Once safely behind the barbed wire, he had gone to the toilets and washed a cut that had started to bleed on his knuckles, probably from the fast guy’s teeth. That was always the risk of a face punch, he thought, you could end up as badly off as the other fella. Little did he realise the prophetic nature of his thoughts at that moment. Paul, too, had skinned knuckles. They wore this badge of the fight with pride.
Watching a few officers, deep in a confab as they walked out of the ops centre, his attention was drawn to his hands. In the last few minutes, the skin on the back of his hands had begun to itch, the wounds from the fight throbbing unnaturally. Small red lines radiated out from his knuckles. They looked like they were infected; he’d have to do something about that when his shift was over. He flexed his fingers, and winced as a pain shot up his right arm. That’s real weird, he thought, knuckle injuries never went this bad before. He glanced across at his brother, then looked down at his hands, too, trying to see something out of the ordinary. Faint lines were visible on his hands as well. Paul was flexing them, clearly feeling the same sensations.
“Bro, you okay?” he hissed.
Paul frowned at the interruption while on duty, but turned to his brother and nodded.
“Can you feel it?” Billy persisted.
Again, Paul nodded, this time with less impatience, and more concern. They had another two hours of this guard duty, and for once, they would both be glad for it to end.
A thought entered his mind. “I could murder a burger,” he whispered, which drew a smile from Paul.
“Me, too,” Paul confessed, “no fries, though, just the meat.”
“Yeah, me too.” Although they weren’t actually twins, there were nearly eighteen months between them, they often had the same thoughts at the same time. This time their thoughts didn’t ring true; both loved fries, and would eat copious quantities to supplement their energy requirements. Right now, though, Billy couldn’t get his mind off the meat, imagining it juicy and raw in the middle. A little saliva escaped his mouth and dribbled down his chin, but he didn’t seem to notice.
They continued to stand in silence, observing the comings and goings from the ops centre, the activity becoming more frequent as time wore on. The looks on the faces of the operatives were becoming more strained, and Billy wished he could ask someone what was going on. His chance came and he grabbed a corporal who was rushing towards the entrance waving his access pass, expecting a quick entry to the secure area.
“What’s going on, corporal?” he demanded, as menacingly as possible.
“Th… there’s a plane coming in from England,” he stuttered, the feral look of the sergeant intimidating him. “I have to notify the OOD. Let me through,” he demanded, irritating Billy more. No one spoke to him like that. Fucking corporal, he thought, wouldn’t like it if I took a bite out of him.
He took a step back, mentally. Where had that come from? A bite, what was that, gay? Nah, he assured himself, I like women. He had smelled good, though. Thrusting the troubling thought away, he concentrated on his duty.
“Get on with it then. On the double!” he barked, and the corporal ran through the doorway.
His fury slowly abated, the little runt corporal forgotten. Slowly, but perceptibly, the lights appeared to become dimmer in the corridor, colours around him beginning to fade. He peered more closely; some of the brighter colours of the signs on the wall, and on the uniforms of the passing staff, were changing by degrees, washing out. His vision was still clear; if anything, the edges of objects actually stood out more, cartoon-like in their sharpness. Smiling at the effect, he felt no fear, just curiosity at the change. The sign at the opposite side of the corridor, its background red, with white lettering that announced the passage in front of them as out of bounds, was becoming etiolated, Instagrammed almost, not fuzzy exactly, but it was as if the red background was becoming old. His vision slowly began to resemble the colour film footage he’d seen in movies from the sixties. Billy’s heart was pumping hard now, feeling invigorated with every beat as he felt changes coming upon him from within.
He watched a female soldier pass by their station, her toned buttocks inviting in the tight skirt. Her bodily aroma was strong in his nostrils; although she wore no discernible perfume, the essence of her made him feel light-headed. He suddenly realised that it wasn’t his loins stirring, but his appetite. Strange, but it felt right; it was as if his primal instincts and abilities were awakening, and it felt amazingly good. He watched as she rounded the far corner, wanting for all the world to follow her, and take a bite. He grinned wolfishly.
Billy turned to his brother, and realised they were staring at each other. Except it wasn’t his brother, or was it? Whoever it was, was the same rank, but the face didn’t fit. Instead of the ruggedly tanned face he expected to see, Paul’s complexion had paled, his eyes nacreous, no longer a startling pale blue.
“Hey, Billy,” the words entered his head, “she’d be tasty.” The voice was Paul’s, but his lips had remained closed. His uniform front was stained dark with saliva, he seemed oblivious to the mess; he finally smiled. Billy smiled back.
“Hey, Paul,” Billy responded. “This is pretty neat, how are we doing it?”
“No fucking idea, you?”
Billy laughed inside, and could suddenly hear Paul’s laughter echoing his.
“Sweet. Did you see that cute thing that just walked past? Couldn’t you just eat her?”
“Oh, yeah. Smelt good, too. Shall we eat the next one that comes along?”
“Let’s.”
