Authors: Jeffrey Littorno
I was looking out at the quiet, nearly-deserted airport trying to imagine the long lines of passengers when the waitress arrived. She was a young Asian woman with long black hair and a bright smile, but her eyes gave lie to the sincerity of her expression. “Good morning! What can I get for you today?”
“Oh, just a cup of coffee, please. I’m meeting someone here.”
The waitress did her best to appear interested in the reason for my visit to the airport.
“Be right back with you coffee,” she said and smiled.
I turned my attention back to my notes and began jotting down questions to ask Jerry Clark.
Did you notice anything unusual before you heard the screams? How long after the screams did you reach the victim? Can you describe what you saw? The theory is that the attacks were the result of some sort of mass psychosis brought on by the long flight. What is your opinion of that?
By the time I had finished the questions and a cup of coffee, it was after nine thirty.
Given the scarcity of customers, I received extra attention from the waitress who returned to refill my bright orange coffee mug and ask if I wanted anything else. “No thanks. But maybe you will let me ask you some questions,” I tried to sound like a professional reporter rather than some guy hitting on a waitress in an airport coffee shop.
Her giggle and shy manner showed that I
had not succeeded. “What do you want to ask me?”
“My name is Kevin Turner, and I’m a reporter for the Marin Gazette. I am supposed to meet a customs agent… Jerry Clark to ask him about what happened yesterday afternoon…you know…about the attacks.” Her expression showed that she did know about the attacks.
The giggles and the shyness instantly disappeared. “Yes, I saw some really weird people running around right after I heard the screaming. But I don’t know exactly what happened.” It was obvious that she did not like remembering what she was being asked to remember.
“Okay, thanks anyway. Hopefully, Mister Clark will have some idea of what happened.” She nodded and smiled and looked grateful to be away from me.
It was now nearly ten o’clock, and I decided to head over to the customs area to see if I could locate my missing interviewee.
After talking to one of the few agents standing around in the area, I learned that Jerry Clark had called in sick that morning. Another victim of the cold that was going around. Judging by the number of airport employees I saw sneezing and blowing their noses, the ailment was indeed widespread and travelling quickly.
For some reason, I wondered if it was a chicken and egg kind of thing. Was the cold widespread and lots of people got it or did lots of people have it and so the cold became widespread. The question needed no answer since it had no effect on the results.
As I was looking around trying to decide what to do next, I saw the answer in a pair of large security guards heading into a door with a black plastic sign above it that read “Employee Break Room, Authorized Personnel Only”. Not being one to be discouraged by black plastic signs, I glanced around and then marched right through the door.
Once on the other side, I found myself in a large room with white folding tables and chairs. There were a few others in the room aside from the security guards who were standing in front of a large coffee urn on a table against the far wall. They were turned away from me as I walked up to them. Each of them had to be at least three fifty and stand over six feet tall.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”
They turned at the sound of my voice, and I had to stifle a laugh. The surprise at seeing this pair of giants look down on me with freckled baby faces was nearly too much to keep inside, but I managed it. “My name is Kevin Turner. I work at the Marin Gazette, and I’m writing a story about what happened yesterday,” I looked into their blank faces and said, “Do you think you could help me out?”
The guards weren’t identical twins, but they came close with their matching short red hair and freckles. There was a moment of silence before the one on the right said, “Well, I don’t know what you want to know. Me and my brother didn’t see how it started.”
I had to fight the urge to act surprised at hearing that they were brothers. But I am a professional and instead asked, “Can I get your name?”
“Sure, my name is Ben Morgan. That’s my brother Berry.” Berry Morgan and I shared a nod.
“Thanks. Now Ben can you tell me what you
did
see?”
Ben was quiet for a second and then words seemed to spill out of him, “Buncha crazy freaks! I never saw anything like that. Just to start goin’ off and bitin’ people like that. I mean, what the hell is that?” It was clear that the big guy was picturing the incident, and it was not a pleasant picture.
“Drugs,” Berry offered. “It had to be drugs. I mean, what else would make people go all psycho like that? They were completely whacked out!” I got the clear im-pression that the big guard had been up most of the night thinking about what he had seen and now had little desire to describe it further. However, description is precisely what I needed from both of them.
“I’m getting the idea that what happened was very unusual. Could you describe it more specifically? How many people were involved?” I turned to the right and asked, “When you say ‘just to start going off and biting people like that’, can you tell me exactly what you mean?”
I could see a look of relief from the left guard, Berry, that I had asked a question of his brother rather than him. Ben looked like someone who had smelled something very bad. He took a long drink of his coffee before answering.
“Well, I dunno exactly how to say it.” He looked over at his partner for some support but only got a blank stare. “I guess there were about ten people all together. I don’t think I ever saw anything that bad.”
“You got that right, Ben,” Berry commented while shaking his head. “Half that woman’s face was bit off! Did you see that?”
A nod from Ben showed he had seen the woman. “How about the guy flopping around on the floor with blood spraying out of his throat?” He shook his head and closed his eyes as if trying to get rid of the memory.
“I’m sorry to bring all of this back to you,” I apologized with such sincerity I surprised myself. “Is there a supervisor or someone like that with whom I can speak?”
“The head of security is Mister Travers,” Berry answered sounding relieved at the chance to pass the buck. “His office is on the third floor near the elevator.”
I thanked the pair and left them silently drinking their coffees. The signs led me through the unusually quiet airport to a bank of elevators in the back corner of the terminal. As I waited for the silver doors to open, I was struck by the silence of the airport. The quiet had anything but a calming effect. It was more like a sense things were very wrong. The feeling of dread only grew as I stepped inside the elevator and rode up to the third floor.
