“Are the kids’ shoes up to allowing them to run as fast as they can?” Rob wondered.
“You know, I hadn’t noticed. Let’s go check.”
They walked back to the children and looked down at their feet. Their shoes had clearly seen better days. They may have had a father, but it was clear that footwear was the bottom of his list of priorities.
“Hey, kids,” Danny began, “Would you like some new shoes?”
Penny and Sam beamed at this offer, and Daniel was pleased to see in them an emotion other than sadness or fear.
“Right, choose something. They can’t be too fancy, they must enable you to run fast. This isn’t about fashion.”
By the time he’d finished the sentence, Penny and Sam were already looking over the shelves, Penny gravitating towards some girlie-looking trainers, with little pink horse shapes on them. Sam went straight for the basketball type and before long, both had chosen a style. Another twenty minutes trying to find a pair in the chaotic store-room that fitted, and they were ready. Rob had been monitoring the front of the shop, hoping the creatures out there would lose interest, and move off in search of other prey. They hadn’t. If anything there seemed to be more of them.
“Before I locked up the back exit,” Rob said, “I noticed there was a van parked out back. I’ve searched for keys in here, but haven’t found any. Before we all go out, I think one of us has to go and see if the keys are in it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, trying not to be heard by the children, “and to check it is all clear. You worried me with that comment you made earlier about them planning.”
“It was just a hunch, I’ve no proof of that.”
“Well, you may be right and I think we need to be sure. Do ya want to toss a coin to see who goes out?”
“No, you can go.” Daniel said, smiling.
“Bastard,” Rob replied.
“Joking. I think it’s my turn, you’ve been on guard enough.”
“If you say so. I’ll cover you from the doorway.”
“Right, let’s do this thing.” With that, Daniel pushed ahead of the kids while Rob followed. The exit was a steel wicket type, set within in a larger roller door, clearly designed to take shop goods inwards. Slowly he opened the smaller door, making as little noise as possible. The yard was empty of anyone or anything moving; just a couple of bodies littering the area, and no signs of life, undead or otherwise. The van was backed up to the roller door, the driver originally intent on delivering to the shops. The cab’s door was closed and, with rifle slung and pistol at the ready, Daniel edged his way towards the front of the vehicle. Rob was covering him from the doorway, the kids peering past him, watching the action.
Daniel tried the driver’s side and was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. It was a good start, at least. Peering in and seeing the keys swinging slightly in the ignition slot, he opened the door quickly, and jumped in. Swinging his pistol around, aiming towards the back of the vehicle, he was ready for anything. As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he could make out a man crouching in the back, probably the driver, judging by his uniform jacket. The man was gnawing on a severed leg, blood all over his face. A vicious bite was clearly visible on his arm, exposed bone and sinews shining wetly in the gaping wound. Looking up at Daniel with a mouth full of flesh, it emitted a gurgling scream of indignation. Dropping the leg, it threw itself at Daniel, whose trigger finger was quicker. The inert form of the zombie crashed against the back of the seats, head burst open with the close range shot, and fell harmlessly and wetly to the floor.
Worried by the noise the creature had made, as well as the gun shot, Daniel looked around agitatedly, just in time to see a fast one run around the corner towards him. A rifle shot cracked and Rob ended this threat. Sounds of feet running, moans and screams began to get louder, coming towards them.
“Come on, get in the van. They keys are here!” Daniel called. He pushed the passenger door open for them, and slammed his own. Needing no further encouragement, Rob and the kids piled in as Daniel started the engine. With both doors slammed shut, the van lurched towards the exit. Suddenly the entrance was filled by zombies, fast and slow.
Their way forward was blocked; it had been an ambush after all. The crowd surged at the van, and the sound of fists and hands beating the sides of the vehicle became deafening. The side door slid open, and some of the creatures tried to enter. Rob was quicker, though, and well placed rounds flung the corpses backwards onto the tarmac. Still more clambered over one another as they tried to enter. More shots rang out as Daniel joined the killing, taking up the slack as Rob clambered into the back. Slipping on the remains of the driver, he nearly lost his footing while reaching for the door, to pull it closed.