They stood in silence, choosing the one they would start with, as if from a sushi conveyor belt in a bar. Several people walked by, their perfume or aftershave somehow off-putting. Then they saw one that had potential. She was small, round-hipped, and had a swagger that was the talk of the base. As she drew nearer, Billy sniffed gently, searching for her scent.
“Nah, she’s a vegan.” Billy thought. “She won’t taste any good. Too many vitamins.”
Paul just smiled in agreement, their tastes had always been for the naughtier girls. Finally, a slim, tall, brunette officer strode out of the ops room, and away from their station.
“That’s the one. Agree?” Paul asked. Billy just looked at his brother in approval. With blood curdling screeches, they leapt with speed and strength that surprised even them. Like a battering ram, they hit her from behind, driving her to the ground, and began biting at exposed flesh. Blood sprayed from her neck, spilling forth a pungent aroma of warm, coppery, deep red liquid. With all their senses working overtime, the sergeants were driven wild by the orgy of killing, and the lust for their food.
The two brothers detected, rather than saw, or felt, the presence of people around them, trying to drag them off the hapless officer. She hadn’t even had time to cry for help; now she just lay there, twitching, as her life-force pulsed from her body in spasms. These new hands pulling at them were annoying, interfering with their feeding frenzy. Leaping up, they lashed out at the guards who had come to the woman’s rescue. Biting and tearing, they were reminiscent of the berserker Norse warriors who fought in a trance-like fury, unbeatable in their savagery. Feeling alive for the first time ever, or so it felt, they fought their way through the attack.
Gunshots rang out, solid punches could be felt as the rounds hit home. With no sense of injury, they continued in their frenzy, overcoming each adversary as they were encountered. The hallway was becoming slippery with blood and viscera, each footstep now landing on a body. They felt good, oh so good, their rapture orgasmic in intensity.
Separating from the rapidly thinning crowd, the two brothers ran down the corridor, Billy careening straight through the door they had been guarding, knocking over the soldier who had just opened it. Tearing at, and biting every person that came close enough, Billy worked his way across the vast cavern. Now he had allies, sensing others like him coming into the arena of death, intent on joining in the fun.
“Come on, feel them bleed
,” Billy shouted in his mind. Others responded, much to his satisfaction. Some groaned inarticulately, but their pleasure could be sensed. There was a compulsion in him to help them to feed. Seeing the same unfortunate corporal he’d interrogated earlier, he dragged him, kicking and screaming, over to a group of slow movers; throwing him down before them, they fell upon the unlucky soldier, tearing at his flesh and moaning in pleasure. A feeling of wellbeing flooded Billy’s renewed body; he needed to do more.
Without warning, a blinding pain filled Billy’s mind, his brain sliced through with a sharp, unbearable sensation, and a single word popped into his head: Paul. Where was his brother? The feel-good sensation was dissipating quickly now, as realisation struck that he had lost Paul forever.
“Where the hell are you?” he shouted, his telepathy searching, eager to reconnect to his brother. Running back to the entrance of the ops room, he leapt into the corridor, slithering to a halt. Paul’s body lay on the floor, his brain matter and shattered skull fragments mingling with the slaughterhouse décor. Cradling his brother in his arms, holding his broken head against his chest, he let out a loud, ululating cry that echoed down the corridors, and bounced back inward, off the thick, blast proof doors, to be forever trapped underground.
As the fury of the fighting ebbed, everyone being either dead or undead, a curious peace descended once more in the operations room. The infection had spread quickly, perhaps originating from multiple sources other than just the brothers. Whatever the cause, those officers and ranks still standing had returned to their posts, and made every effort to resume their duties. It was more difficult now, the relevance of the equipment in front of them nearly impossible to understand. Some of the screen displays couldn’t be seen, their colours not registering in the newly sensitised eyes of the undead. A tinny, disconnected voice could be heard over the radio network, demanding instructions, asking questions. They went unheeded.
“If anyone can hear me, my name is Captain Bud Lewis, F-18, flamed-out engine, gliding towards the north eastern seaboard, currently three thousand feet ASL, will be ditching in thirty seconds. Please mark my coordinates.”
He continued to give his position and counted down the height until finally, the transmission went dead. There was no-one dispatched to save the pilot from the icy, dark Atlantic Ocean.
Most of the operatives just stood there, flicking switches or staring at indecipherable screens, oblivious to the drama taking place two thousand miles away. In spite of their newly confusing world, they were happy, if that was the right word for it; each and every person in the underground bunker had a connection to each other that could not be broken in death.
Epilogue
Boulder, Colorado
Setting off northwards, Tom and BB drove past what was left of the airport. Instead of the majestic white tent that usually marked it out clearly for miles in all directions, a pit remained, charred at the edges, few recognisable buildings left. Tom could see now that the runways were littered with the scattered remains of aircraft that had been hurled away from the terminals, to land in broken heaps hundreds of yards away from the epicentre. The debris they had collided with when they landed during the night was most likely not the remains of a failed attempt at landing, but the remains of scattered aeroplane bones.
