The Common Cold
- A Zombie Chronicle
A Story By David K Roberts
Copyright © 2013 David Kingsley Roberts
All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Commuting - 2nd January, 2013
Chapter 2
Realisation
Chapter 3
Who Knew Libraries Were Such a Health Hazard?
Chapter 4
So, How Do We Get Out of Here?
Chapter 5
The Longest Half Mile - Ever!
Chapter 6
Stand By Me
Chapter 7
Following the Old Iron Highway
Chapter 8
The Battle Begins
Chapter 9
Nature Calls
Chapter 10
Back on the Front Line
Chapter 11
Gatwick Airport - The Road From Hell?
Chapter 12
The Decision to Leave is Easier Than You Think
Chapter 13
Would the Last One Out Please Turn Out the Lights?
Chapter 14
Zombies on a Plane (Yeah, I know, but what else could it be called?)
Chapter 15
Meanwhile, Back in the USA
Chapter 16
Hunkering Down
Chapter 17
Doing the Mid-Atlantic Zombie Shuffle
Chapter 18
What Would Rick Do?
Chapter 19
Clearing the Decks
Chapter 20
Zombie USAF
Chapter 21
The Battle for Denver International Airport
Chapter 22
Destination Denver
Chapter 23
Any Landing You Can Walk Away From is a Good Landing
Chapter 24
Consolidation on the Ground
Chapter 25
Castle Rock
Chapter 26
NORAD, the Lunatics Have Taken Over the Asylum
Epilogue
Boulder, Colorado
Chapter 1
Commuting - 2nd January, 2013
“Oh, God. I feel like crap,” Daniel said as he rolled over in bed. Janet, his wife of four years, mumbled something unintelligible and turned over, desperate for every extra minute she could catch. She was definitely not a morning person. This morning, neither was Daniel.
He turned over and hit the snooze button of the radio alarm. The snooze function activated a further three times before he felt his wife’s foot at the base of his spine. With less than gentle pressure, she eased him to the edge of the bed.
“Get up, you lazy sod,” she mumbled, desperate to sleep while he performed his morning rituals; his always took longer than hers for some reason. Groaning to himself in resignation, he gently sat up on the edge of the bed, nursing his aching head. Reviving slowly, it dawned on him he had a cold. He’d hoped it was only a small hangover - last night had been excessive but fun - but it wasn’t. Colds weren’t like they used to be, everyone said it. They used to come and go in a few days, now the bloody things would last a couple of weeks, and sometimes even require antibiotics to finally clear up the last dregs. God, how he hated the thought of what probably lay ahead, like an inevitable bow wave of misery.
Using his feet to fish for his slippers, he finally found them, put them on and stood up slowly, stretching his legs and back. The chill of the mid-winter mornings always made his back stiff at first; he dreaded the thought of growing old, things would only get worse. They’d have to be residents of a warm, tropical island by then. He groaned out loud as he remembered: it was his first day commuting into the new office. Daniel had pleaded with the company owner to have a new office out of the City, even the Docklands would be preferable; being resident in the City was so passé.
Although it was supposed to be twenty three minutes to Cannon Street Station from his town, Mottingham, a small burg in the south east of London, the commute was rarely straightforward, especially getting past bloody London Bridge. Almost every time he went through there, especially in peak hour, there were delays. The drivers apologised on autopilot these days. He was surprised they didn’t record their announcement, and play it just before the waiting began. They must be as tired of it as the commuters were; and yet the fares kept rising, adding insult to injury. Daniel knew it couldn’t be easy, there were a lot of commuters passing through a single junction area, but sometimes it felt like Network Rail was continually surprised by the arrival of actual trains.
Commencing his ablutions, following the same old routine, he checked his watch grudgingly, irritated that the ritual had to be performed an hour earlier than before the company had made the move. Thanks, Bill, he muttered under his breath. Daniel couldn’t really complain, his salary was higher than average, and with luck the mortgage should be able to be paid off early; God he was thinking like an old man already, and at only thirty two years of age. The financial compensation of the job still didn’t reduce the hurt of having to have to wake up at this godforsaken hour. At least the shower was nice and hot, and putting his head under the nozzle, life began to return to his body. Now he was certain a cold was being born, it was invading his sinuses, and his head felt a little fuzzy in spite of the soothing, warm water flowing over it.
Cleaned and shaved, Daniel wandered back into the bedroom and, feeling a little playful, reached under the bedding and goosed his wife. Learning from past experience, he jumped back quickly, knowing her lightning quick reactions would most likely give him cause to regret his deed. Careful as he was, her semi-clenched fist still went sailing past his nose to slap harmlessly against his pillow. How did she move so fast when asleep, he wondered.
“You bastard,” she tried to exclaim; it came out more like a whimper, “I need sleep!”
“Stop grizzling, I have no mercy for someone who’s had more rest than me. Get up, lazy bones.”
He continued dressing, not bothering with a suit or tie; the office was really going into dress-down mode these days. Finally, heading downstairs, he called back up to see if Janet wanted a cup of tea.
