The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle

by David K. Roberts

  Bracing herself and breathing deep, she ascended the stairs, her back sliding up the wall, trying to remember where the squeaky boards were. The stairs swept around to the left, so it was easy for her to look up and see if there was anyone ahead. The varnished wooden banisters were supported by white-painted, turned balusters, through which Sandra could see into the bedrooms, even before she had reached the upper floor; the doors had been left open by the soldiers following their search, muddy footprints were visible on the carpet. Goddam bastards, she muttered, if there was just someone to complain to…

  In the back bedroom, she could now see bloody smears on the pale cream carpet, causing her to breathe more rapidly. Forcing herself to relax again, she continued upwards. Quickly checking the two front rooms, it was obvious Sandra was putting off the inevitable moment when that last room would have to be cleared. Holding the blades in a fighting stance - she had done some martial arts in her university days - the lone woman stepped forward, keeping her left foot ahead, slowly entering the room. It was empty behind the door; the gap between the door and jamb allowing a clear view beyond. The only other place a person could be was the other side of the bed. The blood trail indicated as much.

  She threw herself forward over the last distance, hoping to surprise whatever, or whoever it was. A small child sitting on the floor, staring up at her, brought her charge to a halt. The little girl must have come into the house when Sandra lay unconscious, earlier on. As a nursery school teacher, it was an ingrained response for her to show tenderness and care, at least where a child was concerned. She dropped the machetes to her side, trying to hide them, or at least not to frighten the child.

  Fear was the last thing the child would have registered; it was a little girl - with the whitest eyes Sandra had ever seen. She sat there, her head raised from her task, a look of curiosity strangely discernible on her face. A soldier lay there, his uniform in tatters, his abdomen laid open, revealing glistening, still pulsing organs. The stench from his burst intestines was intense, and made Sandra gag a little. He let out a groan, but remained immobile. The little girl’s face was passive, relaxed-looking. That change in a moment. She snarled, revealing blood-coated teeth, unnamed bloody flesh stuck between her incisors; Sandra felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise, her heart raced, and the flight or fight decision was made. With a lightning fast movement, Sandra’s right hand swung in an arc, and the fourteen inch blade sliced into the girl’s forehead. Years of nursery conditioning made her hold back at the last moment, the blade not entering enough to finish the job. It was the typical hesitation injury of the first time kill.

  The girl squealed with an unnatural, gurgling timbre, thrashing around, clawing at the blade which remained clasped by her skull. Remembering her other blade, Sandra swapped it to her right hand, and swung a second time, this time severing the child’s head from her shoulders. With the weight of the embedded machete, the head rolled awkwardly to the skirting board, where it came to a halt. Her questioning, opaque eyes blinked and searched around the room, as if she was trying to find her body. Her corpse was lying motionless, but the head behaved as if still attached. A final blow, and the head was cleaved in two, like a fresh cantaloupe. Now the obscene thing was dead.

  Sandra dropped to her knees, and looked in horror at her handiwork. Why couldn’t she cry? It had been just a child, but something had told her to act, to kill. Maybe it was the look in the kid’s eyes; it was hard to tell what was the more unnerving, the calm look first seen, mouth engulfed with the man’s guts, or the vicious squeal. Dear God. She, Sandra, had just killed a child, but it still wouldn’t register in her mind; she swore. No matter how much she metaphorically slapped herself, no tears would come, the natural and normal reaction to this hideous act. Her world was changing; all the death and carnage encountered in the last few hours was turning her into something else, she just couldn’t say what, exactly. It had something to do with a primitive instinct for survival, that much was obvious to her.

  Giving up on her emotions, Sandra stood once more, and then heard air hissing from the lips of smorgasbord man. Stepping over to him, she looked into his eyes. Milky; he was turning. Sighing, the bloody blade struck down once more, and the remaining light in the man’s eyes faded.

