The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies

The Most Uncommon Cold I:

Life in the Time of Zombies

By

Jeffrey Littorno

Copyright © 2013 Jeffrey Littorno

All rights reserved.

Dedication

Quite simply,
I could not have written this book without the help of many others.  I know that there are many who will go unnamed, but here are the first people I thought to thank for encouraging, inspiring, assisting, and simply making it possible for me to write this book:

Nancy McCaslin
, my editor,

Thanks for all o
f your work to make this

book
presentable.

Melinda Fox,

Thanks for your encouragement and praise.

Carole Guffanti-Notley,

Thanks for taking the time to read my story and

offer
ing valuable suggestions.

Stephen King,

Thanks for showing me at the heart of any story

there must be characters for whom the readers care.

CreateSpace and Amazon,

Thanks for giving me the means of

turning my dream into a reality.

GyeYeol Ji-Littorno,

Thanks for keeping me on track to finish

the story even when I wanted to do other things.

Chapter 1             

     The
grimy fingers poked slowly into the skin of the stomach.  At first, the skin just pushed in and popped back out. But then as I lifted my head and looked down at my abdomen, the fingers began digging more quickly and with more purpose.  In an instant, there were four hands and then maybe six. They became more like claws, and suddenly the skin was broken.  Blood seeped out around the fingers until they were splashing in it.  In just seconds, the contents of my body were being pulled out.  Long, bloody tubes of flesh and darker-colored organs streamed from my body. 

    
Finally, the horror of what was happening struck me, and I opened my mouth to scream.  Despite my efforts, no sound came from me. Considering that organs such as my lungs had been removed, the inability to scream should not have come as any surprise. It was the panicked struggle to force sound from my nearly hollow body that always woke me.    

     I forced myself out of bed with the
violent images still fresh in my head. Just as it had on many previous days, the dream left me shaken and feeling nauseous. But having a nightmare has never been an acceptable excuse for missing work, so I took a quick shower and got dressed.

     For the past six years, I had been working as a newspaper reporter for
The Marin Gazette
.  Maybe you have heard of it or maybe not.  It is not large as far as newspapers go, but it has an excellent reputation for publishing straight-forward, factual stories without a whole lot of political bias. 

     Before starting at the paper, I taught English at a Northern California high school.  Why does someone
make a career change like that?  Let’s just say that some people are not cut out to be teachers. 

     Anyway, my
job probably gave me some insight into the problems of the world lost to the average person. I had access to all the details of events, the figures, photos, and percentages.  All the data required for spotting any type of disturbing trend.  Sorry, that’s a load of crap.  I had no special privilege to the facts, and, as far as I know, no one was prepared for the proverbial shit that hit the fan.

     Looking back on it with some time in between, I can see the first sign that things were headed off the rails came to Northern Ca
lifornia with an unusually high number of colds.  It seemed like all at once everyone had a cold.  Everywhere you looked people were sneezing, wiping noses, hacking up phlegm, and complaining about feeling lousy. 

     I was not immune from the
epidemic of colds but managed to press on through the symptoms.  Bonnie, my wife, was not quite as lucky.  I remember giving her a bad time about letting a little cold knock her off her feet.  It seemed a small thing at the time.  Now it is one of about a million things that I regret. It is truly astonishing how people who love each can treat each other with such cruelty.

     “It
’s nearly seven,” I said when I saw Bonnie shuffling to the kitchen table, still in her pajamas. “I don’t think Principal Thomas will approve of you teaching in your pajamas.  Even if you are his favorite math teacher.”  

     My mention of Principal Thomas brought a
flash of anger to Bonnie’s eyes.  She started to say something but suddenly stopped and took a deep breath.  “I don’t know about being anyone’s favorite teacher, but I already called in sick.”  She looked at me for a moment before turning toward the refrigerator. 

     If I didn
’t feel like enough of a jerk already, Bonnie sealed it by pouring me a tall glass of orange juice and setting it on the table in front of me.  “You ought to drink this.  Maybe it’ll keep you from getting this cold that’s going around.” 

     I looked at the
glass and said flatly, “No time.  I have an interview with a witness of the attacks at the airport.” 

     If Bonnie said anything, I didn
’t hear it as I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door of the apartment.   

     My light brown Jeep
was parked in the building’s large ground-level garage.  I noticed that many of the parking spaces were still filled. Typically, when I left home after seven during the week, the lot was almost empty.

     Once out of the garage, it was
obvious that traffic was much lighter than usual. In fact, the streets were about as empty as I could remember seeing them. I certainly was not complaining. The drive over the Golden Gate Bridge was painless without the normal stop-and-go traffic. In fact, the entire trip to the airport was smooth sailing. 

     My interview with Jerry Clark was scheduled for nine thirty. But thanks to the
phenomenal traffic conditions and a stunning availability of parking spaces, I arrived just before nine. I put the extra time to use by grabbing a table in the brightly-decorated coffee shop near the airport’s entrance.  My joy at being able to find a table in the usually-crowded cafe was quickly tempered by the realization that there were a number of empty tables surrounding me.

     I sat down in a bright orange
plastic chair, pulled some index cards from my briefcase, and started going over the notes I had taken about the attacks at the airport. Jerry Clark was a customs agent at the gate where the assaults took place. On the afternoon before, a flight from Europe had landed and begun unloading.  As was normal, the just-arrived passengers were directed toward the customs booths and stood in long lines waiting to be screened and declare any goods from overseas.  Nothing was out of the ordinary until the screaming started.

     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 dark eyes made me question 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 writing down questions to ask 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 lack 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 use my professional journalist voice to avoid sounding like 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 … the attacks.”  I could see by her expression 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 clear that she did not like remembering what she was being asked to recall. 

     “Okay, thanks anyway. Hopefully, Mister Clark will have some idea of what happened.”

     She nodded and smiled and was clearly grateful to get away from me. 

    
It was now nearly ten o’clock, and I decided to go 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
all-too common cold was the general conclusion.  Judging by the number of airport employees that I saw sneezing and blowing their noses, the ailment was indeed widespread.

    
It seemed to be a
chicken and egg
kind of thing. Was the cold widespread so lots of people got it, or did lots of people have it so the cold became widespread?  I suppose, 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 hefty security guards heading into a door with a black plastic sign above it that read “Employee Break Room, Authorized Personnel Only”.  Not being one who was 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 over six feet tall.

     “Excuse me, gentlemen, I
’m hoping that I can 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.”

     “Can I get your names?” 

    “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
silent for a second and then words seemed to burst out of him, “Buncha crazy freaks! I never saw anybody like that. Just to start goin’ off and bitin’ people like that.  I mean, what the hell is that?”  Clearly, the big guy was picturing the scene, and it was not a pleasant picture. 

  
“Drugs,” Berry offered.  “It had to be drugs. What else would make people go all psycho like that?  They were totally whacked out!”  I got the distinct impression that the hulking 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 was precisely what I needed from both of them.