The Common Cold (Book 2): A Zombie Chronicle-Cabin Fever (23 page)

Ending the radio conversation, they switched their radios
off, deciding radio silence would be an advantage; this NASA team might just be
a fly in the ointment if they were able to follow their progress. Somehow the person
behind the voice of the goodie-two-shoes had known of their existence, position
and had also known their radio frequency. It was creepy and so they pulled
their hats down further over their heads and didn’t look up for fear of
presenting themselves for a photo op.

*

They had driven up from Albuquerque in two Humvees. Fleeing
the mass slaughter of their whole division, they reckoned they were its last
survivors. One of the two vehicles had turned over when it hit a boulder on the
side of the road as it dodged a large group of those zombie things. The ensuing
fire fight had killed off most of the
zoms
but,
running low on ammo, the survivors in the second Humvee had decided that
retreat was the better part of valour and left a number of their buddies to the
tender mercies of fangs and un-death.

That was when the rot set in and they began to argue. Their
officer, a half-way decent lieutenant called Moss, had objected vehemently at
their retreat. His protest had caused his demise at the hands of Allen, their
platoon corporal. He’d always been a crazy bastard at the best of times but
knew how to suck up to the officers for advancement.
Mostly.
That was why he was still a career corporal at thirty eight years old.

With the officer’s dead body ejected from the vehicle, they
made their way north and away from the perceived threat. Unfortunately the
danger hadn’t ended; it only got worse as the cold added yet more misery to
their plight. It was pitch black out there, none daring to get out of the
vehicle in the dark, even to relieve themselves. That particular biological imperative
created some significantly competitive and manly games, nearly capsizing the
broad-beamed car on one occasion. Every one of them was hungry and in a sombre and
tired mood when they saw the light in the distance.

Hunger overcoming their fear, they stopped about a mile from
the light and covered the remaining distance on foot to check out what it was
they were seeing, hoping succour was at the end of the trail. The small house
was in the middle of nowhere and so their confidence rose, realising they were
more than a match for those inside. They could also smell some cooking, which
drove their remaining rational senses away, and making eight hungry,
animalistic men take what they wanted.

They had encountered a family home; the father, mother and
two daughters never really stood a chance against the appetites of the men. Par
for the course, the father was executed as soon as the meal was over. He complained
once too often at the looks the men were giving the women of his family. By
dawn only one of the women survived, the mother, and she had become the
plaything of Rodriguez. In spite of her entreaties to be killed with her
family, the soldier had insisted she accompany them on their drive north.

That was when they got the call on the radio. It gave them
purpose and a new direction.

To the men’s good fortune, or so they thought, there had
been significant quantities of distilled liquor in the house and so it too, was
given room in the Humvee. By the time they arrived in Pueblo, a mid-sized town
south of Colorado Springs, the Humvee fuel tank was empty but the soldiers were
full of moonshine. Finding a gas station they pulled in, shot the half dozen or
so walkers they encountered and filled the fuel tanks. The wife tried to escape;
seeing their attention was elsewhere or nowhere, their brains addled with
drink, she leapt out of the vehicle and began to run. Cries of anger,
frustration and joy of the chase sounded behind her as she made her bare-footed
way across the forecourt, her tattered and thin night clothes Rodriguez had
allowed her to wear letting in the bitter cold.

Realising she was being played with by the soldiers - she
could have been caught by them half a dozen times - she gave up and fell to the
ground, already weak from her ordeal. Standing next to her head was Rodriguez;
she could hear his entreaties, pleading that she should be kept for a bit
longer. It sounded like he was losing the argument. Good, she thought, numb of
all emotion but the need to sleep. The corporal was strong-willed and she knew
that shortly she would die, to be discarded like a used rag. A shot rang out
and the wife felt a dull punch in her chest and her vision began to fade
immediately, the life force ebbing away. “I’m coming, my love,” she was heard
to say to no-one in particular and then she was gone.

