The Most Uncommon Cold (Book 5): Surviving Beyond the Zombie Apocalypse

by Jeffrey Littorno

  With that realization, I woke up and took a huge gasp of air like a swimmer coming to the surface after a deep dive. The images of the dream stayed sharp in my mind. In fact, I could not brush them away, even as I tried to focus instead on my very real predicament. I was still trapped inside a campervan on its side and surrounded by shells.

  The scratching on the outside of the van continued but was not as forceful as previously. I wondered if the shells would lose interest since they could not see me. I hoped that some other distraction would present itself, and they would soon move on. What I had seen previously of their mental abilities had led me to compare them to primitive cavemen. The shells seemed to be motivated by the lowest, most basic forces. That is, they appeared to move on simple logic. They moved toward the source of the latest movement or sound. They appeared to be incapable of more complex mental activities. This being the case, I seriously doubted that they had much in the way of a long-term memory to allow them the ability to remember what had happened more than a few minutes into the past. If I simply stayed quiet and out of sight for a few minutes, I bet the shells outside the van would move on to something else. Of course, I had only the barest of observational evidence upon which to base my hypotheses, but lying on my side in the driver’s seat of a wrecked campervan, this was more than enough support for my idea.

  Unfortunately, my idea of not being seen was put into serious risk as a shell climbed to the top of the campervan and peered down through the passenger window. I pressed myself deep into the seat and remained absolutely still. Despite my ramblings about the mental capacities of the shells, I had no real ideas about their sight. I only had hope that it was not good.

  Through the window, I made out the shell of a young man with a pale gray face, curly black hair and blood dripping from its mouth. Some of the blood spattered on the window, making it even more difficult to see through. I could only see bits of slow blurred movement from above. An idea suddenly hit me, knocking the wind out of my lungs. If that thing up there decided to break the glass and come in for whatever reason, I would have no way to escape. The seat that I had pressed myself so firmly into would easily become my tomb. I lie there weighing the merits of moving out of the seat and away from the window versus remaining still. The first option would allow me more of a chance at escape. However, it would also mean moving, which could very well draw the attention of the thing above me. My internal debate was settled for me when the shell on top of the van moved away. I assume it somehow got off the van, but I cannot say for sure. I only knew that I could no longer see it. About this time, I noticed the scratching sound on the outside of the van, which had been virtually non-stop since the arrival of the shells, had stopped.

  I wondered very briefly as to what had drawn the shells’ attention away from me. It did not matter in the least. The point was that the shells seemed to have moved away, allowing me a chance to get out of the campervan. Of course, I had no desire to discover upon climbing out of the van that rather than moving on, the shells had simply stayed silent in an effort to trick me. That would certainly be the height of irony; a reasonably intelligent person like me being duped by a group of shells that I surmised were no more intelligent than primitive man. The notion brought a slight grin to my lips as I realized that it might actually be a suitable outcome. However, I was not going to take it that far. Instead, I waited and waited and listened. I stayed pressed deep into that seat for what seemed like hours, although it could not have been anywhere near that long.

  When I finally got the courage to move, I discovered that I had been bounced around more than I had realized. My arm was bruised and sore. My shoulder ached every time I moved. I got the seatbelt unfastened with some difficulty and pulled myself up by the steering wheel. My shoulder screamed in pain, but I forced myself to keep moving. I stepped on the steering column and reached up to the passenger door.

  I tried to get some view of the outside before pushing the door open. Unfortunately, from my position under the door, I could not see anything outside. This small fact meant that upon opening the door, I could be opening a way for the shells to come pouring into the campervan on top of me. It was not a possibility that I wanted to consider but forced myself to nonetheless. It took me another long moment to gather up enough determination to push the door open. I did so. The door opened with the squeal of bent metal. I stopped pushing, waiting for any response. After about a minute, I pushed the door further until it was open completely. There was no sound other than a gun shot in the distance. I had to wonder if that was a bullet into a shell or one to take the shooter away from this new world. Thoughts like these would get me nowhere, and I instead tried to focus on getting back to the store and the others waiting for me.

  It proved more difficult than expected struggling to raise myself out of the van. My whole body now ached as though I had been beaten and kicked. Eventually, I did manage to get out and stood on the van looking at the street below. It appeared completely deserted. However, I would bet that with a little noise from me, the street would fill up quickly. I had no desire to test the idea so I moved as quietly as possible over to the back of the campervan and lowered myself to the street.

  From this position, it was difficult to figure out precisely what the best route back to the store would be. I sure did not want to be wandering lost around the streets. I realized that I had gotten more rattled than ever. Thinking clearly had become more and more difficult, but that was exactly what I needed to do if I wanted to survive. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Standing next to a wrecked campervan in the street with carnivorous shells nearby definitely did not make it to people’s lists of intelligent activities, but, at that moment, it was exactly what I needed to do. I closed my eyes and pictured the screen of the GPS. It had shown an arrow to the left ahead of the van and a distance of .35 miles to destination.

