The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies (25 page)

     Everything was silent and still for several moments as both of us watched the body for the slightest movement.  There was none. 

     Finally, I said, “I wish I could tell you what is going on, but I’ve got no idea.”

     He looked at me with what looked like complete exhaustion.  “You
’ve gotta have some idea.  You’re a reporter, right?”

     “Yes, I am a reporter.  But this thing is not like anything anyone has ever seen.  As near as I can tell, people get this cold that
’s going around and…”

     “Wait! 
Your trying to tell me some cold makes people go apeshit and bulletproof?”  the detective shook his head slowly.

    
I was suddenly irritated at being mocked. “I’m telling you what I have seen.  If you don’t believe it, give me a better explanation.”

     I looked at Lawrence
, expecting some sort of response.  Instead, he was quiet with his head tilted slightly to the right as if he was thinking about something.

     He spoke slowly
and without emotion, “I just discharged my weapon twice.  We should be surrounded by officers right now.” 

     I joined him in listening.  The silence was unnerving.

     “Now what?” I asked before realizing how ridiculous the question was.

     A tired voice answered, “Well, I can
’t say I’ve ever been in this kind of situation before. I guess the thing to do would be to take a look around the station to see just what…” Lawrence’s eyes settled on the still body of Officer Gleason.  “I’ve known Gleason since he was a rookie just outta the academy.  Good cop.  And I just shot him.”

     “Look, I don
’t want to be an asshole, but we have to get moving,” I said trying to sound as calm as I could.

     For the first time, I took a real close look at Detective Lawrence.  His big bulldog face showed signs of a life that had not always been easy.  The  effects of drinking too much of the hard stuff were clear.  Judging by his need of a haircut and the wrinkled clothes, I guessed that he lived alone.

     “Before we go anywhere I want to know what the hell is going on!”  The detective had clearly found his second wind.  “I just put two bullets into a guy.  One shoulda put him down.  What the fuck is that?”

     “I told you everything I know.  This cold that
’s been going around is something else.  I mean my wife got it, and she…”  My voice trailed off as I felt the wave of sorrow ready to slam down on me again.

     Lawrence recognized my emotion and was clearly uncomfortable.  “Okay, let
’s go find out what’s going on.” He started toward the door and then stopped, “Shit, I might be crazy here, but I guess you oughta be armed.”

     He walked back to his desk, opened the
big desk on the side, and started rummaging through it.  I walked over next to the desk as he lifted a stack of manila file folders and slammed them on the desk top.  The sound made me jump. Fortunately, Lawrence did not appear to notice.  Instead he stooped over to continue hunting through the drawer. 

     Finally, he straightened up and looked at something in his h
and.  It was wrapped in an old, dirty grey washcloth, which Lawrence slipped off.  Beneath was a dark black pistol.  The small gun looked old and not entirely safe.

     “Well, it
’s nothing fancy, but it’ll work,” he said as he handed the gun to me.  “Plus, the serial number’s been filed off.  Not like that’s important right now.” He chuckled at his last statement. 

     As far as I could remember, that was the first time I had ever held a gun other than the old Daisy BB rifle I had as a boy.  It was heavier than I expected.   My discomfort with the gun must have been apparent.

     “Never shot a gun before?” Lawrence asked.

     I considered making up some macho
lie but instead just said, “That obvious, hunh?”

     “Well, it probably won
’t matter. You shouldn’t need to fire it.” Lawrence did not appear to believe his own words.  “Let’s go.”

     I followed slowly behind him.

     We stepped into the hallway and were immediately swallowed up by the silence. Somehow the lack of sound made the air heavier until it felt as though it pressed down on us. I cannot say how Lawrence was feeling, but I felt like every movement took extra effort.  As silly as it may sound, it felt like trying to move while under water.

     The sensation of being underwater was instantly shattered by the sharp ring of a telephone.  The sound shot out of a room near the end
of the hallway. Seemingly on instinct rather than conscious thought, we both headed toward the noise.  As we crept closer to the open door about thirty feet away just to the right of the hallway’s end, the ringing stopped and silence took over once more. 

     I looked at Lawrence next to me.  Maybe it was the tension of the moment or something else, but for some reason every detail suddenly appeared
very clearly to me.  I noticed the beads of perspiration glimmering on the detective’s forehead, the squeak of his shoes on the tile floor, and the absence of his breath. 

     I had not realized until then that we were both holding our breaths.  I must have made some sound
, because Lawrence looked over at me.  I am not sure if his expression was of concern or of confusion.  In any case, I felt a little uncomfortable and looked away.

     Just as we reached the doorway, the ringing started again.  Of course, the ringing of this telephone was no different
than a million other telephones I had heard. Still, somehow in my mind the sound gave off a sense of desperation or panic. Without realizing it, I stopped.  Lawrence brushed by me through the door. 

     The room looked nearly identical to the room with Detective Lawrence
’s desk.  Just like that room, the desks were empty.  Lawrence moved quickly to one of the desks and grabbed the ringing phone. 

     “Detective Lawrence,” he barked into the phone.  He stood there with the handset pressed to his ear.  He said nothing else but stood there with his eyes shifting around.  It was clear that was waiting for a response.  After a moment, he repeated, “Detective Lawrence of the San Francisco Police Department.” 

     “Crank call?”  I asked in a stupid attempt to lighten the tension.