After a minute or so her groans brought their attention back
to her. Opening her eyes she detected the soldiers’ presence still. What she
could no longer recognise were the complaints and exclamations at the speed of
her turn. A pang of hunger rushed through her body. Before she could act a
final shot to the head brought blackness back to her; she had found oblivion at
last.

*

The lone Humvee drove northbound, lights off in the dark, the
tyres whining on the tarmac surface, complaining about the speed at which they
were travelling. The soldiers preferred to travel at night, that way there was
less danger of being spotted by undesirables - well those worse than they were
at any rate. The snow had struck a couple of days earlier but it had only
delivered a thin covering, leaving the roads slick with ice. As long as the
vehicle didn’t make any sudden turns the speed they were travelling at was safe
enough.

The driver, a Private First Class named Floyd, yawned at the
boredom of the journey; the only break in the monotony was the buzz he got each
time he ran over
zoms
he would target on the road. With
the icy conditions he had set up a points system: ten points for a dead centre
hit on the grill and a reduced score for either side, leaving a measly score of
two for a glancing blow. His tally was pretty good so far and now the guys in
the back seats were joining in the fun, helping him keep score.
Thwack,
and another one was cut into pieces by the grill
that covered the front of the vehicle. The massive bull bars mounted in front allowed
him to keep his pedal to the metal as each one was splattered like a bug, the
windshield wipers working overtime to keep his forward view unimpeded. Huge
lumps of frozen gore were collecting at the edge of the windshield, closing in
on his field of view.

They were making good time towards Bolder, the latest sign
telling him that it was only sixty three miles away. A strange smell was
beginning to permeate into the cabin and everyone was complaining about it. It
seemed to be a mixture of burnt hair and barbeque.

“Pull over, now,” the corporal ordered. Dutifully Floyd
pulled to the side of the road and brought the vehicle to a halt, turning the
engine off. It began to emit metallic ticks as it cooled in the frosty air.
Jumping out, the men took up defensive positions while the corporal and Floyd
opened the hood to inspect the engine. As they did a cloud of stinking, greasy steam
engulfed them and they reeled backwards in horror at the stench. Floyd could
taste the smell on his tongue, it was foul and he tried desperately to spit it
out. He was angry because it would permeate his clothes for days now.

“Oh, man!” Floyd exclaimed.
“Barbequed
zombie.
God, that’s not cool.” Dry heaving, he breathed deep to bring
his stomach back under control.

“Man up, soldier,” Corporal Allen, ordered. “It’s not that
bad.”

The smell, apart from the singed hair factor, had the sickly
sweet odour of rotten meat being cooked up. Peering at the engine, Allen could
see skin and hair stuck to the radiator with more on the engine block, the
sound of sizzling, like bacon frying in a pan, clearly audible. It was the
sound more than the smell that shook the Corporal, putting him in mind of
another incident not so long ago while on patrol in Iraq. Shuddering and suddenly
unreasonably annoyed, he rounded on the hapless Private First Class.

“It’s your fault we’re in this mess, Private. My mouth
smells like a skunk’s ass. Get this cleaned off; stop playing around or I’ll
make your life a living hell.”

Drinking from a canteen, the corporal spat the first
mouthful at Floyd’s feet, making the boy jump back in surprise. No further
words were necessary; the young soldier ran around to the back of the vehicle
and found some old rags he knew were stored in a side pocket in the door.
Hurrying back he gingerly used the rag as a glove and pulled the pieces of
rotten flesh from the grill and then wiped it down. Such a shitty chore, he
thought, I think I’ll just shoot the fuckers from now on, he told himself.

The job finished, everyone gratefully climbed back into the
car. It was freezing in the night air and the only reason the others had stayed
out of the vehicle while he did the cleaning chore was to give time for the
cooking smell to dissipate - they were in the middle of nowhere so there was no
threat within easy attack distance. Now the inside of the vehicle had cooled to
the same low external temperature, everything metal and plastic icy to the
touch, making Floyd rather more unpopular than he had already been. It was his
lot in life to be one of those people you meet occasionally that had little or
no charisma.