  I opened my eyes and walked to the front of the van, remembering which way I had been travelling and set off in that direction. I walked down the center of the street, reasoning that if I spotted any shells this would give me the most avenues of escape. As soon as I saw the first pair of shells, I realized how stupid the idea had been.

  The shells walked down the middle of the street about three hundred feet ahead. As soon as they saw me, they began trotting in my direction. I headed for the side of the street hid and behind a parked car. I peeked out from the bumper to see that the shells were still heading right for me. They had gotten too close for me to make a run for it. I decided it might be a good time to check my theory about the shells’ lack of intelligence. If I climbed underneath the car, I should be out of sight and hopefully out of mind to the shells. Of course, if I was wrong, those things would simply drag me out from under the car and tear me to shreds. One way to find out, I told myself and crawled under the car.

  A few seconds later, I saw two sets of ankles walking around the car. The closeness of the shells and my precarious position sent a wave of anxiety through my body, causing me to tremble. No matter how hard I willed the shivers to stop, they refused.

  “Man was here,” a male voice with a heavy Southern accent hissed.

  The knowledge that the shells with the ability to speak had shown greater intelligence did nothing to quell my fear or lessen the tremors. There was nothing to do other than rest my head on my hands and wait. It seemed like that’s all I ever did, wait.

  About five minutes later, I crawled out from under the car and looked cautiously around. Once again, I appeared to be alone; the one change to the scene being that I was now covered with oil, which had apparently been under the car. Having learned my lesson, I moved ahead on the side of the street, taking cover behind each parked car and watching for any movement. Of course, moving in this way took a lot longer than simply marching down the middle of the street, but it would probably draw much less attention.

  I moved down the street to the left as directed by the GPS. I now had no other direction to follow and only hoped the path would be
obvious. It was not. The street to the left was narrow and blocked by a large delivery truck with its back open. As I got closer, I saw that many of the boxes inside the truck had been torn open.

  Inside the boxes were more boxes. These little yellow boxes had been scattered around the floor of the cargo area. Many of the yellow boxes had been torn open as well. Something that looked like sand spilled out of those boxes. Checking through the contents of trucks was the last thing I had time for in my present precarious situation, but something about the inside of that truck held my attention.

  I could not immediately figure out what my subconscious mind found so intriguing about the ransacked cargo of some random delivery truck. After a moment, the obvious struck me like a sledgehammer.

  Whatever had torn up the boxes and spilled the contents around the back of the truck was no longer anywhere to be seen. The thing that looked odd to me was a number of bundles of clothing. I had seen quite a few such bundles around ever since we got to the offices of the newspaper. In fact, they had become so commonplace that I hardly noticed them anymore. Now it had become impossible not to notice them. Six or seven such bundles could be seen in the small open cargo area. I went over and kicked one of the bundles. As with the others, it was simply clothes in a pile with dust covering them. The first bundle consisted of a red flannel shirt, a dirty white undershirt, blue boxers, and black jeans. Without detailing every article, it is enough to say that they all consisted of a full set of clothing. The image of several people simply spreading rat poison around and then stripping naked before leaving the truck brought a twisted grin to my face. I’m certainly no detective, but those were the facts. I mean, what other deductions could be made from the evidence? I remember hearing somewhere, it might have been Sherlock Holmes or maybe Batman, who said that once all the evidence had been examined the most basic explanation is usually the correct one. Something like that anyway. I could come up with no other explanation until I did. What if the people who spread the rat poison around the area did not actually leave? They were no longer in sight, but that did not necessarily mean they had left. My brain went into overdrive and slapped together another possibility. What if the people who spread the rat poison around ate it as well? I don’t know a whole lot about rat poison other than it is not generally healthy for living things. But did that hold true for nonliving things like the shells? Might the rat poison have a different effect on them? Is it possible that the poison broke down the shells to the point that they became dust? I chuckled at the notion, but then realized I was chuckling at the notion of things which are dead moving around. With reality such as this, nothing should be ignored, even if it seemed far-fetched.

  Still considering the possibility of the shells being susceptible to the effects of the rat poison, I picked up an unopened container. A black silhouette of a rat took up most of the front of the yellow box. Pest-B-Gone was written above the rat and below the claim: The last time pests will trespass against you! The biblical reference made me smile.

  I looked at the side of the package for the ingredients of the poison. To be honest, I’m not sure why I did this. Did I expect to have some idea what the chemicals were and if so their properties? I had no claim to any great knowledge of chemistry. Even so, I perused the list of ingredients. The exotic names meant nothing to me. Below the ingredients, I read a short passage detailing the directions for using the product. Use Pest-B-Gone cautiously. This product should never be placed in areas accessible to pets, wildlife, or children. This product is meant solely for the eradication of rodent pests and should not be used for any other purpose.

  I could not help but ask the question: What if it was effective for the eradication of other pests like shells? That would simply be too simple, wouldn’t it? I shook my head at the idea. Certainly, somewhere someone smarter than me had considered something like this. I refused to believe the answer could be so simple.

