The Most Uncommon Cold (Book 5): Surviving Beyond the Zombie Apocalypse

by Jeffrey Littorno

  The sense of loss left me paralyzed. For a long time, I stared straight ahead at the few shells that had made their way up the street a few yards from the van. Seconds later, a short, thin old woman in a pink bathrobe slapped the window near me. I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye as other shells moved in to strike the van.

  I just sat there gawking like an idiot as the shells continued to hit the side of the campervan. I can’t really explain what was going through my mind. All I know is that I could not move, so I simply sat still, as if everything that happened beyond the window had no connection to me.

  Within minutes, the shell of the old woman in the bathrobe had been joined by a mob of others. The pounding on the van grew louder and stronger. Finally, as the shells struck the van, it began moving from side to side.

  My mind went instantly to an old bumper sticker I remember seeing back in junior high school. If this van is rockin’, don’t bother knockin’! My junior high school sense of humor immediately kicked in, and a round of giggles shook my body.

  The tremors helped me shake the paralysis. I looked out the windshield. However, the only thing to see beyond the hood of the campervan was a writhing wall of shells.

  The giggles had been replaced by a growing wave of dread. The shells had completely surrounded the van and kept rocking it back and forth. The movement no longer held anything humorous. The bile rose up in my throat, and the tremors of panic spread through my body.

  With no other course of action, I stomped down on the gas pedal. The van didn’t exactly spring forward. It was more like a slow crawl forward. As the van moved forward, a couple of the shells that had been standing in front of the campervan wound up on the hood.

  “Well, now what’re you gonna do, officer?” I asked the shell of a slender young woman dressed in a dark blue police uniform.

  The shell did not answer but simply stared at me as it scrambled around on the hood, trying to get closer to the windshield. The dead eyes of the shell brought none of the feelings of disgust, anger, or curiosity which I had experienced previously. Instead, I was simply cold and nothing else.

  I stomped on the gas pedal and made a sharp turn to the left. The tires squealed, and the shells slid off the hood. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see them squirming around like angry worms on the pavement. The sight made me laugh, and I watched longer than I should have.

  The metallic squeal of the van scraping on another car brought my attention back to the street in front of me. I had let the campervan drift to the right until it sideswiped a yellow taxi.

  “Turn around when possible,” the deadpan voice of the GPS instructed, scaring the hell out of me.

  The result was that I overcorrected by swerving to the left and nearly clipped a cop car that had been double-parked along the curb. Although I didn’t even consider getting out to check, it seemed that other than a broken mirror on the passenger side and some dents to the hood, the damage was minor.

  “Turn around when possible,” the GPS repeated.

  “Have you seen what’s back there?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “After five hundred feet, turn right,” the GPS replied.

  I reflexively followed the directions and turned down the street. As soon as I did, it was clear that I had made a terrible mistake.

  A parade of shells filled the area. I stomped on the brake pedal and was thrown hard against the steering wheel as the van stopped. It appeared almost as though the shells had been waiting for me. Before I had gone more than a few yards down the narrow street, they began rushing toward me. An instant of panic froze me as I watched the approaching shells. The first slap on the hood snapped me out of the paralysis.

  I could not be certain how deep the crowd of shells in front of the van went or what waited beyond them. Simply driving forward through the mob seemed too risky, so I shifted into reverse and hit the gas. It was more difficult to see out of the back of the van than I had expected, and I immediately drove up on the sidewalk. A moment later, the shells had surrounded the van.

  The only things to be seen through the windows were the various arms and faces pressed against the glass.

  An ashen face of what used to be a boy of about ten pressed into the passenger window. The glass smashed and distorted the shell’s features. What might have been either a smile or a sneer was squashed into a twisted grin. Like the eyes of all the shells, these dead orbs seemed to stare right past me. Still, something about the face held my gaze.

  The face continued to slide around against the glass until the nose got pushed upward. A smile came to my lips as I realized why the shell had captured my attention. The face became that of Kenny Morgan, my best friend in fifth grade.

  He slid his nose on the glass until it got pushed upward and then began making pig noises.

  I had to laugh.

  “C’mon!” Kenny called. “Let’s play some catch.”

  I remembered the hours we used to spend in the field at school, throwing a baseball back and forth until our arms ached.

  Instinctively, my hand reached for the door handle. I was ready to go out and play catch with my old friend. As I touched the cool metal of the handle, a shell slammed itself into the door, shocking me from my memories.

  I pulled my hand back from the door and looked over at Kenny, but the shell no longer looked like Kenny. Instead, there was just another walking carcass, or “carc-ASS” as Kenny would have said.

  The memory of Kenny saying that caused me to snicker and then sent me into a round of hysterical laughter. The spasms of laughter continued as I looked out at the mass of shells that covered the outside of the car.

  “Eat shit, carc-ASSes!” I cackled, stomping on the gas pedal.

  The campervan started slowly by pushing the shells ahead of it. After a few yards, it picked up speed and plowed through the bodies. I grinned as a shell in a blue and white jogging suit disappeared under the front bumper.

