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

by Roberts, David K.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely, Sergeant.” Mike replied.

  Chapter 9 - Guardians Up Above

  “How many survivor groups have you been able to identify?” the commander asked, sounding impatient with his staff. The discovery process would never be fast enough.

  “I can detect seventy three groups that appear to be consolidating their position. Another one hundred and eighteen smaller groups appear to be on the move.” Ethan McElroy replied, peering at the figures on his terminal.

  “Total number of personnel?”

  “Hard to estimate with any accuracy, sir. The stationary groups are larger than those on the move; they appear to average out at about eighteen people per group. The mobile groups mostly average out to about seven people. Overall I estimate in excess of thirteen hundred stationary and just over eight hundred others wandering around.”

  “Is that it?” the commander was exasperated by the paltry results of their work. These low numbers horrified him; they couldn’t be right, surely? Of 317 million people across the USA all they could find was this rather pathetic residual collection. He felt his face drawn of blood as he contemplated the future, or the lack thereof, of mankind.

  Colonel Stacey Bradford was part of a special division of NASA, set up in secret nearly ten years previously to help counter the ever escalating threats that the world faced. With the increasing technological skills of the human race came the potential to make world-changing mistakes that could not be rectified. And that was what had happened. Most embarrassingly the fatal, world-changing mistake happened to be NASA’s - a mega-irony as far as the Colonel was concerned. This was what drove him now, a sense of collective guilt piling onto his weary shoulders that he belonged to an outfit that was responsible for the human race’s parlous and irretrievable state.

  It has long been believed that the world was originally populated by organic material from outer space in the first instance before the atmosphere had fully formed, and that these alien forms had mutated over the passing millennia to survive on Earth and form the recognisable entities they finally became. From that perspective the human race could be viewed as the new kid on the block, a second generation immigrant.

  As a norm, meteorites, when they strike the planet, are usually superheated as they pass through the atmosphere on their way to their final resting place, somewhere on Earth. As a result, very little evidence has ever been found to indicate they might carry living entities on their epic journeys to our habitat. The idea had been discussed for years and so a project was born to lasso, metaphorically speaking at least, a meteorite from space, pop it in a sealed bag and bringing it back to Earth in a fashion that would preserve it perfectly for analysis. With this captured rock, intact in all of its outer space glory, came the doom of the current inhabitants of the planet, well at any rate the humans.

  Unfortunately the unmanned spacecraft had broken up in space at supersonic speeds, shedding its terrifying payload; the virulent life form on this perfectly preserved meteorite had been spread around the world in a matter of minutes. The debris circled the Earth one and a half times before it disappeared onto the surface, dropping the contagion in every corner of the now God-forsaken planet. Within twenty four hours of this event the human race began dying, and then coming back to life in another form too terrible to imagine.

  The NASA unit’s current physical location in the USA was so heavily classified that even the President didn’t know its whereabouts, but as the team watched and worked approximately three hundred feet below the surface of the planet, they could rest assured that so far the contagion had not yet infiltrated their bunker. Considering they didn’t know what they were trying to keep out, they had to assume that their air filtration system was a suitable barrier against whatever this thing was. The Colonel and the forty three men and women under his command had but one task left to them: collect together the survivors on the surface to give mankind a chance to rebuild if at all possible, ensuring long-term survival was set as their only objective and minimum criterion for success. So it had come down to this rather unhappy state of affairs. McElroy saw the miserable look on his boss’ face and tried to cheer him up.

  “The picture isn’t necessarily as gloomy as it appears right now, sir. We have only just begun looking and people in groups of less than three aren’t detectable, so things should change over the next month or so as larger scale congregation begins.”

  “So what you’re trying to tell me is that,” the Colonel thought for a moment, struggling to keep sarcasm to a minimum before continuing, “a rate of one survivor for every one hundred and fifty thousand, nine hundred and fifty two people dead or undead is acceptable?”

  It always freaked McElroy out when the Colonel did that. Without the aid of a computer, McElroy, and everyone else he knew, could never have done the maths.

  “No sir. All I’m saying is that it is only a starting position. This problem has only been with us for four days; it will take time to see the fuller picture.”

  “Listen son, even if we found a hundred fold more people it would only give us nought point nought six six per cent, that’s one sixth of a single per cent survival. And you know the technical term for such a number, son?”

  “No sir,” McElroy tried hard to think ahead of the Colonel, but had no idea of the answer wanted.

  “It is known as ‘fuck all’!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Colonel sighed. “Do me a favour, stop yessiring me. It’s really getting on my tits. I think our management structure has become really flattened in the last couple of days. I think that, for the first time ever, it is absolutely possible for you to know the name of every single human in the world. That’s supposing you could find them, of course.” The young terminal operator looked perplexed. “Think about it. Right now it’s probable the President is a zombie, the whole of the goddam democratic machine is comprised of zombies, most of the military are zombies and almost all of the voting public are zombies. I think my rank counts for very little now.”

  McElroy really didn’t know what to say.

  “My name is Stacey.” The colonel broke the impasse. “What’s yours?”

  “Umm. Ethan, sir.”

  “You mean Ethan, Stacey.”

  “Yessir, I mean Stacey.”

  “Good. Now, Ethan, tell me what else you’ve been able to discover.”

  “I don’t have any figures just yet, but I have caught signs of some gunfire in Oklahoma and Arkansas, maybe some plays for dominance, but I have no idea who’s fighting who. Stacey.”

  “And?”