  With the house clear of intruders, live ones at least, Sandra went to the bathroom and washed her hands, face and the machetes. Her hands were raw by the time she had finished; all signs of the blood were now gone from her skin, plus a few extra layers for good measure.

  While cleaning herself, she had given thought to what had been done by her. One thing was for sure, up close and personal was no longer an option, it was impractical and upsetting. Unless, of course, there was no other choice to be made. The only solution was a half-way decent gun. The army had been defeated, so there had to be a gun somewhere out there. As she looked out the window, she could see clusters of bodies, civilian and soldier alike. Looking closer to the house, there were a pair of dead soldiers in the next garden, one clasping a pistol in his right hand. The other man had a rifle of some sort. They would do. Neither was moving, so it appeared safe to take the weapons from them. Looking around again, she could see that there were only a few people walking around in the distance, dazed, or worse; other than that there appeared to be no-one that could pose a threat.

  Decision made, she filed a mental note to clean the bodies out of the house once suitably armed. Leaving by the rear door, gripping a single machete this time, she made her way, shrub by shrub, into the neighbour’s garden. The soldier with the pistol was now clearly visible, he was the bastard officer that had accused her of looting. God protects his own, she thought, grateful to be free from his clutches. Getting closer, it was obvious that the officer appeared to have committed suicide. There was a blackened hole under his chin, and the top of his head had parted company with the rest. Not wanting to stare at the mess, she glanced at the other soldier, and saw that he too had a blackened hole in his forehead. Both had extensive bite marks on their arms. It seemed that the officer wasn’t going to leave anyone behind. Semper fi, she thought, dryly.

  Taking the whole webbing belt seemed to be the right thing to do; it had ammo clips in its pouches, plus the gun, of course, which was prised from the man’s cold, dead hand. Unclipping the belt at his front, she used the machete to cut the belt loops for easy removal, time being of the essence. Searching both of the men, there was also a sheathed bayonet, which, in addition to the rifle, she collected.

  With an armful of weaponry and ammunition, she carefully made her way back to the house. Once inside, the weapons were dropped in a pile on the dining room table.

  Picking up her mobile phone, she saw a signal was still available. For how much longer, she pondered. Dialling Rob’s number, dismay set in when all that could be picked up was his answering service. Too soon for him to be here, damn it. Leaving a message, she hoped he would receive it when he landed. Fumbling around with the pistol until the ammo clip popped out, she replaced it with a fresh one. Putting on the pistol belt, and holstering the gun, a warm feeling of capability ran through Sandra. No bastard was going to bite her. No fucking way.

  Now to clear up the bodies.

  Chapter 19

  Clearing the Decks

  Rob came back to Daniel’s seat after updating the captain.

  “Apparently there are three ways from the cargo hold to the passenger cabin that we ought to be concerned with.”

  “Let’s get cracking then, mate,” Daniel replied. Janet looked concerned.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her fear always close to the surface.

  “We just need to block off access from the cargo area. We don’t know if anything is down there, so we’re just blocking it off for good measure.”

  “Okay,” she replied, unconvinced. Her hand clutched the stock of the rifle across her lap.

  “Don’t use that on the plane, will you?” Rob asked, pointing to the weapon. “A round from it will go throug
h a body, and then through the fuselage wall.”

  “Really?” she said, letting go of it once more. Janet had never held a gun before, other than one time at a company event where they all had ten shots against clay pigeons. She had been the only woman to have scored a hit that day, making Daniel very proud.

  “I can fix that problem,” he said holding out his hand to take the rifle. She gave it to him.

  “I think I’ll get the diplomat to give us a hand, this time,” Daniel said, “the man is way too comfortable. Have you seen the way he’s bossing the cabin crew around?” He stood up and went over to Joe’s seat as Rob began ejecting the rounds from the rifle.

  Joe was lying back, drink in hand, headphones on, listening to music. Danny tapped him on the shoulder, and the man started in surprise.

