Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again

The pilot took them over Beirut, banking to the left in a slow circle a few thousand feet above the city. Large portions of it had burned, either on purpose or by accident. Barricades had been constructed in some streets from cars, furniture, bits of building - anything they could get their hands on to try and stop the zombies. It had proven futile as the infection broke out behind the survivors effectively trapping them against their own desperate attempts to be safe. Zombies, singly and in packs of up to several hundred, shuffled the streets. Here and there a few burst into an uncoordinated run as they chased down a lone survivor or went after the motion of a cat or dog. Most heartbreaking of all were the people on roofs who waved desperately at the C-130 or simply raised a hand from where they lay dying of dehydration. There was nothing anyone could do though one of the nurses chucked a handful of humanitarian MREs out the open side hatch before the load master put a hand on her arm and stopped it then closed the door.

Cyprus was likely more of the same though they passed over it and other smaller islands at several miles altitude. Much louder inside than a commercial jet conversation was almost impossible unless you had one of the few comm enabled helmets like the load master.

Hours later they began to descend, land below and to their right, ocean to the left. As they made the last turn in the pattern for the airstrip below a business jet was visible on the taxiway. The landing was smooth, unlike the helo the team had last been in, and the C-130 kissed the runway without incident then turned and began to taxi back towards where the jet was waiting.

Though no zombies had been in sight during the approach the noise was sure to bring them soon. The Hercules pulled off the runway and the pilots began to shut the bird down as the loadmaster opened the ramp. As it cleared the last little bit a man wearing a suit that looked a little wrinkled stood there waiting.

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