The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle (25 page)

As the fury of the fighting ebbed, everyone being either
dead or undead, a curious peace descended once more in the operations room. The
infection had spread quickly, perhaps originating from multiple sources other
than just the brothers. Whatever the cause, those officers and ranks still
standing had returned to their posts, and made every effort to resume their
duties. It was more difficult now, the relevance of the equipment in front of
them nearly impossible to understand. Some of the screen displays couldn’t be
seen, their colours not registering in the newly sensitised eyes of the undead.
A tinny, disconnected voice could be heard over the radio network, demanding
instructions, asking questions. They went unheeded.

“If anyone can hear me, my name is Captain Bud Lewis, F-18,
flamed-out engine, gliding towards the north eastern seaboard, currently three
thousand feet ASL, will be ditching in thirty seconds. Please mark my
coordinates.”

He continued to give his position and counted down the
height until finally, the transmission went dead. There was no-one dispatched
to save the pilot from the icy, dark Atlantic Ocean.

 
Most of the
operatives just stood there, flicking switches or staring at indecipherable
screens, oblivious to the drama taking place two thousand miles away. In spite
of their newly confusing world, they were happy, if that was the right word for
it; each and every person in the underground bunker had a connection to each
other that could not be broken in death.

Setting off northwards, Tom and BB drove past what was left
of the airport. Instead of the majestic white tent that usually marked it out
clearly for miles in all directions, a pit remained, charred at the edges, few
recognisable buildings left. Tom could see now that the runways were littered
with the scattered remains of aircraft that had been hurled away from the
terminals, to land in broken heaps hundreds of yards away from the epicentre.
The debris they had collided with when they landed during the night was most
likely not the remains of a failed attempt at landing, but the remains of
scattered aeroplane bones.

Recognisable sections of planes were visible right up to and
beyond the road on which they had now stopped. Red lumps of charred flesh were
scattered across the road and in the surrounding brush, attracting small
rodents and packs of marauding dogs. The remains were unidentifiable, but it
was fair to assume it was the last vestiges of bodies not consumed by the
super-heated nuclear burst. Huge buzzards had collected in groups, and had
settled in as uninvited guests to the feast now presented. A pack of coyotes
bounded around excitedly in the distance.

Neither man could take their eyes off the carnage and
destruction that had once been the fifth busiest airport in the USA. An intense
sadness took a hold of them both, the import of this terrible sight was as
significant as anything they’d ever witnessed personally or seen on telly. As a
final statement, it spoke volumes about the death of the world as they knew it.

 
“Thank God we didn’t
get that early clearance to depart London, eh, BB?” Tom reflected; sometimes he
could be lucky.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Tom suddenly realised they had stopped, and nudged BB back
to the here and now. “Come on, man. We
gotta
keep
going.” BB slapped his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and anger,
and gunned the engine. After a moment, they gathered speed and began the haul
to Boulder. They sat in silence, neither in the mood for idle chatter.

For them, the start of the journey took them through an
expanse of empty, open countryside, the odd house visible at the brow of the
artificial rise bulldozed either side of the E470. As they reached the top of
the ring-road around Denver, they could see, off to their left, a dark column
of smoke rising, not from a single source, but more like the whole horizon was
ablaze, peppered with smaller orange flowers as fuel sources ignited. The boom
of the explosions hit them after a few seconds, like a film out of sync with
the soundtrack.

“Is this the end of our world, Tom?” BB asked, having
descended into a pit of despair.

Tom didn’t answer.

Focusing upon flying the aircraft had enabled them to deny,
at least in their minds, what was happening below them, and even on the plane.
In the cockpit, all had been rational, even their encounter with the USAF had
been a logical exercise. Ever since they had landed, the world had begun to
crumble. For Tom, his over-riding passion now was to get to his family as
quickly as possible, so he had a new and pressing goal to focus upon. For BB,
it was another matter. Getting to San Francisco felt an unreal objective,
impossible right now; he had no idea of how this goal was going to be achieved.
He looked out of the window at the pall of smoke in the distance. Then the
obvious solution came to him. How he had missed it was a mystery to him.
Fatigue, probably.

