As she stood there, paralysed by what she had done, the checkout girl grabbed Ella’s arm. She bit deep.
“Argh!” she cried, dropping the pistol. “What the fuck…” She fought with the smaller girl, throwing her off and to the floor. Checkout girl kept coming. Sandra picked up a frying pan from the specials display, and hefting it to feel the weight, she lunged at the dumb girl. With a sound like an off-key church bell, the pan slapped against the side of the young girl’s head, rendering her unconscious. The top of her skull now had a dent, from which blood oozed in a pulsing stream, collecting in a sticky pool.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” Ella shouted, seeing another couple of strange-looking shop workers coming towards them. Racing with their trolleys to the car, they threw all of their ‘purchases’ into the open back, shoved the empty trolleys at the oncoming employees, and jumped into the vehicle. Sandra had picked up the pistol as they left the shop, and it fitted neatly into her jacket pocket. Reversing out of the parking slot with tyres screeching, they raced away from their crime.
Others were on the street now, walking awkwardly. They grabbed at the car as it went past, a few bouncing off the car’s large fenders and one falling under the wheels. In spite of her efforts, Sandra was unable to dodge him in time. The faces of the people around the car were all the same, grey complexion, vacant looks, white eyes. So this was it, she thought, would they all turn into these things eventually? The car screeched on two wheels as they took the corner onto the I25 and headed back home.
“Holy shit,” Ella said, inhaling her breath in deep draughts. “Dammit, I lost Dad’s pistol.”
“No, you didn’t. I picked it up,” Sandra said, patting her jacket pocket.
“Oh, thanks.” Ella looked relieved. “It’s the only thing I have of his. He taught me to shoot.”
“He did a good job,” Sandra remarked. “How’s your arm?” Ella was clutching it, her hand and forearm a bloody mess.
“Not as bad as it looks, or at least I hope not,” she smiled, her face pale. “Why the fuck did she do it?”
“I don’t think she could help herself. I think it’s arrived.”
“What?”
“Whatever it is that’s coming from the east.”
“But they said it’s contagious through bites,” her voice now sounded like a frightened little girl.
“I wouldn’t take much notice of the reports. The reporters didn’t seem to know much themselves, not even how it started. When we get in, we’ll clean and bandage it. I’ve got a first aid kit.”
“Thanks,” Ella said weakly, staring ahead.
“It’s a good thing shopping isn’t usually that exciting, I don’t think I’d cope very well.” Sandra said, trying to take the other woman’s mind off the bite.
Ella just sat there.
Chapter 16
Hunkering Down
The drive back home was easy; there was almost no traffic to be seen, just the occasional military lorry, hauling troops from one place to another. Sandra pulled onto her drive, and got out of the car. Helping Ella into the house, Sandra laid her on the leather sofa; the unfortunate woman had become faint and almost completely unresponsive at this stage. She was mumbling incoherently, sweat on her brow.
Sandra was frightened, she knew what was happening to her new friend, but was afraid to coalesce the idea in her mind, lest it was right. Instead, she went to their bathroom cabinet and pulled out the first aid box, and ran back downstairs. With a bowl of warm water and disinfectant, she returned to Ella’s side. The blouse had stuck itself to her arm, the dried blood caked thickly over the wound. It looked strange; it had congealed too quickly, too thickly, even to Sandra’s untrained eye. The warm water was working, softening the hardened, crusty surface. Ella’s skin was becoming pale, waxen; her saliva, oozing unchecked from her mouth, was thick and sticky. Having cleaned up the wound as best as possible, she began to bandage it.
Ella’s breathing was becoming ragged; Sandra was worried now, a single bite would never normally affect anyone like this. At worst, it should only require a tetanus shot, or antibiotics. The emergency services were still not contactable, every attempt was met with an engaged or unobtainable tone; they were clearly on their own. Fingering the pistol in her coat pocket, she wondered if she could ever use it on another human. Unlikely, was her conclusion. Even if needed, it wasn’t possible to do much damage as there were only another four rounds, unless Ella had more in her home. Shaking off those thoughts, she went to unpack the car. The meat would still be cold; although it hadn’t snowed yet, which was odd for the time of the year, it was below zero outside.
