Chaos Theory: A Zombie Novel by Rich Restucci Page A

cover any runway we would use. It would truly suck if we survived zombies and evil hillbillies to die in a plane crash because somebody left a toolbox on a runway. On the other hand, if we were to pursue a southern course, there would be plenty of places to go, but all of them had the potential to be infested with dead folks.
    Ship told me that the aircraft had a one thousand mile range. I found that hard to believe, at which point he told me it was a Beechcraft J50 Twin Bonanza. I had no idea what that meant other than it probably had two engines. The look of smug superiority on his face when he told me that the plane was already full of ammo and rations was priceless. He also told me he had two more aircraft at other fields in a twenty mile radius, all equipped with limited weapons, ammo, and food. This one had been the closest and it was in a private hanger.
    The reason we were holed up in this hangar was that it had the stove. Ship helped me off of the cot and we looked at a chart of the area. There were several small towns, lots of lakes and mountains, and dozens of small roads. The interstate zipped north to south off to our east, and I could see just about where my prison pals had left me to die, not that I blame them. The irony. They were all dead, or undead, and I wasn’t.
    In the end, we decided to go south. We made good arguments for north, but there was just no way to safely land the plane, assuming we could even find the runways under a carpet of white. Ship knew of a runway in a town in Tennessee. Tenne-fucking-ssee. It was right at the outside of our operational fuel range, and as far as I was concerned, it was hillbilly heaven. Can you come from Tennessee and not be a redneck? Exceptionally rural was what Ship wrote in his book. The good side was that the entire populace; every single person, had multiple weapons, and were trained in how best to use them since they were sperm. This might mean less of the dead folks. It could also mean that those folks were worse than the fuckers that lived in this area, no offense to Ship or Kat. At that point, all we had was hope.
    We loaded our stuff into the plane, which was quite spacious, even if it had been built right alongside that Airstream trailer I almost died in. The plane was manufactured in nineteen sixty one. Not ninety one, sixty one . You read it correctly the first time. The aircraft was more than fifty years old. I hope I look as good when I’m fifty though. It looked brand new. Shiny.
    I was still scared shitless to ride in it though. Kat and I watched as Ship, clad in his sleeping bag poncho, trudged through the snow toward the plow. He got in, and as instructed, we closed the hangar door.
    The sound of a diesel vehicle engine starting up when everybody else is dead, and there’s no other sound at all, is indescribable. I mean, it was so quiet we could hear the snow falling. I shit you not. Whatever a bejesus is, it was scared right the hell out of me, because I knew what was coming next. Zombies, lots of them.
    The length of the runway was about a mile, and Ship plowed it like a pro. He had to make four passes. Before he was done, there was a white coating back on the tarmac from the falling snow, but it was well under an inch. All of our stuff was on the plane, and the big guy backed the truck up to the hanger and we hooked the plane to the rear sander with a length of chain. Kat and I got in the plane and waited. Ship had to be careful pulling the aircraft so as not to damage the front strut, which is where the chain was attached.
    When we were taxied up to the northern end of the runway, Ship got out of the truck, removed the chain, pointed down the end of the runway, and got back in the truck and started her up. The dead folks had arrived in force and were coming from every direction. They were already on the far south end of the runway, finding it easier to trek through the plowed areas. As it turns out, although intended for snow, plows are also