“No, get me something for a cold, Paracetamol or something. I think I’ve got your man flu.” She always caught a cold after him, hence the accusation. For men, colds were almost always fatal, or that’s how Janet alleged they behaved. For women, colds were always the bloke’s fault.
Rubbing his eyes, still not fully awake, Daniel entered the kitchen, turned the radio on, and filled the kettle with enough water for a pot of coffee. While waiting for it to boil, he opened the fridge, remembering that his local butcher had managed to get him, from ‘under the counter’, his precious order: lamb’s brains. They had taken weeks to get hold of, but were always worth the wait. Not a particularly political person, it was his constant frustration that the successive and obsessive governments, and their new Nanny State, had banned the eating of brain, because of the CJD outbreak, some years
before. They always put the controls in the wrong places, and always too late.
Reverently, Daniel picked out the package and opened it. In spite of a rotten cold, he was determined to enjoy his favourite meal, and so got out a pack of expensive smoked bacon and a couple of eggs as well. Do it right or not at all, his Dad used to say. He smiled at the thought; it was his father who had introduced him to brains as food. You are what you eat, they say. From a high cupboard Daniel retrieved the box of breadcrumbs bought especially for the occasion. Everything was ready.
In the background, his favourite radio station, LBC, was droning on about meteorites. Something about increased numbers being detected, and crashing to Earth, or some such. He’d have to remember to duck.
His loving wife deplored the idea of eating brains, so it fell to him to make sure they were well disguised, and looked like something she would order at a restaurant, well, maybe a French restaurant. It always smelled great when it was cooking, so he knew he would be half-way to pleasing her at least. Women, he argued, didn’t like the thought of killing cute little fuzzy creatures, but didn’t mind eating them if they looked just right, and shop-bought.
By the time Janet came downstairs the meal was ready, along with a warm drink each, Janet’s containing warm water and soluble Paracetamol. That morning, as usual, his drug of choice was coffee, without which he couldn’t function properly for the rest of the day. The smell of the crumbed brains, bacon and caffeine drink made him feel a lot better, and more able to get away without taking cold medication until he arrived at the office.
Janet had collapsed into her favourite armchair in the living room, so Daniel decided to treat her to breakfast on a tray.
“Braaaaiiinnns,” he said, handing it to her.
“You promised you wouldn’t say that. You lied,” she retorted, trying to crack a smile.
Armed with his own breakfast tray, they both sat in the living room, watching the morning news. The newsreader on the screen, looking fresh as a daisy - he’s probably on uppers, Daniel mumbled uncharitably - was warning the public about the fact that over one million people had so far succumbed to the Norovirus in the last two weeks. In solemn tones he continued to warn his audience not to go into work if they didn’t have to. Yeah, that’ll happen, Daniel thought. So who will earn the money to pay the bills, then? These official warnings were always pointless, and usually only fed the fever of fear in people.
Both of them ate their breakfast in companionable silence; glancing at her, he wasn’t sure Janet even knew what it was she was eating. At least there were no complaints. Feeling restless, he picked up his plate and, continuing to eat from it, walked to the front window. Looking out, there were three people, rugged up, trudging in the direction of the train station, looking thoroughly miserable at the thought of another exciting day in the office. Holidays were a mixed blessing; everyone needed the rest, but most begrudged having to return to work afterwards. That was probably why the lottery and online gambling were so popular with The Common Man.
“God, they look worse than I feel,” he muttered. “Hey, Janet. You should see these happy souls, they look zombified. Tired, drawn, dark circles under their eyes, looks like they’re on automatic. Urgh, one of them has a bloody nose. Wipe it, then,” he said, offering the sufferer advice while watching the blood trickle down the girl’s chin onto her blouse. “Jeez, I thought I felt bad. Just think, love, a week from now I’ll be looking like that, and some other bastard will be staring at me and thinking the same thing.”
He turned around and looked at his wife. She looked terrible.
“Are you okay? You look really bad.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Way to make a girl feel better.”
“Are you sure you should be going out at all today? Surely you can find some of what you need on the internet. Do you have to go to the library?”
“You know I do, I need to look at the copy of the Domesday Book they have. It won’t be there very long, as it belongs in another library. I’ll be a couple of hours, max. Then I promise I’ll come straight back home.”
“Do you want me to stay with you? I feel pretty shitty, too. It’s not like I haven’t got a valid excuse.”
“No, you go in. Bill will only call you a million times, and make you feel guilty.”
“I guess you’re right.” Glancing at his watch, he saw there were seven minutes to go before leaving to catch the train to hell, or his office, whichever was closer. “I’d better get going if I’m to get to work on time.”
He took his dish to the kitchen, and put it in the sink. “Can you do the washing up, please? I’ll be late if I do it.”
“Sure, I’ll do it later. No rush. I’m sure to feel better once the drugs kick in.”
