The Common Cold (Book 2): A Zombie Chronicle-Cabin Fever (24 page)

“Turn the headlights off,” Allen ordered; they had turned
them on as they navigated their way through the minor towns before arriving at
the base of the mountains. With the moon and stars shining unimpeded by cloud,
headlights were completely unnecessary, the snow almost glowing in the dark and
filling the scene with an ethereal monochrome daylight; now that their eyes
were adjusting to the low intensity, it was clear that the headlights had been a
hindrance and had restricted their vision to the immediate area ahead.

The men were getting keyed up as they neared their destination,
checking and re-checking their weapons and sharpening knives; the jokes were
becoming more childish and unsubtle, anticipating fun when they arrived. They
had not considered there would be any resistance but they would not take any
chances. They were low on ammunition but if they approached unnoticed they
would need very little, mostly to reduce the male numbers of the survivors. They
would repeat what they had done at the lone farm house. The drink they had
stolen was nearly gone by now, the men well-oiled, with Dutch courage at its
peak. If there hadn’t been sickness in the Corporal, his common sense would
have alerted him to the fact that his men weren’t really up to the challenge.
The liquor had been strong and the way the men slurred their speech, he would
be surprised if they recognised one end of a gun from another. The assault ought
to be put off until morning; he’d seen the craziness that comes with booze and
guns. Looking at the GPS’ tactical display inside the vehicle, he saw they were
just over two miles from their destination, the coordinates having been fed to
him by the helpful man from NASA.

“Stop here, Floyd,” he commanded. Floyd, in his less than
well state, jammed the brakes on and they slewed to a halt, throwing the men in
the rear forward in chaotic slapstick motion. He got a clip round the head for
his pains.

“
Ow
! Leave me alone,” he grizzled.

“Enough!
Everyone out, now.”
The
Corporal’s head was fit to burst; the last thing he wanted was crap off the men
or any more tomfoolery. Neither Floyd nor Allen had drunk anything other than
water since the engine cleaning, so in spite of their illness their wits were
clearer than those of the men. If the others had been sober they might have
detected problems with two of their number.

The snow was deep around here, two or three feet at least, and
the moonlight outlined the trees and jutting boulders in stark clarity. The soldiers
were falling about, their drinking and the altitude they were at creating in
them an almost total lack of coordination.

“Pack it in!” the Corporal shouted in a hoarse whisper.
“Right now a ten year old kid could
whup
your asses.
Get a grip!”

Slowly but surely the troops came to attention, swaying a
little as they waited for the Corporal to give them their instructions. Using
his hand held GPS tracker, he pointed west.

“It’s two miles that way. We go north around the reservoir,
get into the tree line; we will approach them through the trees.”

“Two miles,” one of the men complained. “Why don’t we drive
up closer?”

“Because we’re fucking soldiers and you’ll do as you’re
fucking told! One more word out of you and all you’ll get is the ugliest old
hag they’ve got. Get it?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

The men fell to silence once more, a business-like demeanour
finally emerging in the group.

“Move out,” Allen said and began walking west. The others
followed, some stumbling but most quickly sobering up in the cold, thin air.

Allen and Floyd stayed out in front during the march. Arriving
at the reservoir they noticed that a good deal of the deep snow had been
cleared by snow plough.

“Strange thing for them to want to do, considering the
world’s ending,” Allen observed. “Stick to the tree line and stay in the deep
snow, it’ll give us more cover as we approach.”

In single file they marched into the forest, keeping the
road in view at all times; it would lead them to their destination. Progress
was slow and difficult; at times the snow was up to four feet thick. This much
exertion at this altitude was beginning to tell on the troops. Although they
were all from New Mexico, itself over a mile above sea level, the area they
were now in was almost twice the altitude they had been used to in their daily
lives. The only two who weren’t breathing in ragged deep breaths from exertion
were the Corporal and the Private First Class Floyd. No condensed breath
surrounded them as with the others, unfortunately no-one else noticed the
discrepancy. Allen stopped suddenly and raised his hand for them to halt.
Everyone froze.