Perhaps he would steal a plane, fly there directly. A
helicopter would be better, on it he could fly right up to his own house; there
was even space around it where he could land. Maintaining licence currency on
helicopters had been a godsend for him. His wife, Babs, had always complained
at the extra cost: she saw it as frivolous, after all he was an airline pilot,
and flew jets; but it looked like the investment was going to be worthwhile
after all. That possibility buoyed him up once again. BB was a positive
thinker; although his downward mood spirals were frequent and steep, they were
usually only short lived. All things were achievable, if he only gave it the
right amount of thought.

They were almost halfway to Boulder as they arrived at the
exit to Denver on the I25. As they approached the flyovers they had to slow
down. They had been lucky so far; going in their westward direction at that
hour of the day meant there were almost no vehicles on their side of the road
at all. It had been an easy and clear run. Now there was pandemonium. Cars had
crashed down from the flyovers, perhaps from being chased or loss of control,
it was hard to say. Piles of cars, many on their rooves, attested to how they
had gotten there.

Large numbers of zombies wandered aimlessly, or stood next
to their broken machines. Others inside the vehicles writhed in their attempts
to understand, and escape their situation. It looked like an Hieronymus Bosch
painting, chaos reigned; groups of inhuman people were gathered around bodies,
lustfully tearing at strips of flesh, and settling back to engorge themselves.
It was the Devil’s depiction of al fresco dining. The fanged grins of the
diseased gave them the appearance of laughter, the blood and detritus hanging
from their jaws revoking the amusement that might otherwise have been found in
their joy.

“Holy crap,” Tom muttered. “How the devil are we supposed to
get around this?”

“Up there!” BB pointed, the turnoff was right alongside
them. He slewed the truck sideways, and drove across the grassy verge
separating the turnoff from the main road. Landing heavily back on the slip
road once more he followed the curve as it wound to the right. They bowled over
a group of Infected that blocked their path, driving them like skittles, some
thrown sideways and others falling under the truck. The wheels skidded on the
wet, slippery, pulverised flesh, then found purchase once more on the dry blacktop.

At the top of the rise, they began to descend once more to
enter the northbound side of the I25. Instead of following the road, BB drove
back onto the grass, and down the bank. Tom exclaimed in shock at the
manoeuvre, and held on tight. The first officer aimed the huge truck straight
at the opposite side of the Interstate. Bouncing across the carriageways, the
massive tyres giving the lightly laden truck the advantage over deep gullies,
they careened over the middle island, and drove the wrong way along the
carriageway. As soon as the crash barrier disappeared, he swerved left once
more and entered the off ramp. They were now back on the E470 heading in their
original westerly direction, the dreadful scene left behind, and getting
smaller in the rear vision mirrors.

“I hope you never have to do the school run,” Tom announced,
smiling broadly. It felt good to do something a little reckless, even better to
survive it.

“And only a small number of zombies killed in the making.”
BB couldn’t help but grin now, pleased they were back on track. Behind them a
black line of oil appeared on the road; they had unknowingly sprung a leak.

As they reached the Denver Boulder Turnpike without further
incident, their spirits had improved, they felt more alive. The latest little
thrill ride had allowed them to slough off their misery, at least for the
present.

“We have a problem, old buddy,” Tom announced. He leaned
forward and tapped the oil pressure dial. “We must have broken something
getting around that picnic back there.”

“Jeez, are we ever
gonna
get a
break? So, we look for another vehicle.” BB asked, pissed off once more. “Let’s
try for something a little snazzy for a change.”

“No, let’s try for something a little similar. We need the
grunt of this beast.”

A little disappointed, but realising his wish wasn’t truly
practical, BB looked carefully around, on and off their road, hoping to find a
clutch of new military vehicles, with which to replace this dying leviathan.

It was not long before they found what they wanted. Seeing a
sign for the Regal Colony Square Stadium, they turned off the turnpike. There
was bound to be some sort of military build-up there. It was a pretty large
shopping mall, with plenty of parking, perfect for a troop concentration. They
drove slowly, saving the engine as much as possible. Fortunately, it was such a
heavy duty motor, built to take almost any punishment, that it could last
pretty well on nearly no oil at all. With care, they might not have to walk.

Turning into the drive of a local hotel, they were pleased
to have been proven right. There were seven or eight army trucks similar to the
one they were driving, lined up and ready to go, by the looks of them. Then
they saw the problem. Milling around the trucks were thousands of the buggers.

