The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle
Read The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Online
Authors: David K. Roberts
Tags: #Zombie Apocalypse
The Common Cold
- A Zombie
Chronicle
A Story By David K Roberts
Copyright © 2013 David Kingsley Roberts
All
Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents:
Who Knew Libraries Were Such
a Health Hazard?
Gatwick Airport - The Road
From Hell?
The Decision to Leave is
Easier Than You Think
Would the Last One Out
Please Turn Out the Lights?
Zombies on a Plane (Yeah,
I know, but what else could it be called?)
Doing the Mid-Atlantic
Zombie Shuffle
The Battle for Denver
International Airport
Any Landing You Can Walk
Away From is a Good Landing
NORAD, the Lunatics Have
Taken Over the Asylum
Commuting - 2nd January, 2013
“Oh, God. I feel like crap,” Daniel said as he rolled over
in bed. Janet, his wife of four years, mumbled something unintelligible and
turned over, desperate for every extra minute she could catch. She was
definitely not a morning person. This morning, neither was Daniel.
He turned over and hit the snooze button of the radio alarm.
The snooze function activated a further three times before he felt his wife’s
foot at the base of his spine. With less than gentle pressure, she eased him to
the edge of the bed.
“Get up, you lazy sod,” she mumbled, desperate to sleep
while he performed his morning rituals; his always took longer than hers for
some reason. Groaning to himself in resignation, he gently sat up on the edge
of the bed, nursing his aching head. Reviving slowly, it dawned on him he had a
cold. He’d hoped it was only a small hangover - last night had been excessive
but fun - but it wasn’t. Colds weren’t like they used to be, everyone said it.
They used to come and go in a few days, now the bloody things would last a
couple of weeks, and sometimes even require antibiotics to finally clear up the
last dregs. God, how he hated the thought of what probably lay ahead, like an
inevitable bow wave of misery.
Using his feet to fish for his slippers, he finally found
them, put them on and stood up slowly, stretching his legs and back. The chill
of the mid-winter mornings always made his back stiff at first; he dreaded the
thought of growing old, things would only get worse. They’d have to be
residents of a warm, tropical island by then. He groaned out loud as he
remembered: it was his first day commuting into the new office. Daniel had
pleaded with the company owner to have a new office out of the City, even the
Docklands would be preferable; being resident in the City was so passé.
Although it was supposed to be twenty three minutes to
Cannon Street Station from his town, Mottingham, a small burg in the south east
of London, the commute was rarely straightforward, especially getting past
bloody London Bridge. Almost every time he went through there, especially in
peak hour, there were delays. The drivers apologised on autopilot these days.
He was surprised they didn’t record their announcement, and play it just before
the waiting began. They must be as tired of it as the commuters were; and yet
the fares kept rising, adding insult to injury. Daniel knew it couldn’t be
easy, there were a lot of commuters passing through a single junction area, but
sometimes it felt like Network Rail was continually surprised by the arrival of
actual trains.
Commencing his ablutions, following the same old routine, he
checked his watch grudgingly, irritated that the ritual had to be performed an hour
earlier than before the company had made the move. Thanks, Bill, he muttered
under his breath. Daniel couldn’t really complain, his salary was higher than
average, and with luck the mortgage should be able to be paid off early; God he
was thinking like an old man already, and at only thirty two years of age. The
financial compensation of the job still didn’t reduce the hurt of having to
have to wake up at this godforsaken hour. At least the shower was nice and hot,
and putting his head under the nozzle, life began to return to his body. Now he
was certain a cold was being born, it was invading his sinuses, and his head
felt a little fuzzy in spite of the soothing, warm water flowing over it.
Cleaned and shaved, Daniel wandered back into the bedroom
and, feeling a little playful, reached under the bedding and goosed his wife.
Learning from past experience, he jumped back quickly, knowing her lightning
quick reactions would most likely give him cause to regret his deed. Careful as
he was, her semi-clenched fist still went sailing past his nose to slap
harmlessly against his pillow. How did she move so fast when asleep, he
wondered.
“You bastard,” she tried to exclaim; it came out more like a
whimper, “I need sleep!”
“Stop grizzling, I have no mercy for someone who’s had more
rest than me. Get up, lazy bones.”