Walking out to the car, it became evident just how much food they had acquired. She felt a little guilty for not paying, but they could sort that out when things returned to normal. Returning to the car in order to load up for the fourth trip to the kitchen, she saw them walking towards her. Four people, two of them women, were wandering aimlessly up the road. At first she paid no attention to them, and continued her task. Finally they were close enough for her to see that they weren’t quite right. Their faces were pale, more so than Ella’s; and their eyes. It was the eyes. They were white, as if they had been boiled like an egg, or the wearer had been dead for at least a week, slowly corrupting in this cold weather. They had seen or at least detected her, and were now walking in her direction.
Discretion being the better part of valour, Sandra retreated into the house and locked the door behind her. Moving from room to room, she closed all the curtains, hoping that if they couldn’t see her, they’d lose interest and move away again. Ella moaned in pain, bringing Sandra to her side.
“Hey, girl,” Sandra whispered, “how are you feeling?” she said, stroking her clammy forehead. Dumb question really, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say at that moment.
Ella looked closely at her, and after a little while, recognition showed in her slightly cloudy eyes. Her body was really slowing down now. If they couldn’t get an ambulance or doctor to come around soon, it would be too late.
The sound of loud engines roaring down the street interrupted her thoughts. There must be at least half a dozen of them, she thought. Peering through the curtains, she watched as several huge, dark-green military trucks rumbled up the street. They screeched to a halt and men poured out, lining the road. They were wearing biological protection suits, their faces covered by Perspex visors. Suddenly, gunfire erupted at the far end of the road. The troops galvanised themselves into action, forming protective platoons, laying down cover fire. What were they firing at, she wondered. There was nothing to be seen for now.
A man, apparently a civilian from what she could see, flashed by her window, running incredibly swiftly towards the soldiers. Seeing their attacker coming from the rear, they turned and opened fire on it. Shots raked Sandra’s house, smashing upstairs windows, several blasting their way through the brick and mortar façade, causing her to throw herself flat and lie on the floor. As the firing eased, Sandra looked up, to see a ragged hole had been drilled directly above her head. An inch lower and Rob would have been cooking his own steak that evening. Brushing dust from her hair and face, she peered through the new opening. Squinting against the ice-cold draught rushing in, she saw the troops walking calmly over to the writhing man. A soldier, an officer; she could see the insignia on his shoulders, strode over to him, withdrew a pistol from its holster and shot him in the head.
“IN-THE-FUCKING-HEAD, I said,” he shouted, rounding on the nearest squaddie. “Which bit of that didn’t you understand? Goddam National Guard trainees.” He glared at the troops in the vicinity and swore some more, before storming off to oversee the fighting further up the road. He continued to hurl a stream of obscenities as he encouraged his men to push the fight harder.
Seeing no further threat to her or the house, she rose to her knees and peered through the curtains, trying to get a better view of what was happening. All along the street, there appeared to be pockets
of isolated hand to hand combat now, soldiers grappling with civilians, blood and organs pouring from gaping wounds left by high velocity bullets. The injured kept coming; they clearly didn’t feel the pull of gravity on their entrails. Slowly the tide of the battle appeared to turn in favour of the soldiers; the zombies, or whatever they were, were being destroyed. The soldiers were finally heeding the words of their commander, and delivering coups de grâce shots into the heads of the attackers. Several soldiers lay on the ground, nursing wounds, their helmets and masks gone. Hazmat suits were clearly no defence against this horde.
As all became quiet, Sandra watched as the inert bodies were collected together and loaded onto a truck. Worryingly, soldiers were beginning house to house searches. After an agonising wait, they reached Sandra about half an hour later. They didn’t knock on the door, instead kicking it in with a loud crash. The foul-mouthed officer marched into her house, and began looking around.
“What are you doing?” Sandra challenged.
“Ma’am, is that your vehicle outside?” he asked, ignoring her indignant question.
“The dark blue one, yes. Why?”