“Thanks, love.” With that he raced up the stairs, did his teeth and grabbed his laptop bag, making sure the notebook was in the side pocket.
On his way to the door, he stopped off and kissed Janet on the forehead. She did have a temperature.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay, you feel hot.”
“Go,” she said, drawing it out like a moan.
“Alright, then. Don’t overdo it, come back home as soon as you have what you need from the library. I’ll try and sneak out early. Call you when I get there. Love you.”
He hurried out the front door, slamming it shut in his wake. There were another couple of people just ahead of him, ambling along, apparently not in a hurry. Rushing past them, not glancing backwards, the cold breeze bit into his exposed face as he charged down the road, intent on getting his train. As he crossed the main A20 road, a gathering of people could be seen further ahead towards the traffic lights. There had been a prang. Two were standing near the cars, dazed, bloody wounds clearly visible on their hands and faces. Others were milling around, gawping as the uninvolved do.
Making an executive decision not to get involved, Daniel hurried on; surely someone had already called the emergency services, approaching sirens could be heard in the distance. Today of all days, it was necessary to get to the office on time; all eyes were on the senior staff, who were expected to minimise the disruption the move had created. Jogging down the snicket to the station, he queued to buy a ticket. It was becoming one of those hurry up and wait mornings.
“I guess I’ll have to get a season ticket at some point,” he said to no-one in particular, “then I’ll officially be in the Zombie Commuters Club.”
The queue didn’t seem to be moving, and after a couple of minutes wait, his train could be heard drawing into the station.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. Leaving the queue, he ran to the train and climbed aboard, hoping too much time wouldn’t be lost waiting to pay the penalty fare at the other end.
The train was full this morning, standing room only. It was an inauspicious start to the year. Looking around, he began to watch the other commuters as they played the ‘avoid catching others’ eyes’ game. It made him feel depressed. On top of that, his cold was getting worse, a headache was coming on, and he began cursing himself for not taking something for it before leaving the house. Luckily the weather was good, cold but sunny; at least the sun was on his side for the first day back.
Looking more closely, he noticed that all of the people around him looked really unwell. This cold had really taken a grip on them. It was also unheard of that every single person in a carriage had the same bug; there were always exceptions. Most looked bleary-eyed, dark circles drawn as if they hadn’t slept in a decade, and all were slack-jawed. Most stared at nothing in particular. Somehow this didn’t feel right. Feeling self-conscious, and not wanting to appear nosey, his gaze wandered further down the carriage. There were two more people with bloody noses, making no effort to stem the flow.
At last, after what had seemed like an interminable journey, the driver announced their arrival at London Bridge. Good, only one more stop, and I can leave this disease infested carriage, he announced to himself, grateful for the short ride. His wa
tch told him the train was only running two minutes late; it was a miracle. With luck the day might go pretty well after all, if he could just survive his cold.
The train pulled up alongside the platform, and the door bell sounded as they hissed open. Two or three people attempted to force their way on board, frowns on their faces as they tried gamely to push people back into the train to make room.
“Move down the carriage, please,” one of them asked in a loud, patronising voice. Not a single person paid attention to them, so they gave up, swearing at the selfishness of their fellow man.
Watching this scene play out, Daniel was reminded as to why he hadn’t wanted to return to commuting. Most people are selfish bastards, he thought, not wanting to re-enter that mode himself. There was nothing quite like the feeling of self-righteous indignation at the behaviour of others; he would miss it.
Strangely, especially for London Bridge, no-one tried to leave the train, they just stood there. The doors hissed closed once more, and the train lurched clumsily away. The smell in the carriage was getting ripe, it was as if something was festering in the warmth of the sun. One thing was certain, he’d be bloody glad to get to the office.
The train juddered as if the driver had his foot on the brake and accelerator at the same time. It was annoying as those passengers standing nearby were stumbling against him, and making no effort to redress the situation. Daniel’s temper was beginning to fray. On top of it all, at the other end of the carriage, a person, he thought it was an older woman, stumbled and collapsed to the floor. Not a single soul around her reacted, and she lay where she fell.
“What the…” he couldn’t fathom what was going on, his pulse was racing with welling anger. Due to the crowded state of the carriage, with all the aisles blocked, there was no way she could be helped. At least they only had a couple of minutes to go; his civic duty would have to wait until they disembarked.
The train decelerated, and slowly made its way along the final platform. Suddenly everyone was pitched forward as the front carriage gently nudged the buffers. Few people reacted reflexively to the sudden halt, one of them being Daniel. A scream erupted further down the carriage. Pressed by the weight of passengers behind him, Daniel was inexorably flung forwards, and landed on a pile of bodies, very few of whom had bothered to react to the situation. The doors beeped as they unlocked, but no-one moved to try and leave the train. Using all his strength, Daniel extricated himself from the gently writhing mass and, trying not to hurt anyone, crawled over others to the exit, where he pressed the door release button. They hissed open and he jumped off, a few prone bodies falling to the marble floor of the platform.
The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 1