As the elevator doors opened, I saw a place which appeared absolutely deserted. The silence was unsettling. I hesitated for just a second before stepping off the elevator. Truth be told, the eerie silence was enough to make me consider stepping back and just waiting for the doors to close once more. Instead, I walked off the elevator and into a big reception area with a counter holding ledgers for signing-in visitors. Behind the counter were several vacant desks. It was a place which certainly should have been filled with activity at ten thirty on a weekday morning. The fact that it was deserted made me curious. As I was contemplating possible reasons for the emptiness of the place, the silence was shattered by the roar of coughing. Actually, this coughing was certainly not any louder than other coughing, but the silence surrounding it amplified the sound.
I headed slowly in that direction. Before I had gone more than a few steps, I tentatively called, “Hello?” My voice was answered by more violent coughing. I slowly continued on a few more steps before repeating, “Hello?”
Again coughing was the reply. Suddenly, a very tall, very thin man with very short brown hair stepped out into the hall just a few feet in front of me. He looked straight at me as he blew his nose into an orange paper napkin which looked as if it had already been used for the same purpose. When he was finished, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
I watched him tuck the napkin into the pocket of his white shirt before saying, “I’m looking for a Mister Travers.”
“That would be me, Steve Travers.”
“Mister Travers, my name is Kevin Turner, and I’m a reporter for the Marin Gazette.” My connection to a newspaper clearly did not please Travers. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about an incident yesterday afternoon.”
Travers obviously knew just what I was talking about but feigned ignorance for a few seconds before saying, “Oh, you must mean the problem we had with the drunken passengers at Gate Eleven. I keep telling the lines they need to stop serving alcohol on these long flights at least two hours before landing. I damn sure don’t need a load of drunks being dropped on my airport. These passengers go off the flight pretty well lubricated and didn’t feel like waiting in line.” He stopped as if he had said enough on the matter. The idea I might have further questions did not please him.
“Really, the whole incident was just a few unruly drunks? From what I’ve heard, it was a whole lot more serious.” I glanced at my notes. “About ten people involved. Some with very serious bite wounds.”
Travers also glanced at my notes and wanted to ask about them but probably realized the futility of asking about my sources. Instead, he said, “Well, I can simply tell you that your information is incorrect. It was a minor event involving a group of inebriated and disorderly passengers.” It sounded like he was reading from the soon-to-be-written official account of the incident.
I saw no sense in questioning Steve Travers any further. Most likely, the only thing that would have gotten me was tossed out of the office and restricted from the airport. Instead, I thanked him for his time and said “bless you” when he sneezed as I was leaving the office.
Like any good reporter, I spent my time in the elevator reviewing what I had learned at the airport thus far. There was some sort of brawl in the customs area while processing arriving passengers from somewhere in Europe. According to the security guards, around ten people were involved. People had severe bite wounds. From the waitress, I learned that she saw “some really weird people running around”. Naturally, Travers, the head of airport security, downplayed the whole thing as “a minor event involving a group of inebriated and disorderly passengers”. In my limited experience as a reporter, I had learned that the truth usually rested somewhere between the extremes of what people told me. If such were the case here, the incident might be worth a little more of my time.
Once I got off the elevator, I stood in the quiet hallway and called into the paper to let my editor, Carole, know what I was doing. I was surprised when after about six rings the recorded message came on. “You have reached the Marin Gazette. Thank you for calling. You have called either outside of regular business or all of our operators are busy with other calls. Please leave a message after the tone, and we will return your call as soon as possible.”
I checked my watch to find it was just after eleven and wondered why no one was answering the phones at the office. After the long tone, I said, “Carole, this is Kevin. What’s with the recording? Anyway, I am at SFO. My nine thirty appointment didn’t show, but I spoke to some other folks here including the head of security. Surprise, the accounts of the problem yesterday don’t match. I’m going to see what else I can find out. Be in later this afternoon.” I pushed
624
on the phone to be told that my voicemail contained “no new messages”. This was another surprise since I had been following several stories and typically had at least ten new messages every time I checked the voicemail.
I decided to head back to the coffee shop and sit down to plan my next move. I also realized that I had failed to get the waitress’s name, which I would need if I used her quote.
Like every other part of the airport, the lack of people in the coffee shop was striking. In fact, it was deserted. I waited at the counter expecting to see someone pop out of the backroom and apologize for making me wait.
After a minute or two, I called out “hello” but got no response. I walked from one end of the counter to the other trying to see if anyone was in the backroom. I saw no one. Finally, I pushed through the little gate which separated the customer area from the area behind the counter. Even given the strange circumstances, I felt a twinge of guilt at trespassing into an area forbidden to me. I walked slowly passed the silent coffee makers and empty glass coffee pots.
At the other end of the counter, I found a swinging metal door with a small square of glass. The glass was yellowed and scratched, but it revealed more than enough of the room on the other side.
I could see someone sprawled out on the white tile floor. I could not be certain whether or not it was the waitress from earlier or not, because someone in blue airport coveralls leaning over the body blocked my view. At first, I thought that I had stumbled upon some romantic tryst and started to turn away. Far be it for me to intrude upon young love. However, just as my eyes were leaving the small window, I saw the blood. It was spreading slowly out from underneath the body.
I have never considered myself much of a hero, but I was ashamed of myself for briefly considering slowly and quietly backing away from the door and simply leaving the airport. Instead, I pushed open the door. Just my luck, the door squeaked, and the figure in the blue airport coveralls turned at the sound.