Terror at Terminal Four

This story contains a lot of imagery that I witnessed directly in various airports. Reality is often ridiculous enough that I don't have to make it up.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please report to Air Pacific at gate 102 for your flight to Hong Kong. Tom Hoban, report to gate 102.”

            A tall thin man adjusted himself in the almost comfortable chair. Every time he thought he was in the best position, he’d begin to slide off the seat.

            A man sitting at the bar checked his watch then squinted at the information board above the gate. His wife sipped the remains of her lager while working a crossword. She let him do all the worrying.

            Three kids, two girls and a boy, sprawled across five and a half seats, legs awkwardly tangled in, on, and around the inconsiderately placed armrests. Vaguely conscious, they mumbled things that could’ve been, “hungry,” and “cold.” From across the aisle their parents tossed granola bars and jackets in the general direction of the complaints. Lazy hands collected the comforts.

            The bar tender/café attendant left his domain shouting, “Time to restock!”

            He left an elderly couple standing at the register. With their eyes glued to the menu posted above their heads, they ordered: a medium coffee—decaf, a blueberry scone, a beer—the cheapest, whatever that is, and a turkey sandwich, no tomatoes. Their order was received by empty space.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban please proceed to gate 102 for your flight. We will be closing the doors in just a few moments.”

            The bar tender/café attendant, Steve, walked leisurely to the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE. He swiped his employee card and punched in his code without needing to look.

            It was his third year working at the airport “restaurant,” which was a glorified sandwich stand that also served drinks. That was the best part in his opinion. He would often nurse beers during his shift, hiding them under the counter when people were around.

            The job was supposed to have been temporary. He’d been sacked from his previous job (for drinking during work hours) the day after he’d bought a new sound system for his apartment. He’d picked up the airport gig so he could make the payments. Then his girlfriend had threatened to walk out if he wasn’t going to propose. So he proposed, then she demanded a very fancy ring. The job was no longer temporary.

            Steve pulled the heavy door open and entered the tourist-free zone of the storage closet. The “bar” was out of napkins. It would probably take, oh, maybe ten minutes, Steve estimated. He checked his watch and pulled a can of beer from his apron. He wandered as he sipped the almost cold beverage.

            Steve passed boxes marked NAPKINS and STRAWS, but when he arrived at the area where the foodstuffs should have been stacked, he found an enormous mess.

            Torn boxes, shredded plastic wrap, and crumbs were strewn everywhere. As he considered the situation, between gulps, he realized that as much destruction as there was before him (which he would have to clean up, he thought with a grimace), there wasn’t enough. Steve spent a lot of time back there, to the disapproval of his manager, and it was apparent that entire pallets worth of food had simply vanished.

            Steve sighed, tossed back the rest of his beer, and bent to the task of cleaning.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please come to gate 102 immediately. You are the final passenger, Tom. We’ll close the doors as soon as you’re on board, Tom Hoban.”

            Jake put the crackers in his bag. He and Jenny had decided to camp out in the corner. There was a plug, which Jenny was using for her laptop, and they were apart from the general bustle. They were on their way home from a backpacking trip to Hawaii. They were exhausted from the volcano hikes, night snorkeling, and failed surfing lessons. They had matching sunburns.

            Their layover was especially long, so Jenny was taking the opportunity to catch up on her favorite show, Glee. Free wi-fi in the airport had been an uncommonly pleasant surprise, particularly because Jenny and Jake were broke after their vacation.

            Jenny slapped the spacebar, pausing the show. She pulled the earbuds out and said, “Bathroom.” She walked off humming.

            Jake stood and wiped cracker crumbs from his shirt. Distractedly watching people, he shuffled toward the water fountain. Tall people, short people; infants, toddlers, teenagers, parents, grandparents; brown people, black people, white people, red people (like himself); sleeping people, running people, reading people, staring people; people laughing, people shouting, people crying; pilots, stewardesses, security guards, a beeping handicap cart. Wave upon wave of epically diverse humanity washed past Jake in all directions as he completed his short journey.