  “So much for exercise being good for your health,” I said aloud as the van bumped over the body.

  Other bodies disappeared under the van until, finally, the open street appeared ahead. I kept my foot pressed on the gas pedal, and the van shot forward.

  “Turn right now,” the voice of the GPS commanded.

  The sound startled me, and I jerked the wheel to the right without thinking. While I turned, a group of shells about fifty yards from the front of the van began moving toward me. I spun the steering wheel to the left in order to avoid the shells and a pickup truck double parked on the street.

  The campervan did not respond well to the sharp turn. It teetered, and I held my breath as I anticipated it falling over. Everything seemed to slow for a moment before speeding up. I got slammed by the impact of the crash as the van tipped over and hit the street. I had the wind knocked out of me and found myself lying in the glass of the driver’s window. The pavement had shattered the window, but the safety glass simply filled with spider webs of cracks and did not break apart.

  I stayed like that for a moment as I realized I had escaped injury. This brought a sigh of relief since getting hurt now out here in the middle of the street would mean certain death. However, my emotion soon turned to dread as the sound of the shells grew louder.

  “Cassie, how many times have I told you not to play in the street?” a woman asked.

  The question came from nearby. I shifted around, trying to see the speaker but only saw the top of the van and the passenger window above me. The sound of scratching on the outside of the campervan grew louder and more frantic.

  “Cassie, how many times have I told you not to play in the street?” the female voice repeated.

  I changed positions as quietly as possible. However, no matter how I twisted and squirmed, I could not see the shells outside. Of course, the upside of not seeing them was that they could not see me.

  I wondered how long those things would stay interested without being able to see me. It certainly seemed like I was about to find out. I sure
didn’t want to pop out of the van to find myself surrounded by shells. And so the waiting game began.

  Chapter 8

  I had settled back, gotten as comfortable as possible in the driver’s seat of the tipped van and fallen asleep within five minutes. It was not a peaceful sleep.

  I found myself in the classroom, and it was not quiet. It seemed that every sound made my head throb to the point that it would burst like some over-inflated balloon.

  The sounds echoing through the room came from students howling, definitely not the sounds of a normal classroom disturbance. No students laughing or chatting with each other or boys speaking boastfully of their latest antics. These were the sounds of pain and noises one makes when in profound fear.

  Strangely, although the sound surrounded me in the classroom, I could not find the source. In fact, as I looked around the room, I only saw students sitting silently with hands folded atop their desks. It was certainly a contrast to the sounds that continued to assault my ears.

  I began running around the room searching for a way to stop the sound. The howling noise continued and even seemed to grow louder. I grew certain that if I did not find the source and smother the sound, it would kill me. I ran to every corner of the classroom but found nothing. All the while, the students continued to sit silently, staring straight ahead.

  My frenzied search kept on and even sped up to the point of me tearing from one side of the room to the other without really seeing anything. Suddenly, the sound became so loud that I could no longer take it. I fell to my knees and clamped my hands to my head, covering my ears and trying to stop the sound from finding its way inside my head. I kept my hands on my ears and pressed until it felt as though I would crush my head. I pictured my head with its brain spilling out on the floor like some crushed grape.

  Finally, the sound stopped. I slowly took my hands away from my ears, suspicious of the new silence and expecting the noise to return at any second. It did not.

  I opened my eyes to see the students staring at me with curiosity. They were no longer the faceless figures sitting at desks with their hands folded and staring straight ahead. Now they had transformed into students that I recognized. There was Mary Clausen with her frizzy brown hair and perpetual smile. Across the aisle from her sat Mark Gulf, the class clown who only looked happy when he managed to distract classmates with his jokes or fart noises. Linda Williams was behind him. All of them staring with expressions of anticipation, as if expecting something pleasant.

  I looked up at the whiteboard in front of the classroom and saw it. There at the front of the room stood Kenny Blackwell grinning like the proudest father at the maternity ward. He stood like that grinning at me with his hands on his hips for a long moment. Finally, he busted out in raucous laughter and took a step to his right so that I was able to see what he had been blocking from my view.

  It was not something I wanted to see. The pile of bodies nearly reached the ceiling. At first, the pile appeared to be simply corpses that meant nothing to me. However, as I looked closer, they began to slowly move and show familiar faces.

  An arm reached out from the pile as if to beckon me closer. Against every fragment of will I had left, I resisted the urge to move forward. Despite my effort, I sensed my body gliding toward the pile, past Kenny Blackwell until I came within inches of the outstretched arm.

  It suddenly occurred to me that the arm belonged to Glen, as I recognized the sleeve of the shirt and class ring on one of the fingers. My eyes moved up the length of the arm to where the shoulder should have been, but the limb simply disappeared into a mass of other body parts which were now writhing with growing intensity.

  I continued to stare at the place where the arm intruded into the pile until slowly the jumble of movement parted slightly, revealing the face of the young minster.

  Smiling as usual, he said, “Kevin, good to see you!”

  The casualness and sincerity of his statement shocked me, but I smiled back and replied, “Good to see you too.”