“There appear to be looted goods in the back. Can you explain that?” he asked, his quiet tone more intimidating than his shouted commands.
“It’s not looted,” she replied, angry at the assumption.
“Then show me the receipt,” he snapped, holding out his hand.
“There’s more in the kitchen, sir,” a soldier announced, walking into the living room carrying one of the shopping bags.
“Receipt,” he asked again, clicking his fingers.
“I don’t have it. We were chased away from the shops,” she replied weakly.
“Sergeant, detain this woman,” he barked, and turning back to her, he continued, “we are under martial law, you know. You could be shot for this.” He waved his hand, indicating for her to be removed from his presence.
Sandra was handcuffed and led outside. A shot sounded from behind her and she flinched. Oh my God, they’ve never shot Ella? No other scenario fitted the facts so well. She began to sob; her current plight was so unexpected and unforeseen; how was she supposed to get to Rob? And now, how ridiculous, she was crying for the terrible fate of her new friend of a mere few hours.
A screech like tortured steel came from behind. Next moment, the officer that had cuffed her was thrown to the ground, his throat ripped open with amazing speed and violence. The blood gushed everywhere, the jet drenching Sandra’s jeans. She screamed, and the creature hurtled off, attacking another unsuspecting soldier. Her legs gave out under her, and Sandra collapsed to the ground, next to her young captor. His teenage looks were enhanced by terrified, wild eyes; he gurgled something unintelligible, his look almost pleading, before he sighed his last breath, and his intense green eyes rolled back in his head.
Keys, she thought, where were those bloody handcuff keys? The idea of being handicapped like this, defenceless, with no-one around to help, frightened her to death. She fumbled in the lad’s pocket, where she believed he had placed them after securing her. Soldiers’ boots trampled past her head as they rushed back into the fray, one catching her a glancing blow as he passed. Stars floated in front of her and then darkness came.
Coming around a few minutes later, Sandra gently shook her head to clear her vision. Having forgotten what had happened in the last moments of her consciousness, she gasped when she discovered the corpse by her side. His blood had soaked through her blouse, and was sticking it, like glue, to his rapidly cooling corpse on the ground. With a look of disgust, she peeled herself off him, only then remembering she had been handcuffed, and that they were stopping her from moving properly. Desperately rummaging through his pockets, she finally found the key. With a feeling of relief, the bracelets were discarded on the ground, and Sandra cautiously looked around. Apart from a few people, soldiers and civvies, wandering around apparently aimlessly, there was nothing. The lorries were still parked up, so the military hadn’t driven away.
The dead soldier moaned, his head turning from side to side.
Startled, Sandra made her way unsteadily back into her house, pushing the door to. It wouldn’t close fully, the latch had been broken from the forced entry. Grabbing a kitchen chair, she wedged it under the door handle, and it held. Putting her hand in her jacket pocket, she felt for the pistol; it was still there. In their haste, the soldiers had made an assumption that this ‘little lady’ was unarmed, much to her relief now. Remembering the single gunshot heard earlier, she rushed into the living room, and found Ella lying on the sofa, a neat hole under her left eye. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, they were white and opaque. It seemed Ella had turned. Sandra was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of black depression; she felt unreal, a third party observing her own actions, almost becoming numb to the realities of sudden death. There had been so much violence happening to and around her that Ella’s demise appeared almost inevitable, matter-of-fact.
How long had it taken for her to turn? Trying to remember the time line, and glancing at the clock, Sandra was surprised to find it had taken less than three hours. What was it that could affect complete change in such a short time? Maybe that minister, or whatever he was, on the radio, had been right, perhaps hell was indeed full.
Chapter 17
Doing the Mid-Atlantic Zombie Shuffle
Becky had just poured herself a large Kentucky whiskey when Daniel and Rob found her. Mid-gulp, she put it down in guilty haste.
“Don’t stop on our account,” Daniel said magnanimously. “Of course, if there’s any more going, it would be gratefully received.”
“Certainly,” she replied, smiling self-consciously. Grabbing another two glasses, Becky poured generous shots and handed them out. The warmth of it descending to their stomachs was welcome, followed closely by a pleasant rush to the brain. With no food eaten recently, the drink did its job quickly and well, easing the stress in their bodies.