            Jake took a couple gulps and spit some water back out. They’d be getting on another plane soon, and he didn’t want his bladder to be too full.

            The endlessly changing tapestry of people was so distracting that he stubbed his toe on Jenny’s computer before he realized he was back to their corner. As he bent to examine the damage to his toe he saw that the laptop was alone on the floor. The rest of their bags were gone.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, you have just missed your flight to Hong Kong. The doors are shut and the aircraft is now leaving. Sorry, Tom.”

            “Phil, I need my green pill before I eat,” the elderly woman said. She began unzipping the small backpack that Phil was carrying.

            “I’ve got the money here, Phyllis,” Phil flashed the cash in his right hand. “I’m just waiting for the young man to come back so I can pay.”

            “Don’t you wave that money at me, I’m not a stripper anymore for Chrissakes! I need my pills. Hold still.”

            Phil ran his free hand over his belt buckle, it was where it belonged: just overlapping the lower half of his bellybutton. His hand rose to his pocket protector, everything was there: two pens (one black, one blue), his passport and boarding pass, and his lucky red comb. Lastly, with the same hand, he pushed his glasses up his nose.

            “OK, Phyllis, I’m ready. Do you have the coupon?”

            Phyllis either didn’t hear or decided to ignore her husband of fifty-five years. To the outside observer, any indicators as to which were completely undetectable. Phil sure as hell didn’t know. In any case, Phyllis had retrieved her pills.

“Here, hold this while I dig. I need a green before I eat and a purple when I’m finished. Better get a yellow as well in case they forget to leave off the tomato.”

She shoved the gallon-sized baggie into Phil’s arms and dove in with both hands. Phil stared off into space while Phyllis mined through pills. Little tiny round ones, long thick capsules; swallowable, chewable, dissolvable; bright orange, dark green, bright green, pea green, mint green, turquoise; solid colors, two-tones…

“Those bags are unattended,” Phil murmured.

“Aha! Got ‘em,” Phyllis withdrew her hands holding a forest green, a canary yellow, and a deep blue halved with sky blue. “What time did you say, dear?”

“Those bags are unattended,” he repeated. Phyllis slipped his pills into the clear plastic pouch on the front of her passport holder around her neck. Phil squinted as he scanned around the terminal.

“There’s another one over there!” he pointed to a small roller carry-on as Phyllis took back the heavy bag of pills. “Something is wrong,” Phil muttered. He turned just as Phyllis got the backpack zipped. “Here, make sure you get the correct change when you pay the young man. I’m going to notify security.”

“Are you boarding already? You haven’t gotten your scone,” Phyllis watched as her husband shuffled away.

“Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please make your way to the nearest Air Pacific desk. Your wife is on the line, Tom. Paging Tom Hoban.”

“Johnson, Nuñez, check out this unattended luggage report, gate 104. Let me know what you find,” radios clicked.

“Copy, boss.”

“Wilson, where are you with that missing bags report?”

“Kid says he went for a drink of water, turned around and everything was gone except a laptop, boss. His sister was in the restroom, wants to report that the second stall is out of toilet paper. She had to use—”

“Listen up people,” James P. Stein knew this was the day. He’d been head of security at Terminal 4 six years now. He had always known the day would come when his terminal would be attacked. Today was that day.

“We have bags without people, people without bags, a missing bartender, and Tom Hoban has missed his flight. Something is very wrong here today. The bartender is a suspect. So is Tom Hoban. Do they know each other? Are they working together? I want everyone to be alert for anything suspicious at all. Anything out of the ordinary could be a clue. All units get out on the floor, keep your eyes peeled for this Steve guy. Oh, and Tom. Keep my terminal safe! Now, move!”

“Copy, boss!” came in on James’s radio many times, all in the proper order.

Flat feet had prevented James from entering the military, but he ran his terminal security with the discipline his father had always talked about. Discipline and duty were the most important ideals in a man’s life. When he couldn’t join the service to go out and destroy his country’s enemies, James decided to protect his home soil as directly as he could. Rumor had it he would be Chief Security Officer before 40, a first, because he never asked anyone to do something he wouldn’t do. Leading by example was the best way to boost morale and maintain discipline.

