The Common Cold (Book 1): A Zombie Chronicle Page 3

  “Marilyn,” Daniel said, in a gentle voice so as not to spook her. “Are you okay?” Stupid bloody question, he thought to himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and for his pains, she began to focus on him, edging her way forward, arms slack and by her side. He stepped toward her, his natural concern for a work colleague overtaking common sense.

  “I wouldn’t,” Rob said, bracing himself to defend Danny if the worst happened.

  “It’s okay. It’s only Marilyn.” She picked that moment to launch herself at him, teeth bared. The approach was clumsy, and Daniel easily sidestepped her attack. Expecting to land on him, she fell to the ground as the air in front of her emptied. She growled in frustration. Daniel bent down to help her up once more.

  “Get back, Danny!” Rob shouted, “can’t you see she’s fuckin’ nuts? That isn’t Marilyn, she’s like a zombie.”

  As if to support his conjecture, Marilyn, or the thing that was once her, stood up quickly and turned on Rob. As she ran at him, he brought the fire extinguisher up and caught her in the chest. The lads both heard her rib cage crunch, and she staggered backwards under the power of the blow.

  “Jesus! You must have crushed her chest,” said Daniel, stating the bloody obvious. He was getting good at that.

  She looked down at the damage, fingering a rib that was now protruding through her top, gobbets of lung hanging off it. Looking back at Rob, her face contorted with rage and she lunged once more at him. Thwack! Daniel’s fire extinguisher connected with the side of her head. In what seemed like slow motion, they looked on as her head imploded under this new force, before finally bursting outwards as if under pressure. Blood and brain matter went everywhere, most of it seeming to splash back and cover Daniel. Marilyn fell and was finally still.

  “What the hell? She just stood there, ribs sticking out and everything. How could someone still be standing like that?” Daniel asked no-one in particular. Today was getting weirder, he thought. And that was no easy feat. And it was still only just before nine in the morning.

  “Dunno. Your headshot seemed to do the trick, though. Keep that in mind, and let’s get out of here before someone comes and sees what we’ve done.” Both of them were instinctively worried that they had done something to break the law. Weren’t politicians always going on about using minimum force, or something? Would killing, if that’s what it was, count as minimum force, today?

  “I don’t need telling twice,” Daniel agreed. “Let’s use the stairs, there’s some bloke in the lift, and he doesn’t seem to want to get out.”

  Daniel grabbed some tissues off the reception counter and wiped his face and the fire extinguisher, removing the worst of the muck. It didn’t help much, the feeling of being unclean remained with him. He didn’t feel sad at ending Marilyn’s life, somehow doubting he had actually been the death of her. If he had, then she had died twice.

  Chapter 3

  Who Knew Libraries Were Such a Health Hazard?

  Janet was concerned by Daniel’s call. She had heard very little of it; the line was particularly bad, but there seemed to be a nervous edge to his voice. Perhaps he was stressed by the move to the new office, and all it entailed. Sometimes Bill Watts, the managing director and owner of the company, could be a little demanding; on a day like this, their first day in their new premises, she was sure the man would be a real pain in the arse. Having met him on a couple of occasions, she hadn’t been impressed by his human interface, as he called it. Tosser.

  In spite of herself, and much to her surprise, she had enjoyed the brains Danny cooked for her this morning. The bacon helped, she thought. Strange meal for breakfast though, and as for that daft thing he had picked up from his beloved zombie films, ‘braaaaiinnzzz’, or whatever it was, he was a grown man and she would be happy if, one day, he behaved more like one. Anyway, zombies weren’t anything more than a fictional invention. She’d read articles trying to justify their existence, but it was all claptrap in her opinion.

  She finished the pot of coffee Daniel had made before he’d left for work. Doing the dishes, she stared vacantly at the steamed-over window in front of her, her actions automatic. Janet hated housework, especially the washing-up, which was mostly Daniel’s job; he was pretty well house trained. Looking up, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. God, there was a zombie staring back at her, with the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes, and her unhealthy pallor; perhaps they did exist after all, maybe they were just ordinary, everyday people struggling to cope. Wiping her hands, she went upstairs to try and make herself look more presentable, although who would notice, she didn’t know.