“Oh, crap,” BB uttered, “if you’re a religious man, Tom,
start praying. There’s no way this thing will get us any further.” Tom’s face
had gone pale; they’d seen first-hand what these things had done to a full
detachment of troops. The engine finally gave out, and he let it coast along
silently, as close as it could get to their new ride. There was about twenty
yards to the nearest truck. For such a small distance, it looked like a
helluva
long journey. Then he remembered.

“Aftershave.”

“What?” BB asked, thinking his friend and captain had gone
bonkers. Well, he did have a few years on BB.

“Danny said something about how they had confused these
creatures, by spraying themselves with aftershave. Let’s give it a go.”

“Do you have any? I haven’t,” BB replied, realising this was
probably the first time in his life of travel when he didn’t have any. Bloody
typical, as those Brits would say.

“I have some. I grabbed my toilet bag, it’s in the carry-all
I took from the plane.”

“It’s in the back of the truck.” Looking behind him, BB
found the same bolt-hole Rob had discovered in his, and climbed through; he was
smaller and fitter than Tom, so it was only fair. Finding the carry-all bag, he
unzipped it and found the aftershave quickly. There was also a spray-on deodorant
which was bound to be equally effective. With these two odours emanating from
their warm bodies, it was likely to repel most things, he thought, smiling with
grim hope. Poking his head back into the cab, he passed one to Tom. Spraying
themselves with as much as they could stand, they were now ready to face their
challenge.

Stuffing a dozen or so clips from the ammo boxes into their
bags, BB slung them and his rifle over his shoulder, and descended from the
back of the truck, pistol at the ready, and walked down the far side, out of
sight of the enemy. Tom joined him on the ground, leaving the door ajar to make
no unnecessary noise. He grabbed his own bag.

“Well, here goes nothing,” BB said, walking slowly out front
of the truck. No reaction so far, maybe this would work. Tom followed behind,
rifle at the ready. They strolled as slowly and steadily as possible to the
closest truck. Against all sense and reason, they mingled with the crowd,
trying desperately to suppress the fear that was tearing at their nerve
endings. Still no reaction. The stench was appalling; in spite of the extremely
cold weather, these people really were rotting, their faces and bodies showing
the ravage the condition had inflicted. Everything from loose jaws to severed
limbs, wounds that would have had a normal person bed-ridden, was as nothing to
these poor creatures. Arriving at their target truck, they walked down the
passenger side, towards the cab.

BB gently tugged at the door, trying to suppress any
mechanical clicks as it opened. With the door ajar, he looked across to see a
zombie sitting in the driver’s seat, its white eyes staring straight at him. It
gurgled something, perhaps an enquiry, perhaps a command. Slowly, he backed up
and turned to Tom, using hand signals to indicate the problem. He put down his
bag and rifle, every move a slow one, so as not to arouse unwanted attention.
Having drawn his bayonet and held it pointing upwards, he was ready for
anything, as the door was slowly opened from within.

Out of curiosity, the zombie had slid across the bench seat
and was pushing at the handle. With lightning quick reflexes borne out of fear
and revulsion, BB grabbed the creature by the lapel and pulled him quickly out
of the cab. It flew over his head, and landed with a dull thud on the ground, a
few feet away. He lunged with the bayonet, making sure the thing didn’t have
time to cry out, and plunged the knife upwards from under its jaw, penetrating
into the skull and brain. With a stunned look, the zombie ceased the struggle
and lay still. Quickly he pulled the blade free and wiped it on the jacket of
the dead creature. Keeping it in his hand, BB climbed in smartly and pulled Tom
aboard along with the bags and rifles. Squeals and gurgling roars of
indignation sounded outside the cab. The pounding of fists, hands and bodies
against the truck intensified as BB started the engine. Thank Christ, he
thought, as it started first time.

He put it into first gear and the truck leapt ahead. Dozens
of Infected standing directly in front of them went under the wheels. The
torque of the diesel engine would stop at nothing, and the vehicle roared away,
slithering over the crushed bodies and scattering the rest before them. It was
like driving on ice, but soon the deep tread had grabbed hold of the road, and
they raced past their old truck and out of the hotel’s drive, onto the main
street once more. Looking in the rear vision mirrors, they could see hundreds
of the outraged creatures chasing them down the street, several of whom had
managed to get a grip on the canvas cover, trying to make their way to the cab.
A few were like overgrown spiders, as they used their super-human strength to
climb across the cloth side walls. It looked easy to them, nightmarishly
simple.