He checked his mace and taser, and then James P. Stein left his command post.

“Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please make your way to the nearest security checkpoint. Tom Hoban to security.”

A young man had an arm around the shoulders of a young woman. She was wiping her reddened eyes with one hand, a laptop in the other.

An overdressed, and evidently under qualified, manager struggled to serve an ever-growing line at the café/bar.

A mother handed a tiny child to a father (presumably). She then began power walking after another child, one that delighted in the newfound freedom afforded by conscious and willful control of his legs.

An elderly man stood in the open, hands on his hips, talking to…nobody. As James P. Stein approached at an angle, however, a petite older woman was revealed. Standing behind the man, elbow deep in the backpack he was wearing, she was also talking.

Odd people were doing strange things, yet nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing James was seeing aroused his suspicions. Neither his training nor his instincts alerted him to any potential danger.

James made eye contact with other members of his team. Discrete headshakes confirmed that nothing out-of-place had yet been spotted. James continued to scan the on-going parade of humanity.

The turban appeared to his left. The head it rode wasn’t much higher than those around it, but the twisted and knotted cloth had a height of its own.

The tide of people shifted, exposing a heavy beard and dark brooding eyes. The man turned and closed his eyes. His brow scrunched and he put a hand to his forehead. His other hand hung by his side clutching a black leather bag. The strap was wrapped tightly around his wrist.

James wrenched his gaze back to the man’s face. His lips were now moving, his brow clear, hand down. He looked very calm, serene even. He was facing east. James had no doubts in his mind.

“All units on me. Suspect in sight, black bag attached to wrist, appears to be praying. Moving in.” After standing completely still while scrutinizing the area, James was now a blur of motion. By the time he hit the man he was moving at top speed.

The flying tackle resulted in a spectacularly messy collision. Not only was the man’s turban knocked loose but the tiny Bluetooth device in his ear was thrown clear. By the time the rest of the team converged on the scene James had the screaming man in plasticuffs.

The disturbance was attracting a lot of attention. So much so, in fact, that no one heard the final page for Tom Hoban. Nor did anyone notice the thin purple tentacle slithering out of the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE. No one noticed, that is, until it coiled around the ankle of an onlooker. When his leg was whipped out from beneath him he gave a startled yell that was easily lost in the commotion of the takedown aftermath. The yell was abruptly cut off when the unfortunate man’s head cracked open on the tiled floor.

The explosion of crimson blood drenched Jake and Jenny. Jake froze, absolutely stunned. Jenny reacted a bit more loudly. Her terrified shrieks caused heads to swivel in her direction. More people spotted the expansive spray of blood and a dissonant chorus of voices joined Jenny’s.

The tentacle, in the meantime, was retreating with its prize. Most people were shocked into inaction, or were too panicked for any kind of rational thought. Except for James P. Stein.

The man he had subdued just a moment ago was no longer a threat. James shifted his focus.

The door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE disintegrated. A massive maw lined with glistening yellow teeth appeared in its place amidst a cloud of wooden and metallic splinters. A multitude of pulsating purple tentacles also popped out, swinging through the air. Seven fiery eyes bulged just above the drooling mouth. Four gangly arms shot forward; seven fingered claws crunched into the tiled floor. Muscles bulged as the beast pulled itself through the ruined threshold.

With conviction and agility James P. Stein sprang forward. Taser in hand, he thrust his arm toward the rope-like tentacle that was pulling the body of the murdered man closer to the vicious mouth. James leapt over the dark smear of blood to touch the business end of his weapon against the throbbing purple flesh. 50,000 volts were delivered in a flash.

A thundering roar erupted through the air. The offended limb retreated quickly, still holding its prize. Another reddish purple tentacle lashed out, striking James full in the chest. The force of the blow sent him soaring back through the air. He slammed into a distant wall, hitting his head. Consciousness left James P. Stein.