  “It might be that there are some survivors making their way out of New York, but we won’t get some useful readings on this for a day or so. The only other thing I’ve been able to detect is some helicopter activity to the west of Denver and I’ve caught short radio transmissions from the same area on military channels. The voices don’t appear to be using scheduled military protocols and passwords. It all seems to centre on the mountains above Bolder. I’ve also got some satellite pictures of what looks like a pitched battle that has been fought there in the last few minutes.”

  Pressing a few buttons, Ethan pulled up some satellite images that seemed to reveal a large force of people all heading in one direction, presumably at a run, and then ceasing to exist in the next frame, the standing people being replaced by prone bodies, although the images weren’t clear at this time.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s happened too quickly for it to be the result of gunfire; I don’t know just yet, the photos are being processed. I ought to have a better idea in about half an hour.”

  “Can you contact these people? These users of helicopters? They certainly seem to know what they are doing.” the Colonel asked, made curious by what appeared to be some very serious resistance to being overcome by the world’s problems.

  “I can try. It depends on whether they are monitoring the radio. It might be less hit and miss if we wait for them to use the he
licopters again and then try. They’ll probably use the same radio frequencies, not that that would matter, we can use our high speed scanners to pick them up quickly. I’d be interested to know who they are - as I said, I heard some non-military codes used.”

  “They sound paranoid, just like…” he didn’t finish the sentence, he was thinking. What if he had stumbled upon a CIA operation? Surely they would have used encrypted radios. No, this was a flight of fancy. His guilty conscience at surviving the apparent end of the world wasn’t letting him think clearly; the CIA no more existed in these current circumstances than did the Government and there was not a skerrick of evidence to support such an assertion. He could feel himself coming unstuck; he’d have to get a grip or it would spread throughout the men and women in this bunker. “Keep a close watch out on them. If they use radios again let me know. I want to speak to them.”

  *

  “Sir, sorry, Stacey. The people you wanted me to keep an eye on have flown three times in the last five days since I told you about them, and at no point have they used their radios.”

  “Why would that be?” the Colonel asked, quizzically raising an eyebrow.

  “Maybe they are afraid someone will triangulate their position.”

  “I imagine they are afraid they’ll attract the wrong people,” the Colonel mused, mostly to himself. “It’s a good thing they have us to protect their interests. Have you told that other group we have been in touch with? You know, the soldiers?”

  “Yes sir, as ordered. They are en-route now.”

  “Excellent. They should be able to offer these survivors some added protection.”

  “I’m sure they’ll do their best. They certainly came across as helpful.”

  “Good. Did you ever get a full interpretation of that photo you showed me of what appeared to be a battle?”

  “Oh, yes. I did,” Ethan remembered the photo. It gave him the heebies just thinking about it. Delving into the filing cabinet by his desk he pulled it out and handed the colourised image to his commander.

  “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, shocked at the content. “Are they all headless?”

  “Yes sir. It appears that somehow their heads seem to have burst open like overripe fruit and the contents spilled out across the ground. As best we can make out from our analysis that appears to be a pool of rotting brain matter,” he said, pointing to a reflective pool of colour.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s like a damn big puddle of the stuff. Is your interpretation correct, do you think?”

  “Pretty certain, I’ve asked Analysis to double check - I’ve been waiting for them to get back to me again; they are getting slower every day. But I think I know what might have done it. See that black rectangle?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “If you look closely you can see the shadow of a tripod underneath it.”

  “Hmm…”

  “I think it’s an LRAD.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a sonic device the military have been playing with. Looks like this group of survivors have found a way to kill large numbers of infected people by using it.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Stacey exclaimed and then realised the problem. “And now it looks like I’ve just sent a military team into harm’s way.” The Colonel collapsed into a chair next to his subordinate. “Can you contact them and warn them of the danger?”

  “I can try. Unfortunately, they’ve gone radio silent for now.”

  *

  “Rodriguez, just finish her off” the corporal insisted. “She’s slowing us down.”

  “We can always get another,” Phillips sniggered.

  “No. I want her. When will we get another piece of ass so fine?”

  A shot rang out.

  “Oh, man!” Rodriguez complained as blood from the poor woman exploded out of her chest and coated the soldier’s arm that had been trying to lift her now lifeless body.

  “You’ve had your fun, now we have to get moving,” the corporal smiled lasciviously. “We have some survivors to ‘save’,” he said, with the emphasis on the last word. The collection of ears the Corporal had begun to thread and wear around his neck as a necklace gave him the additional authority to do as he pleased, the men acceding quickly and without argument to his commands. He had thought the idea a bit cheesy at first, perhaps a little too Hollywood, but it had been inspired. Now he had all the authority he needed; the more ears, the more authority, an easy equation.

  The corpse moaned; she had turned. Corporal Allen had deliberately not shot her in the head; he wanted to watch the turning process. She was beginning to come back.

  “Oh, crap. She has them funny eyes!” Phillips grimaced.

  “Already?” Corporal Allen exclaimed. “That’s the fastest yet.” Another round between her eyes and it was all over.

  The group of seven soldiers made their way back to their Humvee. To them the apocalypse was just one long party. It was hard to say whether or not they comprehended the fate of the human race at this point; up to now it had just been a lot of fun. Receiving the call from that NASA Colonel had been a short-lived wake-up call, making them think that there might be some form of government and hence some legal repercussions for their activities after all. Part way through the conversation, however, Allen realised that this call was coming from some half-assed remnant of a now defunct governmental body dedicated to saving the world from itself. Boy, did they get that wrong, he thought, almost laughing at the caller. It was just as well he didn’t because in the next breath the disembodied voice had directed them to another group of survivors, their bivouac set up near a collection of lakes above Bolder. Phillips had dryly remarked that these would be as much fun as the last lot they had ‘rescued’.

  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.