"Mother Kat: Prologue" by Emilie Aurora Finn

            The Eugene Airport, a sprawling edifice covering the space of roughly ten city blocks outside Old Junction City, was eerily vacant. Outside, the streets were empty. No cars idled in front of the main entrance, or crept down the congested lane to the parking garage. No people waited on curbsides for the Metro. Inside the airport, empty escalators moved endlessly up and down between their different levels. A computerized voice announced to the echoing halls that flight 1172 to Phoenix, Arizona, was about to depart from gate number 9.

At this announcement a lone woman—almost young enough to be called a girl—at a computer terminal beside gate number 9 glanced up, and the vidcam above her caught a brief glimpse of a pinched face and bright, desperate eyes above a swollen abdomen.

            “I am sorry,” the terminal said in its dispassionate, mechanized voice. “Flight 1172 to Phoenix, Arizona, is sold out. All other flights are cancelled indefinitely. Have a nice day.”

            The young woman looked down again, and was lost to the tiny eye of the vidcam. Its audio, however, picked up a tiny moan of despair.

            Kaya clutched the cold metal edges of the terminal. Dark spots swam before her eyes, and her breath came in halting gasps. The last plane would leave, and she would still be here, trapped in a ruined city with only the most desperate of fellow human beings for company. Her child would come soon. She could feel it. Who would deliver her? Was the hospital as empty as this airport? Would either of them live long enough for it to matter?

            The sound of running footsteps behind her shocked her out of her whirling thoughts, and she turned quickly. Perhaps the pilot—or a flight attendant—a real person—someone she could beg to let her on—not to let her die here in this horrible place—

            But it was not an airport official, or even another passenger, running down the empty hall toward her. It was a young man; dirty, unkempt, with several days growth on his smudged face and a wild look in his eyes. His blackened hands were clenched into fists, his jeans were ripped, and his once-white tank top was grey and streaked with—was it blood?

            Kaya shrank away as the young man not so much reached the computer terminal as slammed into it. He groped violently for something in a back jeans pocket and finally yanked out a small computer chip, which he inserted into the machine before him.

            “Flight 1172 to Phoenix, Arizona, departing in five minutes, seventeen seconds,” the monotonous voice announced. “Please enter your four-digit security code for final verification.”

            As the young man punched a number on the keypad, Kaya stared at him with a longing that was almost hatred. How had he—this horrid, wild looking street person— managed to get hold of the ticket that would have saved her unborn child? Suddenly the blood on the young man’s shirt took on new and awful meaning. Kaya shrank even further back against the wall by the terminal, but she couldn’t stop the faint moan that escaped her lips.

            Echoes magnified the sound weirdly in the empty hall. The boy started and turned. His clenched fists came up, not aggressively, but in a curious warding gesture. His eyes were wide and wild still, but when he saw her pressed against the wall they focused and softened. He lowered his fists.

            “What’s wrong?” His voice was rough, and his words were punctuated by coughing. “Can’t you get on?”

            Mutely, she shook her head.

            His eyes moved from her face to her swollen belly. “Boy or girl?”

            “Girl.”

            A curious smile flickered across his face and was gone. He dug into his jeans pocket again and, miraculously, produced another ticket chip, which he inserted into the computer. Still frozen against the wall, Kaya stared.

            “Flight 1172 to Phoenix, Arizona, departing in two minutes, forty-two seconds,” the terminal announced ponderously. “Please enter—” Its last words were cut off as the boy’s shaking hands punched the number. He yanked the ticket chip from the computer and thrust it into her unresisting hands. “Here. C’mon, or we’ll miss it.”

            Together they ran to the gate. He stood back and let her be the first to insert her ticket chip into the machine at the entrance. It beeped obligingly, and the gate opened. The boy was right behind her. They fled along the tunnel to the plane, where the flight attendant, pale and tense, was just about to shut the door. She smiled a little when she saw them coming, and Kaya thought there was relief in her eyes as she let them in and pushed the button that vacu-sealed the door. They moved down the crowded aisle to their seats, and almost before they were vacu-sealed in, the plane was taxiing down the runway. No one noticed that the flight attendant omitted the usual safety speech, and no one expected drinks or refreshments.

            Kaya peered down at the wreckage of their city as the plane lifted off the runway and began to gain altitude. Buildings and bridges were piles of rubble, or burned-out skeletons. In the gathering gloom of evening, few lights could be seen. To the west, on the edge of town, the ocean swelled ominously where no ocean should have been.

            She shuddered and turned away, and only then became aware that her strange savior was staring at her. His eyes were anguished, and tears he didn’t seem aware of traced lines of white down his dirty cheeks. When he met her gaze he smiled. It was a  gentle smile that contradicted his rough appearance. Suddenly, she realized that he couldn’t be more than sixteen.

            “I should say thank you,” Kaya whispered.

            He nodded, making no move to wipe away his tears. “She’d be glad it was you. And her.” His glance fell again to her abdomen. “She always wanted to help kids.”

            It was a few moments before the horror of what he was saying trickled like ice into Kaya’s veins. “Who?” she said slowly. “Who was supposed to be here instead of me?”