  Finishing up in the house, she picked up her rucksack and set off to Eltham. It was after nine a.m.; most of the commuters would be gone, so it was unlikely she would see more than the odd person walking in her direction. She liked the empty streets. The traffic would also be lighter, so there would be less toxic fumes to breathe in; Janet had never been convinced of the benefits of exercise, especially in the London air. All those main roads, with queuing traffic, just sitting there, burning petrol. Most people could probably walk to their destinations anyway, especially mums and their little darlings, who seemed to require to be driven absolutely everywhere these days. What was it she’d heard recently? A report that said some 95% of primary school kids couldn’t throw, or catch a ball, by the time they reached secondary school, aged eleven. As a species, what sort of a population were we sleepwalking towards?

  Crossing the main road and heading up Court Road towards Eltham, she noticed a couple, attired for the City, walking towards her. There was something decidedly strange in their gait, slouched, head-down, and arms slack by their sides. Their movements were completely uncoordinated, awkward even, and there was something about their faces that didn’t look quite right as well. Too pale, sick looking; they looked drawn, emotionally hollow. Could they be drug addicts? The clothes were at odds with this assumption, but who could tell these days?

  Head down, Janet walked briskly past the couple, trying not to look at them or catch their attention. She glanced in the plate glass window of the dry cleaners, hoping to see someone familiar, maybe the proprietor, Miriam, to bolster her confidence. Miriam was indeed standing there, but her face was vacant, and she, too, looked very pale. Janet waved, smiling. Strange, although Miriam turned slightly towards her, she didn’t seem to notice Janet at all, just continued to stand there, staring out of the window.

  Feeling unnerved and vulnerable, Janet quickened her pace, and arrived at the library after her best time yet, of twenty minutes, door to door. Instead of using the main road as planned, she had taken all the less familiar back routes, avoiding the high street. People looked really odd this morning, and alarm bells were beginning to sound in her head. She would have turned around and gone home, but by the time that option was considered, she was closer to her destination than to home, and really wanted, no, needed, to get inside.

  She burst through the outer doors of the library, and collapsed against a wall, grateful to be inside. Her chest hurt, and her throat was raspy, the effects of the cold unforgiving of her unaccustomed extra effort. Slowly reviving, she walked through the inner doors and into the library proper. Walking briskly over to the reception counter, Janet looked around for a member of staff, even peering into the staff area, hoping to find someone normal. The place seemed empty. In irritation she rang the little bell on the counter, and stumbled backwards in fright as a figure suddenly loomed up in front of her. He’d been crouching down, behind reception.

  “Bloody hell, Paul. You nearly gave me a heart attack!” she admonished.

  “Sorry about that. Oh, it’s you Janet. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve been pretty busy this morning, as almost no-one has decided to turn up for work. As you can see I’m on my own in here.”

  “Maybe they’ve got the same crappy virus I’ve got,” she replied.

  “Or they enjoyed themselves too much in the last few days, more likely.” />
  Paul was blushing slightly, reminding Janet of his crush on her. Recognising this fact early on, Janet had shamelessly used him on several occasions to get access to material that was not readily available to the public. Hence the purpose of this visit. He had always gone out of his way to accommodate her wishes, and today was no exception.

  “So how was your Christmas break, then?” Janet asked, trying to lift his mood a little.

  “Not bad, as much as I hate going to my Mum’s, that is. It’s so boring, and anyway I don’t think she wants me there these days. Hey, I heard something really interesting on the radio last night. It happened a couple of weeks ago now, but apparently NASA, along with some private funding group or other, has captured a meteorite from space, and brought it back to Earth!”

  “Sorry, Paul. What’s so interesting about that? They brought back moon rock in the seventies, and meteorites fall on us all the time.”

  “The interesting thing is that because of the way they brought it back, it didn’t get burnt and sterilized as it entered the atmosphere. They’re hoping to be able to find living tissue on it, and possibly some strange new elements.”