  “Hi, Danny. How’s things, buddy?” he smiled a big-toothed grin, “get one of the ladies to make you a drink. They make a wicked Mai Tai.” The man was clearly a few sheets to the wind already.

  “It’s not a good idea to get pissed on this flight, Joe. You need to keep your wits about you.”

  “Listen, I’ve got a bit of a fever, and alcohol’s good for numbing the senses,” he replied, suddenly irritable. Looking more closely, Danny could see Joe did look a bit rough, sweat glistening on his forehead.

  “Ah, Joe, did you get bitten, or get your skin broken in contact with one of those things?” Danny asked, his senses telling him something was awry. Joe had been covered in blood when they’d picked him up by the buses; a bite or scratch wouldn’t have been easy to discern. It only needed to slightly break the skin to lead to infection.

  “Of course, not. I would have told you,” his response indignant.

  “Fair enough,” Daniel replied, raising his hands in surrender. “Would you like to come and help us secure a few access points to the cargo deck? Make sure nothing can get between floors. Will you do that?”

  “Wouldn’t it be too cold for anything to survive down there?” Joe enquired, his brain cogs having to work harder than usual.

  “No, it’s climate controlled. Not as warm as up here, but it is survivable.”

  “I never knew that. Sure, I’ll help. Where are these points?”

  “Rob has been told, I don’t know yet.”

  Rob walked up to them, having finished customising the bullets for Janet’s rifle. “You coming?” he asked of Joe.

  “Of course, I don’t want you two fellas having to do it all by yourselves,” he responded sarcastically.

  “Tell me you’re not pissed. You goddam are, aren’t you?” Rob asked. “Don’t you know what’s all around us? Today of all days, you have to have your wits about you.”

  “He asked me that just now,” Joe replied, aggressively pointing at Daniel. “I’m just dandy. Leave me alone. Lead on chief.” Standing up, almost straight, he started singing the Blue Sky Riders’ song, ‘You’re not the boss of me’, humming most of the words but clearly enunciating the pertinent ones.

  Rob sucked his teeth in dismay. The man was a liability, there was no doubt the diplomat was well on the way to being seriously loaded, but he had been willing to help with their escape from England, so Rob decided to cut him some slack. Survival wasn’t to everyone’s taste, Joe was one of those that would miss the world as it was. “Come on, it’s up near the systems room,” Rob said, finally. Joe followed unsteadily behind Daniel who was moving quickly to catch up to Rob.

  “He’s got a fever.”

  Rob glanced sideways. “What? Has he been bitten?” he whispered, concern in his tone.

  “He said no, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Hmm. Let’s keep an eye on him. As soon as we’ve secured these hatches, we’ll check him out.”

  “Works for me.”

  “I was hoping we could split up and close one each, but I’m not leaving him alone. Not now.”

  They led the way down to the first entry point, Joe following, swaying on his feet. They arrived at the door opposite the systems room, venue of their last encounter with one of them. With his hand on his holstered pistol, Daniel slowly opened it, and peered through. The area was cavernous and well lit. Due to their circumstances at departure, there was very little cargo in the hold. There were a few containers further back, around which he couldn’t see. Hearing whimpering, he looked to the side, alarmed at the noise. In a set of animal cages was a single dog, a greyhound. It was lying on a rag bed, its water bowl dry and its food long gone.

  “There’s a dog in a cage,” Daniel called back.

  “What?” Rob replied.

  “Leave it there, it’s just a dog,” Joe drunkenly opined.

  “Fuck off, Joe,” Danny’s voice came from beyond the opened door. Joe rolled his eyes in sarcastic resignation. Danny stepped out of the hold, a large, black greyhound in tow on its lead. It was sporting a red trackside coat.

  “Oh, he’s beautiful,” Rob said, stroking the animal’s head.

  “I’m not leaving him in there on his own. He’s thirsty and hungry.” Daniel was about to pull the door to when a loud crash erupted behind him. The cages were being thrown across the hold, the metal on metal making a deafening racket.

