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

by Roberts, David K.

  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 t
he 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.

  “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 suddenl
y 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.