The Mayan Apocalypse by Mark Hitchcock Page A

a New England accent. It sounded strange to her Southern ears. She smiled at the courtesy. “It was a greater pleasure being aboard.”
    The steps bounced slightly, causing Lisa to turn. Morgan was descending; the pilot stood in the doorway. He caught her eye. “A gentleman always walks a lady to the door.”
    â€œThis is an airport, not my home.”
    Morgan smiled. It seemed genuine. “You don’t live at the airport?”
    â€œNot anymore.”
    â€œTouché. Hungry?”
    â€œI’ve already put you out of your way.”
    Morgan placed a hand on her elbow and directed her to a stairway that led to the terminal wing. “I’m hungry. The crew is hungry. Besides, security has to go over the plane again. Did you know that we can’t carry golf clubs onboard?”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    Morgan shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe terrorists like to play a few holes before destroying something. I’m sure security has their reasons.”
    â€œSeems strange to me.”
    He chuckled. “I didn’t say they were good reasons. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”
    â€œNo, I can spare some time for the guy who gave me a lift on his private jet.”
    â€œIn that case, let’s chow down.”
    The terminal looked similar to every terminal Lisa had been in. It sounded the same. Although not a world traveler, she had been in most major airports in the United States. Each one proved form followed function.
    Finding a spot to sit proved more challenging than Lisa expected. Wading through the crowd reminded her of experiences as a child playing in the surf on family vacations to the Gulf Coast of Texas. The waves would rush her and then attempt to draw her deeper into the sea. Here, however, ocean waves had been replaced by swells of people, each lost in their own thoughts. Airports were great places to be ignored.
    â€œHow about here?” Morgan gestured to a sports bar. A crowd stood around the perimeter, but she could see two or three empty tables. “It’s a bar.”
    â€œI can see that.”
    Morgan blinked a few times. “What I mean is—”
    â€œYou’re wondering if I as a Christian can eat a sandwich in an airport sports bar.”
    â€œI just don’t want you writing an article about how I, a fallen man, tried to lead you to the road of destruction.”
    Lisa couldn’t tell if he was serious. “I don’t think I’ll melt. Let’s go.”
    Morgan led the way, politely elbowing his way to the entrance. Lisa followed in his wake. She noticed very few people bothered to look at them. Their eyes were glued to the flat-screen televisions mounted to the walls.
    They sat at a sticky, round table barely big enough for two plates of food. Snatching up a menu, her eyes traced the soup and sandwich offerings.
    A teenage-thin waiter dressed all in black approached and stood in silence by the table.
    â€œDo you have a soup of the day?” Lisa barely glanced up from the menu. When he didn’t respond, she raised her gaze and looked at his youthful face. His forehead looked like a freshly plowed field; his eyes were fixed on one of the televisions. She pursed her lips in frustration and turned to Morgan. He too was fixated on the screen. She started to make a snide remark about men and sports when she noticed everyone—men, women, and children—were hypnotized by the image on the screens. She turned. A moment later, she raised a hand to her mouth.
    Images from what Lisa assumed was a helicopter filled the televisions. Dark, billowing smoke rose from a mountain. The gasses and ash were so thick they seemed more liquid than anything else. There was a caption at the bottom of the screen: V OLCANO E RUPTS N EAR M EXICO C ITY . One of the bartenders behind the bar picked up a remote and cranked the volume. A man with a two-hundred-dollar haircut was speaking.
    â€œIt’s too early for definitive