“Drive!” Rob screamed above the noise, as he pumped round after round into the faces of each zombie as they tried to gain entry.
Daniel put his foot to the floor, and with the engine racing, the vehicle ploughed into the crowd, bowling most aside and crushing a few under its wheels as it bounced out onto the street. The kids squealed with fright as the van rocked back and forth, travelling over the bodies of slow-moving dead. A few cheetahs ran alongside, one trying to climb onto the bonnet. It slipped and fell under, causing the vehicle to jolt as it passed over its body.
“Put your seat belts on, kids,” Daniel instructed, “this could be a bumpy ride.” Penny was rigid with terror; Sam put his arm around his sister, trying to comfort her, all the while trying to reach around her and secure the seatbelt. They raced up to the main road, and screeching around the roundabout, headed towards Catford. Rob finally slammed the door closed, and flicked the lock to prevent further possible catastrophe.
Moderating his speed, fearful of crashing and leaving them on foot once more, Daniel weaved his way around parked and abandoned cars, trying to avoid the walkers as much as possible, partly from a sense of humanity, but mostly because he knew the van wouldn’t keep soaking up damage to the front; it wasn’t designed to do that. At this rate they would be at the library in less than half an hour, much to Daniel’s relief. They could ditch this transport as well; at the moment the kids weren’t aware of the corpse lying behind them.
As they drove up the incline leading to Eltham High Street, the dead began walking deliberately out to greet the machine, which was working hard to maintain speed up the hill. They were fuelled by fascination and hunger. Every time one connected with the front, the van lost a small amount of speed. By the time they had negotiated the chaos of pranged cars at the intersection next to the old church, they were doing no more than ten miles an hour, enough to avoid the slow ones, but one or two faster ones were gaining on them, eager for a meal.
“Get ready to abandon ship, guys,” Daniel said, feeling the remaining life force bleeding from the engine. He drew his pistol, Rob doing likewise. The children were tense with apprehension and fear; Penny was holding Rob’s hand, her feelings regarding the death of her father being over-ruled by their current plight.
The engine finally died half way up the street.
“Right, out and follow me,” Daniel said. They flung the doors open, and the two men turned to face the runners coming up behind them. There were three of them now, less than a car’s length away. Shots rang out, and the hunger-crazed zombies fell in their tracks; Rob and Daniel were getting good at head shots, averaging almost one shot for one life. Each grabbed the hands of the kids, and raced towards the library.
Chapter 11
Gatwick Airport - The Road From Hell?
“So when can we expect to be away from here?” the captain said, his voice betraying his irritation at the Ops Manager standing in front of him.
“I’ll let you know in good time, don’t worry,” replied Trevor Barnes, a small, round and balding man, what little hair he had showing grey beyond his years; he was as frustrated as the captain, but for different reasons. When hell broke loose, it was his job to contain the ire of people just like this pilot. It was as if everyone b
lamed him for the failings and whims of Air Traffic Control.
“But we had a slot out of here for seventeen hundred a mere ten minutes ago, when I confirmed it. How come we don’t have it now?” Captain Tom Morgan demanded, still not wanting to give up the struggle. If they didn’t leave soon, he believed the airspace would be closed, perhaps forever, and anything leaving after that would be shot down before they reached their destination, no quarter given. His understanding was that, whatever was causing this problem, it was spreading like wildfire. He’d heard rumours of it breaking out over most of this little country; God knew what it was doing in the good ol’ US of A, probably the same thing.
The more he thought about it, the more the captain wanted to get home to his family, even if they had to fly into a shit storm to get there. The outbreaks, both in the UK and the USA, appeared to be following the main train lines, which made sense when you thought about it. Unknowingly, people would get infected; they would then board a train for a normal journey and get off somewhere else, carrying the germ with them. Modern transport was the most effective method for spreading disease there was; everyone knew it, hence the pickle the pilot was now in.
