The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle (15 page)

The man became aware of them now; his head turned towards
them in a lightning-fast move.

“Shit! He’s a fast one,” Rob exclaimed. No time to say
anything else, they both opened fire as the creature roared and leapt at them,
with a look of pure hate in his eyes. Caught in mid-air as both shots found
their target, the savage face now showed a look of surprise as one bullet
entered his forehead slightly to the left, while the other took off his jaw and
buried itself in the chest. Neither round had passed through the target, the
cross-cuts had actually worked. The body crashed heavily to the floor, and lay
still. Blood began to flow thickly across the aluminium floor, the grip
moulding slowing its flow.

“Becky, can you get some paper towels? We can’t let the
blood drip into any systems.” Rob asked.

Acknowledging the question with a nod, she left the room.
Returning a moment later, she passed them some of rolls of absorbent paper, and
they began wiping up the deck.

“Who is he?” Becky asked. Daniel looked through the dead
man’s pockets and found a wallet. In it, a plastic card identified him as an
airline employee, a systems analyst.

“Zombie systems analyst,” Rob replied, looking over Danny’s
shoulder.

“How can you tell the difference?” Daniel responded, earning
him a thump on his shoulder.

“Don’t forget, we left with no real warning,” Rob mused,
“perhaps he was already aboard, and sick when we took off. They do seem to have
a tendency to continue with what they did in life, at least until they are
disturbed.”

“I’ve never seen anyone move like that,” Becky said, her
arms wrapped tightly around her chest in a self-assuring hug. “How can anyone
move that fast, especially if they are ill? And I can’t believe how casual you
two are about all this.”

“We weren’t when this all kicked off, but we’ve gained a
little experience today,” Rob assured her, “try not to think of what they were
in life, that sort of thinking will slow you down, and get you killed - and
eaten.”

“I’ll try,” she agreed, still wondering if that was really
possible.

Rob was watching the information updating on the screen and,
after looking over the system units, declared that the man had probably not
done anything adverse, certainly as far as he could tell.

“We’d better update the captain, he may have heard the shots
and is wondering what’s going on,” Daniel suggested; the cockpit was just above
their heads. “Actually, Rob, can you do that? I want to check on Janet and the
kids. Then we can sort the cargo hold.”

“Yeah, sure. I’d like to see the cockpit anyway.”

“Men,” Becky said, as if it explained a raft of inexplicable
things in the world.

Daniel sat down next to Janet, who was just starting to wake
up. The kids were still out cold, someone had covered them with blankets; he
smiled, they looked peaceful for a change.

“Everything okay?” Janet asked, holding his hand. She must
have woken in his absence, as she was nursing the rifle on her lap, clearly she
wasn’t as relaxed as she looked. Rob and I will have to sort the rifle bullets,
he thought. Right now they would be guaranteed to pass through their targets,
and then through the fuselage walls.

“Yeah,” he replied, “we’ve moved the infected passengers
back to the rear of the plane, and tied them down. They can’t do any harm now.
The healthy ones were moved to the front, downstairs. The crew are keeping a
close eye on them, in case any others get sick; if they do they will need to be
taken out of that group.”

“Why didn’t
we
get
it?” she asked, a frown on her face. “Could we still get it?”

“I’ve been asking myself that all day. I don’t have an
answer, but I’ve got some ideas.”

“Yes?”

“I think our bodies were either fighting off a cold this
morning, and our body’s resistance was enhanced enough to protect us, or maybe
we were just fighting off this infection, pure and simple. We don’t seem to
have the cold now, do we?” he asked rhetorically.

“God, you’re right,” she replied, sniffing experimentally.
“So we’ve either gotten over a cold, which is unlikely in this short amount of
time, or we’ve got whatever this is?”

“Well, I didn’t say that, but maybe we are immune, somehow.”

“What about Rob? Did he have a cold?”

“Not that I remember. He was indoors in the systems lab all
night, Sunday night. Maybe the filtered air protected him from whatever it was.
The fact that so many people had it at the same time, sort of suggests this
thing was airborne. If that’s the case, the disease didn’t remain in the air
very long, if that’s even how it was transmitted; I’m making an assumption on
that. So when he came out, there was nothing for him to catch, because it was
gone.”

“You can catch it from a bite,” Janet said, in a matter of
fact tone. She’d seen Paul succumb in the library.

“Yep, I’m sorry that happened to Paul.” He squeezed her
hand. “We have to be careful.”

“What are we flying into, by going to America?” Janet wondered.

“Good question, love. I’m still finding it hard to believe
we’ve just thrown away fifteen years of work and home-building by getting on
this plane. It’s not often I’m grateful for being an orphan, but now is really
one of those times. You?”

“I’m not sure grateful is the right word, but I know what
you mean. Perhaps that makes us selfish, but maybe we could look at this as a
new start? I suspect ‘normality’ is just going to be a word from now on.
Anyway, we do have a responsibility bigger than any house.” She nodded towards
the kids. “Should we have done more to find their relatives, if they have any?
I feel a bit guilty about taking them with us to America.”