“We need to talk, Becky,” Daniel began. “I understand we have a number of people on board who are infected.” She nodded her head in affirmation. “I’ve spoken to the captain about what needs to be done, and he asked me to liaise with you.”
“Okay,” she replied uncertainly.
“What we need firstly, is a list of passengers and for you to mark on it those you believe are sick. Do you have a way of getting this?”
“Way ahead of you,” she replied, picking up a computer print-out, listing all of the passengers. Some were ringed in red biro. “I counted twelve of the thirty two passengers as being ill. We usually have twenty four crew members, three of whom are pilots.”
“But there are only two,” Daniel interrupted, curious.
“That’s right, one failed to turn up before we left, another captain; in the cabin there are twenty one crew. We are all present and fit, all but poor Sue, she was ill by the time we came aboard. She’s downstairs sleeping in the crew quarters. As far as I know, she’s the only one poorly at the moment.”
“Is there anyone sicker than the rest?” Rob asked.
“I think Sue seems to be the worst. She couldn’t work, she had a thumping headache and nausea, so I put her to bed in the staff quarters. I thought she probably had a migraine.”
“So, we have to act right now, and fast.” Rob was worried, they had been on the plane a couple of hours now, and it was impossible to tell how long most had been feeling unwell. The clock was ticking relentlessly on an unknown countdown. “Some of these people will have been ill for some time, and could be about to turn. From what we’ve seen, people that look like they’re suffering some sort of illness, will eventually turn into one of those things. We’re not sure how long it takes, a few hours, we think.”
“The captain said you had restraints we can use?” Daniel interrupted.
“Yes, we’ve lots of them. We use plastic ties, easy to use and effective.”
“Great. We need to corral all the infected people into one area, so w
e can… help them,” Daniel obfuscated. “They need to be secured to the seats, so they can’t get up.”
“What about their personal needs? You know, toilet visits?” Becky asked, ever practical.
“I think a bit of mess is better than letting them move around, even with an escort. We can’t risk taking them to the toilet, Rob and I have seen what they can do, especially the fast ones.”
“Fast ones?” Becky asked, a little nervously. God, it just keeps getting worse, she thought.
“Yes. There appear to be two types: those that lumber around; we can get away from them easily enough. Don’t be fooled though, they still want their pound of flesh, so to speak.” Daniel paused, thinking of what he had seen, “it’s the fast ones that scare the crap out of me. You really don’t want to come across one. They are really quick, unnaturally so, and way too strong,” he emphasised. “A gun is about our only defence against them. Head shots only. Nothing else seems to count.”
Becky’s face was going increasingly pale, finding it hard to conceive of what Daniel was saying. The thought of real danger in a confined space, even on a plane this size, was her worst nightmare.
“Before we do anything, we need to sort the bullets, Danny,” Rob interjected. “Right now these rounds will go straight through their target.” He left the rest unsaid.
“Yeah, you mentioned something about carving a cross in the tip.”
“It won’t take a moment. Becky, do you have a penknife or something sharp?” Rob asked as he drew his gun and released the ammunition clip. Flicking the rounds out, he took the small Swiss Army pen knife Becky offered. Rob carved and Daniel reloaded the clips, and in a moment, the guns were once more ready for action.
Rob handed back the penknife. “Well, glad you managed to get this illegal piece aboard. Let’s get going, then. We’ll start with Sue, can you lead us to the staff quarters, Becky?”
Becky walked ahead of them down a flight of stairs, and then showed them into a lift. With three of them fitting snugly, they were just within weight limits, or so they hoped. The lift descended smoothly, down what seemed like an unreasonable distance, especially in a plane. When the door opened, the men half-expected to be presented with the great outdoors, a freezing slipstream rushing past. Instead, and preferably, it was the lower deck. Walking through the staff door, they entered a long, narrow area, curtained beds on one side, cabinets and bench seating on the other. Becky walked briskly to the berth she had allocated to Sue.
The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 14