*

Corporal Allen sat in the seat beside the unpopular Private
who had learned his lesson, and this time around avoided connecting with the
poor unfortunates outside. Neither man felt particularly well after their brush
with the foetid steam that spilled out of the engine compartment. It was probably
just a bit of a chill caught from standing outside after being in a warm car,
was all Allen thought of his symptoms.

The drive was fairly easy; because of the earlier military policy
of keeping the Interstates clear as the crisis got under
way,
the ride up to Bolder was largely clear and uneventful. The only incident was a
brief one; their decision to stay on the major arterial interstates meant that
as they approached the southern-most tip of Denver they’d had to slow down as a
large and almost impenetrable crowd had collected across the road near a
shopping mall at the intersection of the I25 and the West 470. At first the
soldiers had hoped they were survivors, however as they got closer they began
to recognise the tell-tale signs of awkward movement, and the cadaverous
appearance of most. This time, slowing to a walking pace they had pushed their
way through, knocking over those directly in front of them, the large tyres and
rugged suspension making short work of their prone bodies. Not having been so
close to so many Infected before, the strain was showing on the men, urging
Floyd to go faster. For some reason the afflicted did not react to their
presence, everyone believing it to be the stench of undead from under the hood
that masked their living essence. Maybe they just recognised one of their own
in the front seat.

“Sit back men,” the Corporal ordered; his head was throbbing
and he didn’t need heckling from the rear seats. “We will get through this if
we stay calm. Floyd, ignore them and stay at this speed.”

With grumbles of dissatisfaction, the unfortunate and increasingly
unwell driver was left in peace to do his duty. At least with the Corporal
there he had one ally inside the vehicle. Little did the two know they now had
something in common, stirring up their blood and giving them an unconscious affiliation
to those
outside.
It was this unwitting connection that
stopped the mass of undead crowding around them from attacking the vehicle. The
Humvee continued to ride over the fallen, some of those they passed by saw the
living inside the vehicle and became agitated but still did not try to gain
entry to the vehicle.

“This is weird, Corporal,” one of the men complained, his
voice giving away the fear that all those sitting in the back felt. “Why ain’t
they attacking?”

Some of the undead climbed onto the flatter surfaces,
perhaps attracted by the warmth of the vehicle, but well-aimed pistol shots by
one of the soldiers from the overhead gun emplacement aperture removed the
unwanted passengers. The thumping and rocking caused by running over prone
bodies combined with the jostling by those zombies next to the vehicle was making
the men beside themselves with fear, sitting and waiting for the horde inevitably
to realise that several warm meals were waiting and sweating in fear just the
other side the glass and steel doors, however they remained seated because they
feared the wrath of the corporal more. Although it felt like forever with their
lives resting on a knife-edge of fate, it was actually fewer than ten minutes
before they were through the stinking, thick mass of death and on their way once
again. Gratefully they kept their speed up, eventually hurtling past a small
town called Golden. Squealing tyres as they rounded the winding roads they finally
entered Coal Creek Canyon Road and headed up into the mountains. Their progress
slowed, the steep, winding roads forcing them to drop their speed
significantly. They had also driven up into the snow line, meaning that they
were guessing where the road was half the time.

“That’s the problem with the ’
pocalypse
,
Corp. No goddam snow ploughs,” one of the sharper wits in the back seat
quipped. He was ignored.

“I’m not feeling well, Corporal,” Floyd whined, rubbing his
forehead to stave off the headache which appeared to be getting worse, clamping
his forehead until he thought it would burst. He was beginning to see stars.

“Me neither. Have some water,” he replied in unexpectedly
softer tones than he would normally have to any soldier of his that complained,
handing him the canteen. Floyd drank greedily, some of it escaping and running
down his chin. The Adam’s apple in his skinny neck bobbed up and down with each
swallow; Allen drank the rest and was glad for the coolness of it rushing down
his throat. He felt like he had a raging temperature and was glad it was dark
in the vehicle; he suspected he looked unwell and reckoned it would be a bad
thing to show weakness just now.