“Look, Captain. I have you being refuelled as we speak, full to the brim. You can reach anywhere in the US with that load, plenty of reserve. Just be patient, I hope to get something of use to you in about half an hour. Why don’t you go back to the plane, and wait for my signal. We’re generating weather for your systems right now, you have to be off the ground by nineteen hundred anyway, so we’ll forecast for then. Lading and passenger lists are coming, and I’ll ping them across to you as well.” He gave the captain a look that said, go away, you’ll get nothing more from me.
Morgan glared, then softened his look; he knew it wasn’t Trevor’s fault, he was just misplacing his anger. “Sure, thanks Mr Barnes,” the captain said, joke-formally addressing his friend. These two had worked together for a long time; they were equally alpha male, ideal for their respective roles. It was this personal drive and ambition that made Captain Morgan, who hailed from Boulder, Colorado, the youngest captain in Americas United, the second largest airline in the USA. It was also what put him in the command driver’s seat of the newest aircraft in the fleet, the massive Airbus A380. In its current configuration, it could carry five hundred and twenty two people, excluding crew. He was expecting a full flight this evening.
Patting his friend on the shoulder, he walked out of the ops room and to the crew transport, an electric golf buggy. With the trolley beeping, its yellow warning light flashing, the driver took the captain back to the gate where his aircraft was parked. Normally there were up to six gangways connected from the quay that fed the aircraft with passengers, but due to the current emergency circumstances, only one was in place, and that was at the nose of the plane, where he could monitor it carefully. Looking around at the people he passed on his return journey, he couldn’t help but notice that quite a few appeared disoriented, vacant even; there were several with nosebleeds, which looked completely out of place.
A woman ran past his buggy, vomiting blood and screeching inhumanly. Morgan flinched, as did the driver, who swerved, almost losing his passenger from the smooth seats. Two security guards ran after her. Nearly caught up to her, the two guards fell into her trap. She spun around and leapt at the nearest one, tearing into his throat with her teeth, mouth already bloody. It was like biting into a ripe tomato, his blood running down her front, and a look of satisfaction somehow obvious in her opalescent, white eyes. The other guard was flabbergasted, his actions slowed by this sudden turn of events. This hesitation went against him. The woman threw down her first victim, who was still alive and lay writhing on the floor, clutching his throat. Launching herself at the second man, she tried to deal with him in the same way as the first, only now he had recovered enough to fend her off with his left forearm. She bit deep into his flesh, causing him to scream, the sound etching into Morgan’s brain. Two more security personnel threw themselves into the fray, and eventually they overwhelmed the woman. The captain was amazed it had taken so many large men to subdue her. Maybe she was high, perhaps that Bubblebath stuff, or whatever it was called, it did weird things to people’s brains apparently. Before they could finally bring her down, they had all received wounds to their arms and hands.
“Um, I think we should get moving. Now!” Morgan urged his driver, who had stopped to stare out of morbid fascination. The man put his foot down and his chariot raced down the walkway, swerving wildly around startled groups of passengers. Before they reached his gate, Morgan witnessed several more incidents, passengers assaulting fellow passengers and security staff alike, some of whom were armed with guns; it must be just the fear of the unknown, whatever was happening out there was enough to frighten anyone, causing hysteria and shortening tempers until arguments and fights broke out. That was the only rational explanation. All in all, he had a really bad feeling about the way things were slowly turning to rat shit, and was incredibly grateful to arrive at his gate, number 104. If the proverbial hit the fan, so to speak, from this gate he could get his plane away and onto the runway without assistance. He loved the A380, such a versatile plane.