“What else could we have done? England was dying in that
shit storm, and we had to make an immediate decision about going with Rob. They
weren’t exactly forthcoming about relatives. Maybe they are more like us than
we know.”

“You might be right. I guess we’ll never know unless they
tell us. So, tell me, Mr Pilgrim, where are we going?”

“It’s hard to say right now. I can’t see us landing anywhere
on the east coast, the infection seemed to be rife there, at least when we took
off. Perhaps we can land in the mid-west. That would sure as hell suit Rob; I
hope Sandra is alright.”

“So do I.”

Daniel looked at his watch; four hours had passed, probably
another four or five to go until they reached land, only another couple at most
before they reached US airspace. Remembering what the captain had said about a
possible welcoming committee, he shuddered at the thought.

Gathering her wits together, Sandra looked around the living
room, trying to figure out how she would remain safe; how to keep the house
secure. The windows were broken, and there were holes in the walls, but the
door was jammed closed, so at least the main entrance was sorted. Forget about
securing the windows; it was too late anyway, she thought, those bastards
firing indiscriminately towards her house had seen to that. When push comes to
shove, it was only glass anyway. Windows offered no real protection, except
from the cold, but with the curtains closed that problem was minimised. Sandra
turned up the heating to full; she still had power, for now at least. The
energy bill seemed unlikely to be delivered at any time in the foreseeable
future.

She had a gun, a pathetic little snub-nosed revolver with
four rounds left, but what else could be used? That thing Rob had told her last
time they’d spoken: attack their heads, destroy the brain? Sounded disgusting,
but that officer had been shouting the same thing to his men. Before they had
all been wiped out. Jesus, she thought, I don’t go to church often enough, but
protect me. She shivered.

Looking at the settee in front of her, she saw her erstwhile
friend, looking restful, in spite of her wide-open, milky eyes. For a moment, a
pang of survivor guilt ran through her. Yes, destroying the brain does work,
the evidence of the hole in Ella’s cheek was enough to prove that point. Ella
would never again get up and interact at any level.

Of course, she realised, the garage. Plenty of luggage and
possessions in there; in fact, they couldn’t fit the car in it because of all
the stuff from their last house. She remembered that their ‘stuff’ included two
machetes they’d used in the garden, a matching pair in fact, as Rob had
described them when he bought them last summer. He’d even carved their initials
in each one; sounded cheesy now, but it had been play-romantic at the time.
What girl could ever want more from her man, other than a machete? Ironic
really, considering it would probably be a girl’s best friend from hereon in;
flowers could do nothing any more, other than mark a grave.

The entrance to the garage was inside the house, accessed
from the hallway. Ever cautious, Sandra made her way in there; she knew exactly
which box the tools were in. They had been packed with the intention of having
a garage sale, yet another thing they hadn’t gotten around to since arriving at
their new home.

Her way clear of intruders, she quickly found the blades and
tested the edges; still sharp. She decided Ella had to go, there was no way
Sandra wanted to look at her remains any longer, those eyes gave her the
heebie-jeebies. To that end, she gathered up a tarpaulin which had been neatly
folded and stored in a corner, and a reel of cord; she would deal with her late
friend when she had a moment. Back in the house, locking the garage entrance
door, and armed with the two machetes, Sandra screwed up her courage to check
on the rest of the property. Downstairs was definitely clear, but the upper
level was still hostile territory until checked.

Bracing herself and breathing deep, she ascended the stairs,
her back sliding up the wall, trying to remember where the squeaky boards were.
The stairs swept around to the left, so it was easy for her to look up and see
if there was anyone ahead. The varnished wooden banisters were supported by
white-painted, turned balusters, through which Sandra could see into the
bedrooms, even before she had reached the upper floor; the doors had been left
open by the soldiers following their search, muddy footprints were visible on
the carpet. Goddam bastards, she muttered, if there was just someone to
complain to…

In the back bedroom, she could now see bloody smears on the
pale cream carpet, causing her to breathe more rapidly. Forcing herself to
relax again, she continued upwards. Quickly checking the two front rooms, it
was obvious Sandra was putting off the inevitable moment when that last room
would have to be cleared. Holding the blades in a fighting stance - she had
done some martial arts in her university days - the lone woman stepped forward,
keeping her left foot ahead, slowly entering the room. It was empty behind the
door; the gap between the door and jamb allowing a clear view beyond. The only
other place a person could be was the other side of the bed. The blood trail
indicated as much.

She threw herself forward over the last distance, hoping to
surprise whatever, or whoever it was. A small child sitting on the floor,
staring up at her, brought her charge to a halt. The little girl must have come
into the house when Sandra lay unconscious, earlier on. As a nursery school
teacher, it was an ingrained response for her to show tenderness and care, at
least where a child was concerned. She dropped the machetes to her side, trying
to hide them, or at least not to frighten the child.