  I kept considering the chance of the rat poison being used against the shells as I climbed down from the back of the truck. If even the slightest possibility of this helping could get rid of the shells, I had to try.

  I walked slowly around to the cab of the truck. Clearly, there had been a struggle. I pictured the truck driver frantically locking his doors as the shells surrounded the truck. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and tried to call his office. Nothing to be heard but a busy signal. He dialed 911 and got a recording. We apologize for the delay in taking your call. Please remain on the line and your call will be answered in the order it was received. The driver was still listening to the recorded voice when the windows shattered and numerous arms reached in to grab him. He screamed while being pulled through the side window to the waiting shells. After a few seconds, his screams stopped suddenly.

  There was no time to waste imagining what had taken place here. I needed to get back to the others and I needed to take this poison with me.

  I reached through the broken window and unlocked the driver’s door. There was a broken phone on the floor of the cab. More importantly, just as I had to hope, the keys were still in the ignition.

  I looked around feeling a little guilty at stealing the truck before I turned the key. The engine turned over slowly and I saw that the dome light had been left on. It dimmed almost to the point of going out when I turned the key. The battery was damn near dead. Just what the hell I needed! There is finally some shred of hope in this shitty world, and I have to get screwed by some dead battery. I slammed my hand down on the dashboard in anger. The pain of the useless act brought me back to reality.

  I took a deep breath and held it as I turned the key. The engine turned over enthusiastically a few times before slowing.

  “Goddamn it!” I swore right before the engine caught and roared to life. I couldn’t keep the whoop inside and let out a loud yell.

  Then I realized the back of the truck remained open, and I was no longer alone on the street.

  A single shell shuffled down the sidewalk about fifty yards away. I didn’t want to take the chance of having any of the poison spill out of the truck as I drove away, but I also didn’t want to make friends with the shell coming to meet me. My inner conversation was getting me nowhere, so I bolted out of the driver’s seat with the goal of closing the cargo door and making it back to the cab before the shell had a chance to grab me. Not the best plan in the world, but it beat simply waiting for the shell to pull me out of the cab.

  Either I was not as fast as I thought or the shell picked up some speed. In any case, I had just gotten up into the cargo area and was reaching up for the canvas strap dangling from the door when the shell grabbed my foot. Fortunately—if anything could be called fortunate when a dead thing suddenly grabs your foot—I kicked the hand with my other foot before the shell got a firm grip. I stepped back and looked down at the shell of a heavyset man in a medical coat grab at me from the street.

  I observed for a moment before remembering what I had behind me. I grabbed one of the little yellow boxes and pushed my finger into the little perforated square on the side. A hole opened up, and I poured some of the sandy-looking poison onto the shell.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting and judging by the confused expression of the shell neither did it. The grains simply rained down, and the shell stared at me. After a moment, the shell wiped its hair and licked its hand. Its movement became more frantic, as if the shell was tasting something incredible, something that it had been starving for forever. After rubbing its head obviously trying to get every grain of the poison left there, the shell knelt on the ground apparently searching for any of the sand that had found its way there. It looked all around, lowering its face to the ground like some bloodhound. Apparently, it found a bit of the stuff, because the shell pressed its face to the pavement and began licking.

  My usual disgust with the shells got momentarily replaced by genuine curiosity. What could make this rat poison so incredibly delicious to the shell? It was another question that really didn’t need an answer. Th
e important thing was that this could possibly be used as a weapon to control the shells. Perhaps, I was getting way ahead of myself, but it had been quite a while since there had been anything about which to be enthusiastic.

  My enthusiasm was soon overpowered by disgust once more as the shell on the street began convulsing. It had gotten to its feet and was attempting to climb into the truck when its limbs began trembling. The tremors grew and soon forced the shell to fall to its knees. Its twitching head faced me for a few seconds before a grayish liquid began dribbling from its mouth. Just like that the shell collapsed to the street and stopped moving.

  I stood there staring in amazement. How could this be possible? As I asked myself such useless questions, the place where the shell had been sprawled out became empty except for a pile of clothes.

  “Well, fuck me!” I was unable to come up with anything more useful to say after seeing the incredible scene.

  The truck was still running, which was sure to attract more shells, so getting the hell out of this place seemed like an excellent idea.

  I pulled the door closed with a loud bang, pushing the latch into place as three shells trotted toward me from about a block away. I threw myself into the cab and pulled the door closed an instant before one of the shells slapped the hood of the truck. I wanted nothing more than to slam my foot down and run the shell down but feared that the truck would stall out and leave me stranded.

  For once I did the smart thing and simply accelerated gradually. Rather than being knocked under the front of the truck, the shell got nudged aside as the truck slid through the gathering mob. The street was narrow and several times I scraped the cars parked along the curb. I also knocked over a few trash cans. I wondered how long those cans had been at the curb. I remembered the people who had dutifully taken the cans out to the street side for the garbage truck to empty. Perhaps that was the last sign of true civilization, regular trash collection. I smiled at the irony of such a notion.