  “God, the money they spent on that could probably pay off world debt. And what have we got to show for it? Space snot and a bit of metal. If you want snot, I’ve got plenty, and I won’t even charge as much as they’ve spent.”

  “Ha, ha, Janet. Well, I think it’s pretty interesting, anyway.”

  “They’re probably responsible for the cold I’ve got right now. Bloody scientists.”

  “Your cold really has killed your sense of interest in things.” Paul looked hurt and Janet realised she had overstepped the mark.

  “I’m sorry, Paul. Perhaps on another day I might find it a bit more interesting, but today I’m tired, I’ve got a headache that won’t quit, and I’ve blown my nose a thousand times since I left the house half an hour ago. Please forgive me.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand. Anyway, the good news is that I’ve got your books for you, and I’ve set them up in one of the reading rooms. As no-one’s around I don’t even have to sneak you in there.”

  They set off to the room, passing the children’s play area, where a group of toddlers had congregated with accompanying parents, all women.

  Janet looked at them, they were unusually quiet for a group of kids, she thought. Normally they had her wincing and wishing for the days when silence was what libraries were about. The mothers were sitting in a circle, facing inwards, their expressions hard to discern. The children sat within their protective circle. To Janet’s horror, some of the kids seemed to be playing with small body parts, sucking or chewing on them. Peering more closely, she decided they were plastic legs and arms from toy dolls, and began absent-mindedly looking around for the accompanying plastic torsos.

  One of the children seemed to have red around its mouth, probably sucked on a crayon, she surmised. Lost in this thought, Paul quietly called to her, and they stepped into the reading room.

  “I’ve set the books up over there,” he said, pointing to a large desk on which many thick tomes lay, waiting just for her. She grinned at the thought.

  “Thanks Paul, you’re a treasure, doing this for me.” Sometimes she felt a right heel for using him the way she did, but she just couldn’t help it. Paul went back to his work.

  The so-called Domesday Book, commissioned in 1085 by William the Conqueror, was commissioned to determine the land and resources in England at the time, in order for the Crown to assess the extent of taxes it could raise. The absolute and irreversible nature of the data collected led people to compare it to Judgement Day. Although there were more appropriate references to the end of time, in works such as the Bible, the relevance of the Domesday Book to how she felt today, with all its associated weirdness, was strong.

  Janet, with her cynicism regarding the existence of the dead arisen, couldn’t help but remember the beautifully spoken lines in Romero’s film, Dawn of the Dead, ‘when there is no more room in hell, the dead shall walk the earth’. Daniel had played the DVD so many times over the years that these days she was almost word perfect line for line as the movie played out. A sign of a misspent youth, no doubt. Smiling to herself at her husband’s whimsical enthusiasm for that stuff, she wondered what he was doing right now, probably getting bored to death by yet another interminable meeting with Bill, no doubt.

  Sitting down and getting comfortable, Janet began her research. Having waited nearly two months for this opportunity, she wasn’t going to let a stupid virus get the better of her. In fact, with a bit of positive thinking, her head was already starting to clear a little, and focusing on this work would marginalise any further ill feeling. Deep in thought, Paul surprised her by appearing by her side.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  Before she had the chance to reply, they were both startled by a scream, abruptly cut off, coming from what sounded like the main hall. Jumping to her feet in panic, she rushed to the door, Paul right behind her.

  Peering carefully through the glass window, they saw a man, dressed in a long grey tweed coat, clutching something to his chest. Janet thought she saw legs flailing for a moment.

  “I think he’s got a child,” she said, as they watched his erratic behaviour. He had his back to them, and seemed to be talking to whatever it was he was holding. As he turned around, they could see he wasn’t talking at all. He looked up, revealing the true horror of what he was holding. Gasping out loud, Janet ducked down, out of sight, dragging Paul with her. Unable to believe the evidence in front of her own eyes, she was starting to hyperventilate. Controlling her breathing, she forced herself to look again.

  “What the fuck?” Paul uttered. That was the first time Janet had ever heard Paul swear.