Fear was the last thing the child would have registered; it
was a little girl - with the whitest eyes Sandra had ever seen. She sat there, her
head raised from her task, a look of curiosity strangely discernible on her
face. A soldier lay there, his uniform in tatters, his abdomen laid open,
revealing glistening, still pulsing organs. The stench from his burst
intestines was intense, and made Sandra gag a little. He let out a groan, but
remained immobile. The little girl’s face was passive, relaxed-looking. That
change in a moment. She snarled, revealing blood-coated teeth, unnamed bloody
flesh stuck between her incisors; Sandra felt the hairs at the back of her neck
rise, her heart raced, and the flight or fight decision was made. With a
lightning fast movement, Sandra’s right hand swung in an arc, and the fourteen
inch blade sliced into the girl’s forehead. Years of nursery conditioning made her
hold back at the last moment, the blade not entering enough to finish the job.
It was the typical hesitation injury of the first time kill.

The girl squealed with an unnatural, gurgling timbre,
thrashing around, clawing at the blade which remained clasped by her skull.
Remembering her other blade, Sandra swapped it to her right hand, and swung a
second time, this time severing the child’s head from her shoulders. With the
weight of the embedded machete, the head rolled awkwardly to the skirting
board, where it came to a halt. Her questioning, opaque eyes blinked and
searched around the room, as if she was trying to find her body. Her corpse was
lying motionless, but the head behaved as if still attached. A final blow, and
the head was cleaved in two, like a fresh cantaloupe. Now the obscene thing was
dead.

Sandra dropped to her knees, and looked in horror at her
handiwork. Why couldn’t she cry? It had been just a child, but something had
told her to act, to kill. Maybe it was the look in the kid’s eyes; it was hard
to tell what was the more unnerving, the calm look first seen, mouth engulfed
with the man’s guts, or the vicious squeal. Dear God. She, Sandra, had just
killed a child, but it still wouldn’t register in her mind; she swore. No
matter how much she metaphorically slapped herself, no tears would come, the
natural and normal reaction to this hideous act. Her world was changing; all
the death and carnage encountered in the last few hours was turning her into
something else, she just couldn’t say what, exactly. It had something to do
with a primitive instinct for survival, that much was obvious to her.

Giving up on her emotions, Sandra stood once more, and then
heard air hissing from the lips of smorgasbord man. Stepping over to him, she
looked into his eyes. Milky; he was turning. Sighing, the bloody blade struck
down once more, and the remaining light in the man’s eyes faded.

With the house clear of intruders, live ones at least,
Sandra went to the bathroom and washed her hands, face and the machetes. Her
hands were raw by the time she had finished; all signs of the blood were now
gone from her skin, plus a few extra layers for good measure.

While cleaning herself, she had given thought to what had
been done by her. One thing was for sure, up close and personal was no longer
an option, it was impractical and upsetting. Unless, of course, there was no
other choice to be made. The only solution was a half-way decent gun. The army
had been defeated, so there had to be a gun somewhere out there. As she looked
out the window, she could see clusters of bodies, civilian and soldier alike.
Looking closer to the house, there were a pair of dead soldiers in the next
garden, one clasping a pistol in his right hand. The other man had a rifle of
some sort. They would do. Neither was moving, so it appeared safe to take the
weapons from them. Looking around again, she could see that there were only a
few people walking around in the distance, dazed, or worse; other than that
there appeared to be no-one that could pose a threat.

Decision made, she filed a mental note to clean the bodies
out of the house once suitably armed. Leaving by the rear door, gripping a
single machete this time, she made her way, shrub by shrub, into the
neighbour’s garden. The soldier with the pistol was now clearly visible, he was
the bastard officer that had accused her of looting. God protects his own, she
thought, grateful to be free from his clutches. Getting closer, it was obvious
that the officer appeared to have committed suicide. There was a blackened hole
under his chin, and the top of his head had parted company with the rest. Not
wanting to stare at the mess, she glanced at the other soldier, and saw that he
too had a blackened hole in his forehead. Both had extensive bite marks on their
arms. It seemed that the officer wasn’t going to leave anyone behind. Semper
fi, she thought, dryly.

Taking the whole webbing belt seemed to be the right thing
to do; it had ammo clips in its pouches, plus the gun, of course, which was
prised from the man’s cold, dead hand. Unclipping the belt at his front, she
used the machete to cut the belt loops for easy removal, time being of the
essence. Searching both of the men, there was also a sheathed bayonet, which,
in addition to the rifle, she collected.

With an armful of weaponry and ammunition, she carefully
made her way back to the house. Once inside, the weapons were dropped in a pile
on the dining room table.

Picking up her mobile phone, she saw a signal was still
available. For how much longer, she pondered. Dialling Rob’s number, dismay set
in when all that could be picked up was his answering service. Too soon for him
to be here, damn it. Leaving a message, she hoped he would receive it when he
landed. Fumbling around with the pistol until the ammo clip popped out, she
replaced it with a fresh one. Putting on the pistol belt, and holstering the
gun, a warm feeling of capability ran through Sandra. No bastard was going to
bite her. No fucking way.

Now to clear up the bodies.