“Can you see it?” he asked quietly. He looked across at
Floyd.

“Yeah,” Floyd replied, lips not moving. “What do you think
it is?”

Allen looked more carefully at Floyd; he appeared more
erect, more assertive. Good for him, he thought. They watched as the lump in
the snow worked its way towards them. It was soon accompanied by another and
then another.

“Gophers,” Allen suggested, amused at the thought of huge
snow gophers. Floyd giggled. They began counting the mounds. Fourteen of the
little mothers! Allen remembered the game of Gophers he used to play at
fairgrounds as a kid, smacking them on the head with a wooden hammer when they
popped up out of the hole. Somehow this felt familiar, but simultaneously he
felt an affiliation with the lumps - he’d never hit them on the head, he was
one of them after all. Looking at Floyd he saw the young lad reacting in the
same way. Under the moonlight, Floyd’s features now appeared more aquiline,
harder than before. Previously he’d been the weakest of the platoon, a bit of a
gimp and the butt of everyone else’s humour. Right now Allen wouldn’t cross
Floyd and he was only half the corporal’s size.

The five men to the rear were getting stressed; low on ammunition
after the fight down south in Albuquerque and the wasteful pot shots expended at
the Infected as they travelled north, they’d assumed the people they were about
to meet would be able to re-supply them with the essentials. They had not
reckoned on meeting resistance. By now they too could see the lumps in the snow,
none of them understanding exactly what it was they saw, but hoping against all
hope that it was an hallucination, some sort of group hysteria brought on by the
effect of drink and low oxygen levels - a heady mixture and normally responsible
for feelings of well-being and lack of comprehension of circumstance. A heated,
hiss-voiced argument began to take place to which Allen and Floyd were
oblivious. The situation seemed to be nearing critical; both the Corporal and
Floyd, having wandered ahead of the main group of men, now stood facing away
from them, surrounded by the snow lumps, and yet they seemed perfectly calm - apparently
mesmerised while watching the circling snow sharks.

“Guys, something’s wrong,” Rodriguez stated, clenching his
rifle tightly as he fought to control his nerves. Somehow he knew it was time
to die.

“Yeah,” was all Phillips could muster by way of response.
The other three, Jones, Steadman and
Heenehan
, being new
to the platoon and raw to the army said nothing at all, realising they were about
to get their comeuppance for their recent behaviour. It had been easy at first,
fun even, the camaraderie driving them on; they had felt euphoric at the
realisation that the world they had known had ended suddenly and they had
survived the terrifying Armageddon. It had made everything, no matter how low, seem
acceptable; good boys once, they were now about as base as a man can get. Once
they had left the Lieutenant in a spray of brain matter and blood by the side
of the road, followed soon after by the lonely farmhouse with its painful and bloody
secret, they knew it was only a matter of time before they met their own end.

The lumps had stopped their rhythmic swimming motion; it was
as if they were just lying in wait. The Corporal and Floyd stood stock still. Were
they listening to something, Phillips wondered; their demeanour was relaxed,
and they even looked amused, of that he was sure. Slowly the pair turned to
face the remaining men. Phillips held his breath, freezing in terror at the
change that had come over his two comrades in arms, he finally brought his gun
to bear - out of the corner of his eye he saw his platoon reacting similarly. Steadman
felt a warm trickle run down his leg; a dark streak appeared on his trousers,
black in the moonlight. He whimpered in shame and terror. Slowly the lumps in
the snow became larger, rising slowly, and after a moment grotesque dark grey heads
gradually appeared disembodied on the surface of the snow. None of the troops
fired, their brains incapacitated by the dread and shock of the sight.

The goddam things are smiling, Rodriguez thought, anger
welling up finally. He opened fire, bursting one of the heads with his first
shot, black gore spattering the snow. The rest of his shots went wide of the
mark, harmlessly expending their force into the deep snow.