He continued dressing, not bothering with a suit or tie; the
office was really going into dress-down mode these days. Finally, heading
downstairs, he called back up to see if Janet wanted a cup of tea.
“No, get me something for a cold, Paracetamol or something.
I think I’ve got your man flu.” She always caught a cold after him, hence the
accusation. For men, colds were almost always fatal, or that’s how Janet
alleged they behaved. For women, colds were always the bloke’s fault.
Rubbing his eyes, still not fully awake, Daniel entered the
kitchen, turned the radio on, and filled the kettle with enough water for a pot
of coffee. While waiting for it to boil, he opened the fridge, remembering that
his local butcher had managed to get him, from ‘under the counter’, his
precious order: lamb’s brains. They had taken weeks to get hold of, but were
always worth the wait. Not a particularly political person, it was his constant
frustration that the successive and obsessive governments, and their new Nanny
State, had banned the eating of brain, because of the CJD outbreak, some years
before. They always put the controls in the wrong places, and always too late.
Reverently, Daniel picked out the package and opened it. In
spite of a rotten cold, he was determined to enjoy his favourite meal, and so
got out a pack of expensive smoked bacon and a couple of eggs as well. Do it
right or not at all, his Dad used to say. He smiled at the thought; it was his
father who had introduced him to brains as food. You are what you eat, they
say. From a high cupboard Daniel retrieved the box of breadcrumbs bought
especially for the occasion. Everything was ready.
In the background, his favourite radio station, LBC, was
droning on about meteorites. Something about increased numbers being detected,
and crashing to Earth, or some such. He’d have to remember to duck.
His loving wife deplored the idea of eating brains, so it
fell to him to make sure they were well disguised, and looked like something
she would order at a restaurant, well, maybe a French restaurant. It always
smelled great when it was cooking, so he knew he would be half-way to pleasing
her at least. Women, he argued, didn’t like the thought of killing cute little
fuzzy creatures, but didn’t mind eating them if they looked just right, and
shop-bought.
By the time Janet came downstairs the meal was ready, along
with a warm drink each, Janet’s containing warm water and soluble Paracetamol.
That morning, as usual, his drug of choice was coffee, without which he
couldn’t function properly for the rest of the day. The smell of the crumbed
brains, bacon and caffeine drink made him feel a lot better, and more able to
get away without taking cold medication until he arrived at the office.
Janet had collapsed into her favourite armchair in the
living room, so Daniel decided to treat her to breakfast on a tray.
“
Braaaaiiinnns
,” he said, handing
it to her.
“You promised you wouldn’t say that. You lied,” she
retorted, trying to crack a smile.
Armed with his own breakfast tray, they both sat in the
living room, watching the morning news. The newsreader on the screen, looking
fresh as a daisy - he’s probably on uppers, Daniel mumbled uncharitably - was
warning the public about the fact that over one million people had so far
succumbed to the Norovirus in the last two weeks. In solemn tones he continued
to warn his audience not to go into work if they didn’t have to. Yeah, that’ll
happen, Daniel thought. So who will earn the money to pay the bills, then?
These official warnings were always pointless, and usually only fed the fever
of fear in people.
Both of them ate their breakfast in companionable silence;
glancing at her, he wasn’t sure Janet even knew what it was she was eating. At
least there were no complaints. Feeling restless, he picked up his plate and,
continuing to eat from it, walked to the front window. Looking out, there were
three people, rugged up, trudging in the direction of the train station,
looking thoroughly miserable at the thought of another exciting day in the
office. Holidays were a mixed blessing; everyone needed the rest, but most
begrudged having to return to work afterwards. That was probably why the
lottery and online gambling were so popular with The Common Man.
“God, they look worse than I feel,” he muttered. “Hey,
Janet. You should see these happy souls, they look zombified. Tired, drawn,
dark circles under their eyes, looks like they’re on automatic.
Urgh
, one of them has a bloody nose. Wipe it, then,” he
said, offering the sufferer advice while watching the blood trickle down the
girl’s chin onto her blouse. “Jeez, I thought I felt bad. Just think, love, a
week from now I’ll be looking like that, and some other bastard will be staring
at me and thinking the same thing.”