  “Fuck! What was that?” Daniel exclaimed, knowing he had let his guard down upon seeing the dog.

  “Guess!” Rob replied, drawing his gun.

  The door was wrenched from Daniel’s hand. Next moment a pair of wizened old claws reached out from the hold, and attempted to grab Daniel by the arm. A look of horror on his face, he kicked out sideways, and the sound of a body hitting the steel decking could be heard. Daniel threw the end of the dog’s lead to Rob, and faced the threat, pistol at the ready. He aimed and fired a single round, after which he stepped into the hold and walked over to the body. Rob peered around the door and could see an old lady, long greying hair, dressed for warmer climes, lying there, red spatter behind her and blood pooling around her head like a devil’s halo.

  Daniel turned to face Rob, his face torn with guilt at killing an old woman. Rob raised his pistol towards Daniel, took aim and fired. Daniel flinched, thinking his friend had taken leave of his senses. A weight fell against his back and he cried out in surprise and shock, rolling away from the threat. Realising he wasn’t the target, Daniel turned around and saw a cargo handler, complete with yellow hi-vis jacket. It just lay there, its mouth working in unintelligible speech. A second shot and Rob silenced it forever.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Daniel shouted and ran towards the door. Falling through it, Rob closed it and flipped the latch, locking it from their side. No-one would be coming through now.

  “I told you not to get the dog,” Joe said, sarcasm and ‘told you so’ written all over his face.

  “If you hadn’t helped us with the captain earlier, I’d belt you one right now. May I politely suggest that you SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Daniel said, spittle hitting the diplomat’s face. Even with his Dutch courage, Joe dared not move until Daniel had walked off, dog in tow.

  Stopping at the base of the steps, Daniel took a deep breath and calmed down as much as possible. Bending down, he fumbled with the collar until the name tag could be read. “Oskar, it says. With a K.” He rubbed behind its ears, “hello Oskar with a K”. The dog licked his face in response. “His nose is dry, let’s get him upstairs. Janet and the kids can look after him.” They ascended with their lives and their prize, the dog gamely managing the stairs, its claws clacking as it scrabbled on each metallic step. They were met by a squeal of delight from Penny; she was the first one to see him, and rushed over to greet the large animal, who simply wagged his tail weakly.

  “Wow, he’s beautiful,” Janet said, standing up. She walked over to the small group. She noticed the blood on Daniel’s back, and pulled him aside. “Are you okay? There’s blood on you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, everything’s alright now,” he said hugging her briefly, not wanting to make a scene. “Can you get him a drink? I think he’s thirsty, and probably hung
ry.” Daniel asked. He removed his jacket, not wanting to carry the blood around on his back; he’d clean it or find another.

  “Sure I can. Where did you get him?” Janet asked as she led him to the nearest galley, closely followed by the kids who were nattering with excitement, trying to pat him.

  “He was in the hold. I think with all the crap going on, he’s been rather overlooked. His name is Oskar.” At the sound of his name, the dog looked up at Daniel, who absent-mindedly rubbed his ears. “We’ve got to seal off another two more access points. Be back in a few minutes.” He kissed her cheek.

  He left Janet talking to a stewardess who was clearly also a fan of dogs. Wish I got that much attention, he thought. At least the dog looks happy now.

  They walked to a point mid-way along the aeroplane, descended the spiral staircase to the lower floor and found a square hatch, embedded in the carpet. It was already closed. It was adjacent to the lower mid-galley.

  “This must be it,” Rob muttered, “although I’m not sure how it can be locked from up here.” Peering at the square hatch, there was no keyhole or obvious mechanism by which it could be secured from use.

  “Perhaps we can put one of those food container trolleys over it. They’re probably heavy enough to stop it from being opened.” Following his own suggestion, Rob unclipped one from the nearby galley and wheeled it over. He jammed one side to the wall, leaving two of the wheels on the cover and pressed the wheel locks down. Testing it, it remained firmly in place. “That’ll have to do, I guess.”