     The detective started to say something to me and then stopped. “Yes, I
’m right here,” Lawrence said into the phone.  He listened for a few seconds before saying, “Okay, honey, I need you to slow down… Now where is your mommy?”  Lawrence paused as he listened.  “No, don’t go outside… No, stay inside.  Can you see your mommy?”  He listened again.  “Honey?  Okay, you need to stop crying.  She is not angry at you… No, it’s not your fault…What’s your name?”  Another pause.  “Christina, that’s a really pretty name…You have to keep the phone up, honey, or I can’t hear you.  So can you tell me your address, Christina?”  He looked around the desktop and grabbed a pen.  “Okay, Christina, tell me the numbers slowly.” He began writing numbers on the palm of his hand.  “Four… One… Two…  Seven. Good girl! Now what street do you live on?” Lawrence’s face got very pale as he waited for a response.  “Honey, I know you’re scared.  It’s okay… It’s gonna be okay.  Christina!”  The big man’s eyes got wide for a second and then he said, “No,  I am not mad at you, honey.  Not mad at all, okay?”  Lawrence smiled as he continued, “I want you to be brave.  Now what street do you live on?”  The smile vanished and was replaced by a look of horror.  “You have to stay quiet.  Please, Christina, be quiet.  Don’t cry.  You’re a big girl, right?”  Detective Lawrence had clearly forgotten everything other than the little girl on the phone.  “I know you’re scared.  Can you tell me what street your house is on?  I got four, one, two, seven.  What is the street’s name?”  The detective’s face tightened as if he was sending his will to the girl on the phone.  “Yes, you can remember it, Christina.  I know that you can.   Keep thinking.  What is the first letter?  Can you think of it?
P
?  Like in
pumpkin
?  Yes, okay…
P
like in
panda
.”  Lawrence’s smile was back.  “Now the second letter? 
Eight
?  Are you sure?  Okay,
eight
like in
hot
.  No, that’s very good, Christina.  Four, one, two, seven,
P, H
--”  All at once, he was yelling into the phone, “Christina, you need to hide right now!  Go hide!  I am coming to get you! Go hide and--”  He jerked the phone away from his ear and slammed it back on the cradle.

     “What?” I asked more loudly than I had intended.

     My question made Lawrence jump as if he had forgotten I was around. He stared blankly at me for a moment before responding.

     “The line went dead,” he said flatly. “That little girl… We gotta send a patrol car to get her.”  He looked around the empty room and then added, “We have to go get her.”

     I watched the way he stared straight ahead and got the distinct feeling that saving this little girl meant something more than just this little girl.  

Be sure to read
Bloom’s Desk
by Jeffrey Littorno, available wherever books are sold.

Chapter 1

     Glen Davis did not believe in ghosts.  But ghosts believed in him.

     However, at this moment, such profound philosophical issues had no place within his mind.  With his eyes clinched tightly closed, Glen was focused upon the banging of the MRI machine.  The dull thuds did nothing but kick off a new round of the tooth-rattling throbs in his forehead. These headaches were part of the reason he had come to the doctor’s office and then to the MRI machine. Next came the loud blaring of what sounded like a truck horn and the machine gun clack-clack-clack seemingly designed to twist his spine.

     At thirty-seven, Glen had enjoyed relatively good health with only the scattered bouts with the cold and flu.  Most of the other teachers at Theodore Roosevelt High School suffered more from the constant stream of ailments students brought into the classrooms.  He had been teaching sophomore and junior English at the high school for six years and had no plans to leave.

     Finally, the slab under him slid out of the machine, and the nurse came back. “Looks like we’re all done.”  She said trying to force cheerfulness into her voice that only sounded like forced cheerfulness. She was a fifty-ish, tall, unattractive woman who brought with her perfume that had a slight vanilla smell. Rather than having a pleasant effect on Glen’s senses, it only made him aware of the room’s other odors.

     There was the usual medical facility tinge of disinfectant and medication.  Alongside those, Glen detected another odor.  This one seemed to be the product of the fear and anxiety caused by the MRI machine.  Whether in his mind or from elsewhere, Glen heard the thoughts of a middle-aged man worrying about a newly-discovered lump in the left side of his throat.  Then there was a little girl struggling to hold back the tears brought on by being forced into the mouth of the scary-looking machine.   Finally, loudest of all, there was an older European-sounding gentleman concerned over the cleanliness and health effects of the MRI machine.

     “No doubt there’s been a fair share of filth and despair shoved into this bit of machinery.” The observation was made in the sort of calm, unemotional voice that one would have used for reporting the time.  The detached comment continued, “Probably not an enormous concern to the masses as they open themselves up to the unknown long-term effects of exposure to this sort of magnetic and radio wave energy.”�

     Glen caught himself about to respond to the voice.

     His thoughts were interrupted by the nurse’s cheerfully-forced announcement as she left the room that he could get dressed.  He stood near his clothes on the straight-back chrome chair in the corner of the room where he had folded them and took off the gown.  As Glen got dressed and then left the office, he took something of an inventory of his condition.  Among a long list of things, the head pains were certainly something that worried him.

     Perhaps the pains were simply the result of having to deal with an especially difficult group of students.  Throughout his half dozen years as a high school teacher, Glen had welcomed the new school year and welcomed the challenges offered by new classes.  He had gone as far as letting Principal Wells know that he enjoyed teaching the remedial English classes.  This certainly put him in good graces with the principal who was used to teachers regularly complaining about having such classes dumped on them.  The Advanced Placement classes for college-bound students were seen as rewards for the favored teachers. Conversely, the remedial and ESL classes were treated as suitable only for the newest teachers or those stuck at the bottom of the career rung due to some indiscretion that caused a flood of disfavor from administration to wash over them.  The fact that Glen requested such classes also made him the object of amused reaction from other teachers.