  He tried to nod but the writhing body parts around him made it difficult. “Can you get me out of this mess?” His voice had lost the casualness and now held something like hopelessness. “I’m sure everything will be right as rain once I get out of this pile.” Despite the words, Glen’s voice betrayed his optimism.

  “Well, I’ll give it a try,” I answered, trying rather unsuccessfully to infuse my tone with some optimism.

  “Give it the old college try then,” Glen answered in what had quickly become a parody of optimism.

  I took hold of the arm and began to pull. I pulled gently at first, trying to avoid causing Glen any pain. However, as time went on without results from my effort, I increased my force.

  “Harder!” Glen yelled, laughing.

  My pull increased to the point I actually leaned back and pulled with all my might. Still, nothing happened.

  “Can’t you pull any harder?” Glen taunted.

  My irritation at the young minister grew into anger and then rage as I continued to pull with all my might on the arm.

  “If you’re not serious about helping me, just say so!”

  The words served to enrage me beyond all reason. I held on to the arm and pushed back with all the strength left in my legs.

  Suddenly, there was a sickening tearing sound and a pop.

  I fell backwards on to the gray tile floor of the classroom, holding the arm in my hands. I gazed at the arm for a moment, not quite comprehending exactly what had happened. I then saw the head on the floor next to me.

  “Well, looks like another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” Glen’s head quipped, imitating Oliver Hardy from the Laurel and Hardy movies.

  My laughter came in the response. Soon we were both laughing there on the floor of that classroom with students behind us and a massive pile of squirming bodies in front.

  As quickly as the laughter had come, it vanished. I sensed some movement from the students and turned to see them standing up. Their movements seemed almost robotic or as if their movement came from reflex rather than conscious thought. I then realized they appeared to be sleepwalking. They began slowly moving toward me. Panic stabbed through me as it appeared they were focused intently on me. After a moment, it became clear that I was not the target of their attention. Kenny moved slowly by me and began climbing the pile. He did not appear to give any consideration to his movement but simply moved up the pile until he got about ten feet off the floor. At that point, the pile sort of swallowed him. One second, he was moving upward, and the next, he had disappeared inside.

  I looked on, stunned and speechless as another student began climbing up the pile. She made it almost to the top before disappearing inside the pile.

  Mary began moving by me toward the pile. All at once, I got my reflexes back, and I grabbed her arm. “Mary, you don’t have to do this! Go sit back down…we can stop this!”

  The girl simply smiled blankly as she pulled away from me and continued to the pile.

  “Come on, Mary!” I cheered. “You can make it!”

  Move after move, she continued to move slowly up the pile.

  I was actually holding my breath as I watched her ascent. I expected the pile to open up and swallow her at any second, the way it had the others. But Mary continued and soon she was at the top of the pile.

  “Yes! Mary, you did it!” I cheered, jumping up and down. “You made it!”

  The girl looked at me from high above and smiled once more before the pile opened up and swallowed her.

  A massive load of futility fell on top of me. My knees turned to rubber, and I fell to the floor. Every limb was weak, and I collapsed into the fetal position. From here, I observed as the rest of the students shuffled past me and up into the pile. Everything remained silent except for the occasional whimper from me and the horrific sucking sound as the pile swallowed each of the students.

  Things went on like that for minute after minute. It went beyond the point of most dreams. Time st
retched out with me there on the floor of the classroom, even after the last student had become an inhabitant of the pile of bodies. I simply stayed there, staring at the writhing pile.

  As things progressed, I realized this was a dream. However, this self-awareness did nothing to end the state of unconsciousness which trapped me. Somehow, I pictured my breathing body lying in the seat of the van on its side, and at the same time sprawled on the floor of the classroom. Despite the contradiction in logic, that was exactly what was happening, and the fact that I knew it did nothing to change the state of affairs.

  Perhaps the dream had not ended, although I had become aware that it was a dream that meant I had yet to learn or see whatever it was that the dream wanted me to learn.

  Like I had done many times in my academic career, I began reviewing the lesson and highlighting the important points. First of all, I had seen my old classroom and former students who had not changed despite the time that had passed since I taught them. The sound of the classroom tortured me to the point of collapse. Kenny had revealed the pile of writhing bodies. As students had climbed the pile, I watched helplessly as they climbed and were swallowed by the pile. And that brought us back to the present. Not exactly high points but those were the things which stuck out to me.

  I took a deep breath. Funny, I didn’t remember breathing before. It seems breathing is not important in dreams. This breath seemed to sweep a lot of clutter away, and I suddenly saw clearly. The dream was meant to show me the hopelessness of this world. I mean, what else could it mean? A pile of the undead corpses swallowing the young and alive. I suppose it was not a new message. I had certainly entertained thoughts of futility and hopelessness since the first day of this nightmare. I had doubted everything from my own sanity to the worthiness of my efforts to fight off the shells. Now it had only come to the point of not being able to deny it anymore. My head had become filled with so many images and memories of the horrible events of the last months there remained no room for anything other than the dark, violent, and hopeless. To enjoy the security of denial was no longer possible.