Jenny was still screaming and couldn’t hear much. The crack of the security man’s head against the wall and the dull thud his body made when it slumped to the floor jolted Jake back to life, however. He moved without conscious thought toward the downed man whom instinct told him was probably the best option for organizing a defense against the horrific beast.

Jake hurdled a tentacle that had found a stroller handle. A hysterical mother slapped the father (presumably) as he clutched the other handle with both hands. A toddler toddled after them, laughing.

An unseen pool of blood sent Jake sprawling. He took advantage of his position on the floor to catch his breath. It was a good decision. A seven-fingered claw slammed into the chest of a stereotypically obese American. Jake knew he was American because the man let loose a yell of, “Douchebag!” as he was struck. That accent is impossible to mistake.

Yellowed talons protruded from his back. Other expletives followed as the giant freakish hand pulled its prey slowly yet inexorably toward its mouth. The unfortunate man’s fanny pack strap finally gave up its struggle. Knick-knacks littered the floor.

Jake’s eyes scanned the everyday objects: a pencil, a passport, a red pen with the end chewed, a rabbit’s foot, eighty-seven cents in assorted change, breath spray, a crumpled receipt. None offered an explanation for the nightmare that was unfolding around him.

Blood-curdling screams broke into Jake’s mind. His gaze flicked to the doomed security man. His mouth set itself into a straight line; determination took hold. He grabbed the most useful object form the menagerie before him and jumped back into action.

An elderly couple stood in his path. They were arguing about something, the woman had a bag of pills in her hand. Jake yelled for them to move, waving his arms as he came on. They were oblivious. A tentacle leashed out and neatly snatched the bag of pills from the woman’s hands. The debate continued. Jake slipped through the opening between the two. A short dash brought him to the security officer.

With one hand Jake cradled the man’s head. It was, surprisingly, unbroken. He let the head fall back a bit which allowed the mouth to fall open. Wielding the breath spray in his other hand, Jake let loose two squirts in the unconscious man’s mouth. With a splutter James P. Stein came back to life.

“Whoa, what the hell is that?” Jake glanced at the label.

“Uh, Binaca. Cinnamon.”

“Holy shit, where am I? The 90’s?”

“What? No!” Jake gave James another burst in the mouth. “You’re in Terminal 4!”

James P. Stein sat up straight. Erect, he quickly scanned his surroundings. An arm was flying through the air trailing a thin stream of red spray. A pair of shoes stood with only six inches of leg protruding from their tops. Blood bespattered people were rushing in every direction, tentacles struck left and right. Always a wet grinding noise came the enormous mouth that occupied the space were there used to be a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE.

James P. Stein regained his feet and fled. Jake watched in horror as his best hope for survival disappeared around the corner. He was all but ready to give up when he remembered his sister…

“Goddamit, Gladys, if I don’t get a red pill before noon my heart is likely to stop!”

“My name is Phyllis, and it would be none too soon. Besides, I think that young man stole our pills.”

“You know what’s wrong with the youth of today?” A claw slashed though the backpack Phil was carrying and crashed into a vending machine behind him. M&M’s cascaded across the floor. “Candy: that’s what’s wrong. The young rascal probably thought they were jelly beans.”

“I hope the poor thing doesn’t take a green one right after a blue one. His kidneys would climb out of his ears. It happened to me once.”

“Christ woman, no one would do that. Everyone knows that watermelon and blueberry bubblegum don’t go together.” A head rolled by, lopsided, leaving a small bloody stream in its wake.

“Phil, I want to go home,” Phyllis grabbed Phil’s hand and began pulling him toward the exit.

“But I haven’t had my scone yet…” Half a horse fell to the floor in front of the couple. “Moonshine! That’s what I want with my scone.” Phyllis had ceased moving, except for her eyes.

