weren't normal. Cal didn't even notice as he holstered his weapon and unsheathed the extended grip on the bag, entering the throngs of people traveling in every which way through the terminal.
After some casual shoving and knocking and subtle jabs with his fist, Cal made it through the crowd to the exterior of the airport. Dozens of cars and auto-rickshaws and buses - most of which were older Japanese and Australian vehicles - were pulling up to the airport to pick up their fare or their loved ones. A monitor on the wall broadcasted the morning news, from the BBC. Cal took a moment to walk over and watch. A middle-aged male sat at the news table. The visual in the top right corner of the screen showed a picture of several US Army officers, dressed in woodland Battle Dress Uniforms.
"On the American Front, US military officials have announced the opening day of free elections, scheduled for the First of September. The National Security Command, as the American military junta is known, assumed control of the United States after elected municipal, state, and federal governments became overwhelmed during the Reclamation War. NSC Commander General Travis Harkin spoke to reporters in Los Angeles, clarifying various facets of the decision. The announcement comes just weeks after the 'Labor of Love' Protests in New York City, where thousands of protesters armed with copies of 'Labor of Love,' a Constitutional manifesto written by Logan Armstrong. Mister Armstrong is on the FBI's Most Wanted List, and is wanted for treason, and a plethora of charges. Officials extended to him an offer of amnesty after the defeat of the Constitutional Defense Brigade, however he has publicly rejected the offer until the transition of government is complete. It is rumored that a rising 'New Constitutional Party' is considering approaching Armstrong with an offer of their party's nomination for the Presidential Elections. General Harkin also made a statement regarding the pro-military guerrilla group, calling on them to surrender arms and embrace the goal of the military and the vow they took to defend the Constitution. Critics have commented that Harkin's hesitance to immediately define them as a terrorist group is evidence that elements of the military support continued Martial Law."
As the anchor spoke, the screen cut to a clip of Harkin, in crisp green Class As glistening with badges and ribbons, speaking to reporters while surrounded by other military officers. Another clip showed a photo of Logan reading a manifesto in front of the CDB's flag.
"In other news, South African security forces announced that the Hillbrow neighborhood has been successfully cleared of undead. The effort was spearheaded by the South African Police Service and the West Johannesburg Commando, with American military advisers and South African private military contractors active during the operation. At least 30,000 zombies are reported to have been exterminated, with kill counts expected to rise."
A clip of South African cops and soldiers engaging a horde from a rooftop is shown, along with police helicopters buzzing over the burning neighborhood.
Cal blinked as he saw the article about Logan. Cal wondered if Logan had the balls to come out of the open, even in Pangu, where a man could disappear into the bustling urban sprawl on the largest island. He wondered how many of his old friends would show up. Were they even still friends by this point?