Recognisable sections of planes were visible right up to and beyond the road on which they had now stopped. Red lumps of charred flesh were scattered across the road and in the surrounding brush, attracting small rodents and packs of marauding dogs. The remains were unidentifiable, but it was fair to assume it was the last vestiges of bodies not consumed by the super-heated nuclear burst. Huge buzzards had collected in groups, and had settled in as uninvited guests to the feast now presented. A pack of coyotes bounded around excitedly in the distance.
Neither man could take their eyes off the carnage and destruction that had once been the fifth busiest airport in the USA. An intense sadness took a hold of them both, the import of this terrible sight was as significant as anything they’d ever witnessed personally or seen on telly. As a final statement, it spoke volumes about the death of the world as they knew it.
“Thank God we didn’t get that early clearance to depart London, eh, BB?” Tom reflected; sometimes he could be lucky.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Tom suddenly realised they had stopped, and nudged BB back to the here and now. “Come on, man. We gotta keep going.” BB slapped his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and anger, and gunned the engine. After a moment, they gathered speed and began the haul to Boulder. They sat in silence, neither in the mood for idle chatter.
For them, the start of the journey took them through an expanse of empty, open countryside, the odd house visible at the brow of the artificial rise bulldozed either side of the E470. As they reached the top of the ring-road around Denver, they could see, off to their left, a dark column of smoke rising, not from a single source, but more like the whole horizon was ablaze, peppered with smaller orange flowers as fuel sources ignited. The boom of the explosions hit them after a few seconds, like a film out of sync with the soundtrack.
“Is this the end of our world, Tom?” BB asked, having descended into a pit of despair.
Tom didn’t answer.
Focusing upon flying the aircraft had enabled them to deny, at least in their minds, what was happening below them, and even on the plane. In the cockpit, all had been rational, even their encounter with the USAF had been a logical exercise. Ever since they had landed, the world had begun to crumble. For Tom, his over-riding passion now was to get to his family as quickly as possible, so he had a new and pressing goal to focus upon. For BB, it was another matter. Getting to San Francisco felt an unreal objective, impossible right now; he had no idea of how this goal was going to be achieved. He looked out of the window at the pall of smoke in the distance. Then the obvious solution came to him. How he had missed it was a mystery to him. Fatigue, probably.
Perhaps he would steal a plane, fly there directly. A helicopter would be better, on it he could fly right up to his own house; there was even space around it where he could land. Maintaining licence currency on helicopters had been a godsend for him. His wife, Babs, had always complained at the extra cost: she saw it as frivolous, after all he was an airline pilot, and flew jets; but it looked like the investment was going to be worthwhile after all. That possibility buoyed him up once again. BB was a positive thinker; although his downward mood spirals were frequent and steep, they were usually only short lived. All things were achievable, if he only gave it the right amount of thought.
They were almost halfway to Boulder as they arrived at the exit to Denver on the I25. As they approached the flyovers they had to slow down. They had been lucky so far; going in their westward direction at that hour of the day meant there were almost no vehicles on their side of the road at all. It had been an easy and clear run. Now there was pandemonium. Cars had crashed down from the flyovers, perhaps from being chased or loss of control, it was hard to say. Piles of cars, many on their rooves, attested to how they had gotten there.
Large numbers of zombies wandered aimlessly, or stood next to their broken machines. Others inside the vehicles writhed in their attempts to understand, and escape their situation. It looked like an Hieronymus Bosch painting, chaos reigned; groups of inhuman people were gathered around bodies, lustfully tearing at strips of flesh, and settling back to engorge themselves. It was the Devil’s depiction of al fresco dining. The fanged grins of the diseased gave them the appearance of laughter, the blood and detritus hanging from their jaws revoking the amusement that might otherwise have been found in their joy.
“Holy crap,” Tom muttered. “How the devil are we supposed to get around this?”
“Up there!” BB pointed, the turnoff was right alongside them. He slewed the truck sideways, and drove across the grassy verge separating the turnoff from the main road. Landing heavily back on the slip road once more he followed the curve as it w
ound to the right. They bowled over a group of Infected that blocked their path, driving them like skittles, some thrown sideways and others falling under the truck. The wheels skidded on the wet, slippery, pulverised flesh, then found purchase once more on the dry blacktop.
At the top of the rise, they began to descend once more to enter the northbound side of the I25. Instead of following the road, BB drove back onto the grass, and down the bank. Tom exclaimed in shock at the manoeuvre, and held on tight. The first officer aimed the huge truck straight at the opposite side of the Interstate. Bouncing across the carriageways, the massive tyres giving the lightly laden truck the advantage over deep gullies, they careened over the middle island, and drove the wrong way along the carriageway. As soon as the crash barrier disappeared, he swerved left once more and entered the off ramp. They were now back on the E470 heading in their original westerly direction, the dreadful scene left behind, and getting smaller in the rear vision mirrors.
“I hope you never have to do the school run,” Tom announced, smiling broadly. It felt good to do something a little reckless, even better to survive it.
The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 24