The beast was moving. Half of its gigantic claws were dragging its massive body through the terminal. The other talons were occupied tearing through people and anything else before it. Drywall and plastic mixed with brains and viscera. Tentacles whipped through the air, flinging people and parts of people in the general direction of its mouth. Other tentacles swept the floor, ushering new prey ever closer. People ran every which way. Panic made them equals; adults and children, men and women, security and civilians. None were immune to the fear permeating the terminal; none could escape the hellish creature. But one man wasn’t trying to escape.

James P. Stein had fire in his veins. He was overflowing with conviction, with the knowledge that only he could defeat this evil that had invaded Terminal 4—his terminal. The knowledge gave him power, lent him strength beyond that of normal men. The weight of the fire axe was as a feather in his hands. His powerful legs propelled him toward his fated adversary.

He rounded the last corner and the beast came into view. Indeed, the otherworldly creature was all James could see. He did not see the elderly couple gingerly stepping over discarded limbs and the remains of a coffee stand. He did not see young man ducking tentacles while shouting the name of a woman, eyes ceaselessly searching. He did not see the thin young woman drenched in blood, her mouth open to scream, but no longer able to emit any sound. He did not see the small child with green marker on the side of his face behead his stuffed animal with the handle of his mother’s suitcase while whispering, “Goodbye, cruel world.”

No, James P. Stein saw none of this. The only thing he saw was the hulking mass covered in tentacles tearing its was across his terminal with its brutal claws, wantonly inhaling innocent people. James saw an abomination and moved to remove it from his domain.

As though protected by the invisible hands of angels James slipped between tentacles as easily as a fish through water. The axe flashed and slashed whenever a beastly limb threatened to impede his progress. Fire blazed in his eyes. His mouth hung open, his lips peeled back from his teeth, a challenge roared from his throat.

The monster seemed to sense that this small creature, the only one running towards it rather than away, was a threat. It slammed tentacles down on James.

But the rain of blows crashing down around him would not slow James P. Stein. He chopped through some of them, dodged others, and, by virtue of his naturally hard head, survived the strikes that won through.

As he drew nearer, he came within range of the beast’s claws. Three of the four arms reached and slashed at him. The fourth was occupied crushing the life out of a vending machine.

A single finger of one of the mighty claws struck James in the chest. The rough skin was so abrasive that James’s shirt was torn from his body, as was no small amount of his skin.

His face twisted in agony, but he let loose a ferocious snarl and was back on his feet, just as another hand slammed into the floor where he’d landed. The razor sharp claws ripped into the tiles sending shrapnel everywhere. Tiny weeping wounds blossomed all over James’s body.

James paid no heed to the damage that his body was taking. He could see the monster’s head. The gaping mouth bristled with massive teeth that would’ve dwarfed the tusks of a mammoth. The seven eyes shone as bright as rubies as they tracked James’s progress.

Focusing all of his energy, James stepped onto the claw that had buried itself in the floor and with a heroic effort leapt into the air. A split second after he was airborne, a tentacle swiped across where his legs had been. The clipping blow sent his feet flying sideways.

Desperate to drive home the axe, James flailed his weapon out in front of him. His eyes never left his target. Another tentacle buffeted James in the back forcing his entire body down directly onto one of the great beast’s tusks.

James’s hands slid from the wooden shaft of his axe. He looked down and saw the mammoth tooth lodged in his chest. Flaps of skin hung loosely around the great wound, a wound James knew he would not survive. Blood seeped from thousands of tiny punctures all down his legs and arms. His back felt as though a freight train powered by space shuttle thrusters and crashed into it. It was almost certainly broken.

James’s eyes fell to the floor in defeat. Then he noticed something missing. The axe. It was not lying in the pool of blood that was gathering under his body. With a massive effort, James raised his head. His vision was blurred at the edges and spots were dancing everywhere. But he saw it.

Stuck fast in the skull of the monster was the fire axe. Neatly framed by seven empty eyes and spasmodic tentacles all around it was wedged all the way to the haft as firmly as the sword in the stone.

The banshee shrieks emitting from the monstrosity brought a smile to James’s lips as his head fell limp. James P. Stein had protected his terminal, his people, and his country. Duty done and done.