The remaining zombies stood up, unfazed by the gunfire.
Every one of them had a look on their faces that resembled a smile of sorts,
the receding gums and tightened facial skin giving them the appearance of
macabre amusement. With uncontrollable fear Steadman finally collapsed to his
knees, disappearing up to his neck in the snow, perhaps subconsciously thinking
the deep covering could offer some sort of refuge. A couple opened
fire
, the rounds pummelling the creatures who stood there
soaking up the ammunition; not a single shot dealt a fatal blow. One by one the
soldiers began dry-firing as their ammunition was exhausted. Silence reigned
for a moment. All but one of the zombies remained staring at the warm
offerings. Corporal Allen, his teeth apparently enlarged and glistening in the
moonlight, faced each one of his men in turn. His face was cadaverous; his eye
sockets apparently empty and bottomless, pitch black in the moonlight, their
bloody, engorged sclera appearing as the blackest gates of hell to the
defenceless men standing in front of him. Floyd stood his ground, his changes identical
to his commander. Opening his mouth he emitted a piercing, strangulated scream
and began to run awkwardly at the soldiers, his no-longer companions. This
precipitated a headlong rush by the rest of the creatures and in moments the
soldiers were overcome, short and abruptly-ended screams announcing painful
deaths in the snow. In the night, witnessed by no-one, torn bodies lay,
quivering and jerking as chunks were rendered from them by sharp teeth, the creatures
hunched over them focused on nothing but the warmth descending into what was
left of their gullets; the sounds of flesh ripping and bone crunching from the
frenzied and gnashing teeth the final salute to the once-deadly and wayward platoon.
The pack of zombies uttered ear-piercing screams of joy and victory announcing
to others nearby that a feast was under way. Come and join in, they seemed to
shriek.

*

Danny woke early. A few days after, and in spite of the overwhelming
slaughter of the undead at his hands using the LRAD, which Sam had christened
the Zombie
Splatterer
- kids were so good at stating
the obvious - Danny’s sleep patterns had become a little more normal and in the
last couple of days he had actually woken feeling refreshed. Time might not be
healing the world but it was starting to scab over the wounds or at least dull
the pain of the small reality that existed for twenty three people in the
mountains.

Considering immediate survival was their primary objective,
the mountains were not turning out to be the haven they had all hoped for in
their headlong run away from what had once been civilisation. Realising the
dead were making their way out of the cities in vast numbers, no doubt in
search of food - if that’s what the living were to them - everyone realised a
plan had to be worked out to secure the area from the large numbers of ex-city
dwellers. Something was needed that would protect them until the fence could be
completed; they were still less than half-way to completing the enclosure.

In the same shed as the hole-borer, which they had retrieved
in one piece following the massive attack, there had been significant other
machinery, including a snow-plough. It had been put to good use clearing away
the frozen remains of the slaughtered, collecting it into a seven foot tall
pile of frozen brain chippings and other human remains to be taken away when
more convenient - and absolutely before the spring came. They had then set
about clearing the road to and around the reservoir, giving them relatively
safe access to the rest of the buildings. As far as they were concerned, the
less snow that piled up, the less chance of another surprise attack.

It had been Rob’s suggestion that they strap the LRAD to one
of the trucks and use it as a portable
Splatterer
.
Today was its first run out and Danny was looking forward to seeing if it
worked as well as they had hoped. There was no reason why it should not.

“Wake up love,” he whispered in Janet’s ear, kissing her
gently. I’m going out shortly.” She turned over and gave him a lingering hug.

“Be careful out there, today,” she mumbled warmly. “Don’t
get complacent, thinking you’re safe because of that machine. I don’t want to
lose you.” She kept a tight hold on Danny, not wanting him to get up just yet.

“I’ve got to get going, babe,” he said, wishing he could go
back in time for a few hours, back to two weeks previously when all was normal
between Christmas and the New Year - eating and drinking too much, relaxing
without worrying that your neighbours might eat you. To be relaxed enough to
stay in bed and play Mr and Mrs all day long was just a dream for the
foreseeable future, and certainly wasn’t about to happen today, there was still
too much to do.