“Why not hide in here and wait it out?” Johnny suggested, scanning the faces around him to see who else was in agreement.
“What do you think they’re so upset about?” Sandra wondered, ignoring Johnny’s proposal.
Holly shrugged. “Take your pick. Frustration. Desperation. But above all else, starvation.”
“It’s been a day and a half since the TSA people stopped handing out rations,” Ann said, bolstering Holly’s point.
Johnny wasn’t buying it. “That might be so, but you don’t see us rioting.”
“I’m going in there to grab anything useful,” Holly said, motioning toward the lost and found room. “And then Dillon and I are gonna hightail it back to Concourse C.” She held the key ring aloft. “If anyone wants to stay, be my guest.”
The others were still exchanging worried glances when Holly charged in. “Someone keep watch by the double doors,” she instructed, holding out one of her knives.
“I will,” Eric said, taking the weapon and heading that way.
The others piled into the lost and found, beginning their frantic search. The room itself was ten by twenty. Against the back wall was a row of wooden shelves, each stacked with suitcases, briefcases and knapsacks.
One by one they yanked them off the shelves, removing any small pesky locks and searching the bag’s contents for anything useful. It wasn’t long before Riley found three large Italian salamis. Other cases of note contained hot sauces called El Diablo and Blow Your Head Off. Sadly, there were no takers. Most of the bags contained mounds of useless personal items.
Johnny held up a moleskin coat he’d just found, examining it with glee.
Eric’s voice came from down the hall. “You guys better hurry up,” he warned. “I’m not sure how much longer those TSA folks can hold them back.”
Next to her, Dillon was rummaging through a case of his own at a glacial pace when he held up a black case. Holly swung her light around and came face to face with two names she never thought she’d be so happy to see.
Smith and Wesson.
“Good job, Dillon,” she said, taking it from him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Johnny said, hovering over them. “That kid’s a regular bloodhound.”
Holly undid the latches and opened the case. Inside was a black Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol. Next to it were two full magazines.
“Who the heck travels with a loaded gun?” Riley said, pausing for a moment in wonder.
“Technically, it isn’t loaded,” Holly replied, although she got the girl’s point.
“Last year the TSA confiscated four thousand, four hundred and thirty-two firearms,” Dillon informed them, still digging through the suitcase before him. “Eighty-seven percent of them were loaded.”
“I take it back,” Johnny said incredulously. “The kid’s not a bloodhound, he’s a walking computer. Who the hell needs the internet when you have a Dillon?”
Holly might have smiled at Johnny’s quip had she not been more focused on the firearm.
“Give me your knife,” Ann said. Holly obliged and Ann used it to divvy up the cured meats they’d found in the suitcase.
Johnny held out his hand and tweaked his fingers at Holly in a ‘come on’ gesture. “Give me the gun.”
Holly slapped his hand away. “Not on your life,” she growled. “Do you even know how to use one of these?”
“Sure I do,” he replied. “Last year we played paintball at a corporate event. My team came in first.”
Riley arched an eyebrow at the polished salesman looming before them.
“Okay, we were last, but there’s nothing to it. Just point and shoot, right?”
“Sorry, that’s not good enough,” Holly said. “Not by a long shot. Thank goodness you didn’t cite your kill rate in a videogame as proof of experience.”
Riley and Ann got a laugh at that.
Johnny’s slapped hand was still hovering between them. Holly could see it was starting to shake, ever so slightly. “I just think if anyone should be armed, it’s one of the men.”
Holly picked up the pistol, popping the magazine and pulling back the slide. “For as long as I can remember, I had a fear of guns. No, not a fear, a terror. And for no good reason either. Which is why a few years back I decided it was time to face that fear head on. So I joined a shooting club. Turns out I had a knack for it. Who’d have thought. I might not have been the club champion, but I was somewhere in the top ten. So no, just because you’re a man doesn’t make you a better shot. Thanks for playing though.”
Eric’s frightened voice called out to them just then. “Oh, my God, they’re breaking through.”
Holly put the magazines in her right coat pocket and the chunks of salami in her left. Next, she grabbed hold of Dillon’s hand and ran for the double doors, the others following close behind.
The group pushed out of the corridor and into a scene of pure chaos. Some of the residents of Concourse B had chosen to flee from the rioters by heading in the opposite direction. But that way led to the dead end by Gate B-22. Others were running down the causeway toward Concourse C. A third group had surged forward to help the TSA agents hold back the crushing wave of raging humanity. It was food they were after, pure and simple. The meager rations the airport officials had been doling out these last few days had only delayed the hunger and the rising sense of frustration. People were also angry at the federal government for not coming to their rescue and now, collectively, that rage had mixed with hunger and created an explosive brew.
Holly and the others had just cleared the employee area when five panes of protective glass shattered. Men, women and in some cases children came surging through, many of them bleeding. Some had handkerchiefs over their faces, as though they feared being fired upon with tear gas.
The handful of TSA agents, along with those who had moved forward to help them, were now crushed under a tsunami of humanity.
The rioters ran forward, wielding an exotic array of homemade weapons: clubs, crude blades, lengths of steel pipe. But most came on with only their fists. Like a living stream, one branch of the mob diverted into a nearby Burger King, unaware that it had already been picked clean of anything even remotely edible.
The causeway between Concourses B and C was ten meters ahead, directly in the path of the oncoming swarm.
“We’re not going to make it,” Johnny yelled as they ran, ever the optimist.
Holly grabbed hold of her son with one hand and aimed the pistol at the oncoming crowd with the other. Together they ran for the causeway. She didn’t even have time to tell the others to follow. She could only hope that they would.
She reached the intersection at the same time the rioters did. The causeway itself was thirty feet wide. She made a sharp right, firing two warning shots in the air.
For a brief moment, the mob recoiled before resuming its pursuit. Even from this distance, she had seen the bloodlust in their eyes. If the impulse for their actions had once made sense, all logic and rationality had since been lost as the group mind took over.
A second later, Johnny ran past them in a wild burst of panicked speed, his terrified eyes wide and bulging. That sight was followed by a fleeting sense of relief when Holly turned and saw the others: Sandra, Eric, Ann and Riley. They had decided to take their chances, which was a good thing, except that now Ann and Riley were starting to trail behind. If the crowd got their hands on them, the two women would surely be ripped apart.
Holly slowed, allowing Ann and Riley to draw even with her and Dillon. She swung the pistol around and emptied five shots into the oncoming wall of people, spacing the bullets out as evenly as she could.
Each one struck home, delivering not necessarily a mortal wound, but enough to make them drop. The pileup it created was immediate and precisely what she had hoped for. As it happened, all Holly could think about was the Tour de France bicycle race. Sometimes the smallest of mistakes could take out dozens of riders at once.