Arriving in the cavernous cockpit, somewhat out of breath, Morgan saw his first officer, Brad Bukowski, also known as BB, sitting in the right hand seat, monitoring progress of the refuelling. Brad was ex-USAF, and first received his call-sign, BB, after qualifying on F16’s. After seventeen years of zipping around the sky, he had opted for ‘retirement’, and moved onto multi-engine aircraft, finally landing in the right hand seat next to Morgan, for whom he had absolute respect in decision-making and aircraft handling skills; that in itself was extraordinary as Air Force pilots usually looked down on those that hadn’t served. His respect came from the first time Morgan had shown him what aerobatics was really all about, taking him for an hour long shake-down in his very own Yak-18T aircraft. From that day forward, they had developed a strong bond and frequently flew and drank together, although obviously not at the same time. Today he was seriously wondering if there would be a benefit in combining the two activities.
“I think we’re having problems getting our passengers together,” he said, upon hearing his commander’s footsteps entering the cockpit. BB looked up, realizing something was wrong. “Are you okay? You look pale. And you’ve got red on you.” He indicated his cheek, and the captain put a hand to his face and rubbed. “It’s gone now. What happened?”
“Nothing, a passenger incident. Must have been drugs, she was like a mad woman, biting and attacking. I’ve never seen such terrible violence.” He sat down in his chair, and let out a long sigh. “I’ve got the ground crew to lock the doors at the top of the quay; they aren’t to let anyone come down without my say-so. Things feel a little weird in the terminal. Sorry, I think you were saying something when I came in?”
“I was just about to say that apparently the Embassy is no longer contactable, so at least two thirds of our load is unaccounted for at the moment. Do you know how well we would function without passengers?” he asked rhetorically, smiling, “of course, there’s an obvious flaw in that argument, but that’s for another time. Anyway, God knows where they are, the Limeys seem to be in chaos right now.”
“Tell me about it,” Morgan responded, trying to focus on his route plan and the tasks he had yet to perform. Images of the mad woman, and the sound of that security guard’s scream, kept on crowding into his thoughts. “Our departure slot has just been bumped,” he managed to say.
BB groaned at the thought of another delay.
“Supposedly, we should get out of here close to nineteen hundred hours. That’s according to Barnes.”
“Great, a night time arrival. I was hoping to speak to my wife before she went to bed.”
“Never mind. My gut feeling is that this is likely to be our last international flight for a while.”
“You think so? What have you heard?”
Morgan thought about
what he’d seen less than ten minutes previously. “This thing is spreading here, and I’ve heard tell that whatever it is, is getting out of the New York area and spreading west, slowly but surely.”
“It hasn’t hit the west coast, has it?” BB’s lived with his wife in Sausalito, situated on a headland overlooking the Bay area, just outside San Francisco. Ever since this problem had started, he’d been anxious to get home to them.
“Not that I’m aware.” Morgan thought for a moment, wondering about his own family. Hopefully, their relative remoteness would benefit them. “Do me a favour, once we’re refuelled, get everything disconnected from the plane, except this gangway,” he said pointing to his left. “I want to be able to reverse under our own steam if necessary. Make sure we’re only on the APU, I want to be independent of ground power. If all’s well when we’re ready to depart, we can always call for a pushback. I’m going to check on the cabins.”
With that, Morgan got up and walked out of the cockpit, closing and locking the door behind him. He smiled at the stewies in the front galley; they were busy stowing food, but all looked healthy. Walking down the aisle, he noticed a few isolated passengers, and said hello as he went past. Probably staffers from the Embassy who got here early. Two or three of them looked a little off colour, and he made a mental note to keep an eye on them. If they were sick, they were best off disembarked so they could get proper medical help. Getting closer to the mid-section of the plane, he met some more of the crew. All were busy, although one of them, a young woman, was sitting down, apparently resting. She looked pale, dark lines under her eyes. Looking around for the purser, he spied her, walking towards him from the rear. Surreptitiously, he pulled her aside.
“What’s the story here?” he asked her, subtly indicating the sick girl.
“She’s been getting steadily worse. She had a headache when we came aboard, and has become progressively sicker.”
The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 9