  They were mesmerised by the apparition before them, like rabbits caught in headlights. In the man’s arms was a child, a boy, or at least the remains of one. He appeared to have been gnawing at the lad’s throat, arteries and cartilaginous tubing of the trachea hanging from his mouth, caught in mid-chew. Janet felt the blood drain from her face; stomach churning with acid, the remains of her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. Weak and close to collapse, Janet fell against the doorjamb in horror.

  Distracted from his feast by the noise, the stranger dropped the damaged body, and began to walk awkwardly towards them. She looked down at his feet and saw, to her amazement, that the right one was at an odd angle; he was standing on his exposed tibia, his foot dragging behind, leaving semi-clotted blood in his wake. Suddenly the boy twitched and groaned, the last vestiges of his life ebbing away, attracting the man’s cannibalistic attention once more.

  Janet let herself slide to the floor, her legs too weak to support her any longer. Her vision went grey for a moment, before colour returned again. Calming her breathing, she realised she was in danger of passing out. Paul had settled down next to her, clearly not feeling any better. What the hell were they going to do? With that monster out there, eating that poor child, they were trapped in here. Crawling across the floor to her rucksack, she delved into it, looking for her phone. She dialled 999. It was engaged. What? That wasn’t possible, surely, she told herself, and tried again, only to be met with the same insistent tone. Giving up and dialling Daniel’s number, it went to voicemail. She wanted to scream in frustration, but didn’t. The sod was probably in a meeting, lucky bugger, she thought.

  Chapter 4

  So, How Do We Get Out of Here?

  Daniel and Rob left their company’s reception area, not bothering to lock up. If anyone wanted to step over Marilyn’s gruesome remains, who were they to object? An intruder would probably break the glass doors anyway. Trepidation at leaving their relatively safe haven made them take their time, cautious as they walked into the unknown, down the stairs. They looked like office worker Knights of New, armed with a desk leg each, their fire extinguishers held out front like a shield. In their pockets was a box cutting knife each, for close quarter pr
otection, although they knew that, with no personal experience of violence in their lives, they’d be screwed if danger got that close. Slowly they descended, checking around each corner as they came to it. After three flights, they began to relax a little.

  It was the wrong thing to do; stopping at a corner, about to check the next flight of steps was clear, they heard footsteps. Slow, trudging, tired of the world footfalls, accompanied by a rasping breathlessness. Someone was coming up, towards them.

  “What do you want to do?” Rob asked, hesitating.

  “It’s only one person, there’s two of us. Let’s keep going. We need to get past whoever it is.” Daniel replied, any bravado in his voice coming from the desire to get all this over and done with, and get home.

  They continued descending, slowly, line abreast to present a united front, desk legs drawn.

  “It’s around the next corner,” Daniel said in a low whisper. Whoever it was halted, it had heard them talking. The lads held their breath, making no sound. Eventually the footsteps started up once more. They could now see the top of the person’s head over the banisters. It was male, balding on top, sporting a grey suit.

  “It’s Bill,” Rob whispered, “I’d know that bald pate anywhere.” He heaved a sigh of relief at this knowledge, and began walking more normally downwards.

  “My turn to tell you to be careful,” Daniel hissed after him.

  “Don’t worry,” Rob said. And stopped, frozen to the spot. Bill had just rounded the corner and was looking upwards, towards the direction of the talking. It was Bill’s cadaver alright. Bill just wasn’t in it. The eyes, although milky and opaque, had a malevolence they had never seen the likes of before. His face was the expected grey, mouth bloody, from which the rasping noise came, its frequency changing perceptibly when it caught sight of them. It was the man’s right arm that had their complete attention. Both jacket and shirt sleeves had been torn off it in a struggle, the violence of which was attested to by the ragged remains of the material. The jacket was askew, it hadn’t been adjusted since the struggle, so very not Bill. He was normally a neat, bordering on dapper man; whatever this was, standing in his suit, just couldn’t carry off the well-dressed man about town image. The fact that half of the flesh on his arm and hand was missing didn’t help. The exposed bone was a smeared creamy red; some of the sinews remained, allowing a small amount of movement of a couple of the fingers, to be precise, the two main digits. His flensed arm came up, appearing to point at Rob, a bony finger extended.