He turned around and looked at his wife. She looked
terrible.
“Are you okay? You look really bad.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Way to make a girl feel better.”
“Are you sure you should be going out at all today? Surely
you can find some of what you need on the internet. Do you have to go to the
library?”
“You know I do, I need to look at the copy of the Domesday
Book they have. It won’t be there very long, as it belongs in another library.
I’ll be a couple of hours, max. Then I promise I’ll come straight back home.”
“Do you want me to stay with you? I feel pretty shitty, too.
It’s not like I haven’t got a valid excuse.”
“No, you go in. Bill will only call you a million times, and
make you feel guilty.”
“I guess you’re right.” Glancing at his watch, he saw there
were seven minutes to go before leaving to catch the train to hell, or his
office, whichever was closer. “I’d better get going if I’m to get to work on
time.”
He took his dish to the kitchen, and put it in the sink.
“Can you do the washing up, please? I’ll be late if I do it.”
“Sure, I’ll do it later. No rush. I’m sure to feel better
once the drugs kick in.”
“Thanks, love.” With that he raced up the stairs, did his
teeth and grabbed his laptop bag, making sure the notebook was in the side
pocket.
On his way to the door, he stopped off and kissed Janet on
the forehead. She did have a temperature.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay, you feel hot.”
“Go,” she said, drawing it out like a moan.
“Alright, then. Don’t overdo it, come back home as soon as
you have what you need from the library. I’ll try and sneak out early. Call you
when I get there. Love you.”
He hurried out the front door, slamming it shut in his wake.
There were another couple of people just ahead of him, ambling along,
apparently not in a hurry. Rushing past them, not glancing backwards, the cold
breeze bit into his exposed face as he charged down the road, intent on getting
his train. As he crossed the main A20 road, a gathering of people could be seen
further ahead towards the traffic lights. There had been a prang. Two were
standing near the cars, dazed, bloody wounds clearly visible on their hands and
faces. Others were milling around, gawping as the uninvolved do.
Making an executive decision not to get involved, Daniel
hurried on; surely someone had already called the emergency services,
approaching sirens could be heard in the distance. Today of all days, it was
necessary to get to the office on time; all eyes were on the senior staff, who
were expected to minimise the disruption the move had created. Jogging down the
snicket to the station, he queued to buy a ticket. It was becoming one of those
hurry up and wait mornings.
“I guess I’ll have to get a season ticket at some point,” he
said to no-one in particular, “then I’ll officially be in the Zombie Commuters
Club.”
The queue didn’t seem to be moving, and after a couple of
minutes wait, his train could be heard drawing into the station.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. Leaving the queue, he
ran to the train and climbed aboard, hoping too much time wouldn’t be lost
waiting to pay the penalty fare at the other end.
The train was full this morning, standing room only. It was
an inauspicious start to the year. Looking around, he began to watch the other
commuters as they played the ‘avoid catching others’ eyes’ game. It made him
feel depressed. On top of that, his cold was getting worse, a headache was
coming on, and he began cursing himself for not taking something for it before
leaving the house. Luckily the weather was good, cold but sunny; at least the
sun was on his side for the first day back.
Looking more closely, he noticed that all of the people
around him looked really unwell. This cold had really taken a grip on them. It
was also unheard of that every single person in a carriage had the same bug;
there were always exceptions. Most looked bleary-eyed, dark circles drawn as if
they hadn’t slept in a decade, and all were slack-jawed. Most stared at nothing
in particular. Somehow this didn’t feel right. Feeling self-conscious, and not
wanting to appear nosey, his gaze wandered further down the carriage. There
were two more people with bloody noses, making no effort to stem the flow.
At last, after what had seemed like an interminable journey,
the driver announced their arrival at London Bridge. Good, only one more stop,
and I can leave this disease infested carriage, he announced to himself,
grateful for the short ride. His watch told him the train was only running two
minutes late; it was a miracle. With luck the day might go pretty well after
all, if he could just survive his cold.
The train pulled up alongside the platform, and the door
bell sounded as they hissed open. Two or three people attempted to force their
way on board, frowns on their faces as they tried gamely to push people back
into the train to make room.
