The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies (4 page)

     Inside the hangar, about a hundred empty cots were lined up in neat rows on either side of the building.  A
path went straight down the middle, and this is where Wilbur directed me. Despite the lack of bodies in the beds, soldiers with automatic rifles were stationed at the back of each column of cots.  

     “Quite the security force you have here,” I said to no one in particular, and no one is who answered.

     At the back of the hangar in the right corner, partitions like those used to separate beds in a hospital room had been arranged to form a makeshift headquarters. A short stocky sentry standing in front of one of the sides of the temporary office came to attention as we approached. 

    
“I’m supposed to bring this guy to the colonel,” Wilbur said sounding much more assertive than he had just minutes earlier.

     Without saying anything or showing any emotion, the
sentry pulled back one of the partitions to allow us to pass through. Once inside the improvised command center, I saw the short, bald officer seated behind a battered brown metal desk with a number of walkie-talkies, telephones, maps and weapons laid out before him.  The mirrored sunglasses were now perched atop his shiny bald head.  He was deep in a telephone conversation and did not seem to notice us enter.

     I glanced around the area and had trouble stifling a laugh.  The memory of the
blanket “forts” my brother and I made out of our bunk beds when we were kids flashed before me. 

     Wilbur motioned for me to
approach the desk.  We stood there waiting for the officer’s conversation to end.  It was quite apparent that the person on the other end of that call was not pleased.  Officer Baldy was doing his best to appease the person.  Abruptly, he put the phone down as if the call had been ended unexpectedly.

    
“Corporal Wilbur,” Officer
Baldy
spoke to the soldier as if I was not in the room.  “What have we got here?”

     “Sir, his
wound is not serious.  I applied a dressing to Mister...”

     “Turner,” I offered.  “My name is Kevin Turner.  As I said, I am a reporter for
The Marin Gazette
.” 

     I noticed “Col. Granger, J”
stamped on the officer’s uniform, but if Colonel Granger had heard my answer he did not show it.  Instead, he simply continued to look at my wallet and ID on top of his desk and asked, “What are you doing at the airport today, Turner?” 

     “I had an interview with a customs agent concerning the violent incident that occurred yesterday afternoon.”

     I suddenly had the officer’s complete attention. He considered my words for a moment and then obviously irritated asked, “So what did you learn in your interview?”

     “Well, not much since...” I caught myself and stopped speaking. One thing that I learned in my short time as a
reporter is that it is usually better not to reveal any more than necessary. Better to keep some cards close the vest. .  “I know that it was more than just a few drunken passengers getting off a long flight as is the official story coming out from the administration.” Colonel Granger was nodding slightly as he listened to me. 

     Wilbur stepped forward and handed the colonel my wallet.

     “So, Mr. Turner of
The Marin Gazette
, who did you do this interview with?” He asked slowly as he lifted my wallet to look inside. 

     I smiled and said, “You know that I can not reveal my sources.” 

     “Yeah, I figured you’d come out with some bullshit like that,” Granger in a voice that suddenly sounded terribly tired.  “How about if we just cut through this crap?  Where did you go in the airport?  None of the soldiers saw you inside the terminals.”   He pulled my driver’s license from the wallet and seemed to be studying it intently.

    
“I was in one of the coffee shops, and then I was upstairs speaking to Steve Travers, the head of airport security.  After that, I was back at the coffee shop, and then I was wandering around the place until I came out here to meet you nice folks. I guess your soldiers couldn’t keep up with me.”  I smiled endearingly at the colonel, but he did not return the expression.

     “Turner, you might think this is a
colossal joke, but I assure you that it is not.  In fact, under the circumstances, I am fully authorized to take whatever action is necessary to contain this situation,” the officer looked and sounded thoroughly exhausted and seemed to struggle with the effort of speaking.  “There wouldn’t be a whole lot of questions if I felt one smart-ass reporter presented a problem and had to get rid of that problem.” 

    
His message was abundantly clear.  Clearly, I had pushed the wrong buttons, and I was intelligent enough to realize that.  I was silent for a few moments because I wanted to show Granger that his threat had not been missed.  Finally, I said, “Colonel Granger, I am not here to cause any problems for you. I am simply trying to do my job by getting the story of what happened and giving that story to the public.”  It must have been evident how many times I had repeated these same words in similar situations. 

    
Granger’s expression offered no clue to his thoughts as he said, “Well, I can appreciate the fact that we both have jobs to do here.  However, I’m not gonna lie to you.  My job trumps yours.” 

     “I can see that,” I answered agreeably.  “So I guess the thing to do is just get out of your hair.” 

     Colonel Granger looked carefully at me for a moment.  The blank expression he wore gave me no clue as to what he was thinking.  All at once, he flashed a grin.  “You’re right!  I have a lot of things to do.  The best thing would be for you just to take off.”  He surprised me by laughing.  I was also surprised by the complete lack of genuine humor in the sound.  “Let me just give you your ID and wallet back.”  He made a show of looking at the license as he handed it to me.  “So how are things at 445 Almond Drive, Mister Turner?”  Before I had a chance to answer, he asked “Are you married?  Kids?”  He looked at me with cold, steely eyes that left no doubt as to the intent of his questions about my personal life.

     “Yes, I am married
but no kids,” I answered hesitantly as I took my license from him. 

     “And how long have you been a reporter at...
uh...the newspaper?” 

    I suddenly felt uncomfortable with the questions but answered, “I have been at
The Marin Gazette
for about six years.  Before that, I was a high school teacher.”  I am not sure why I added the part about having been a high school teacher, but it felt as though it might be beneficial to be seen as more than just another pain-in-the-ass reporter.

     “Well, that
’s great,” Granger continued without any genuine emotion.  “I suppose that during your time at the Gazette you have had some experience with stories that were held back from print.”

    I nodded slowly thinking about a
bit I had written on a county official giving special consideration to a certain construction company which had made a large contribution to his re-election campaign.  On the morning it was set to run, Carole had informed him that the piece was being shelved due to a threat of retaliation.

     My thoughts came back to the airport
to find Granger looking at me closely, “So I am going to assume that you realize that sometimes releasing news must take a backseat to the public welfare and preventing possible panic.”  The colonel was speaking with the tone of someone who was used to having his words followed without question.

     Uncharacteristically, I bit my tongue and did the
intelligent thing.  “Colonel, I apologize for having wasted your time.  The person that I was supposed to interview didn’t show up, and I didn’t see anything that would merit space in the paper.” 

     The colonel nodded and smiled as if very tired.  “Well then, I suppose there is no reason not to send you on your way.”  He looked at me as if making a final
evaluation before continuing, “However, we will be monitoring your newspaper for any hint of this incident.”  His chuckle did not have a pleasant sound. 

     “You don
’t have to worry about that, Colonel.  I don’t know enough to imply or hint at anything,” I assured him and turned toward sentry at the front partition. 

     At my movement, the soldier started to approach me as he looked toward Granger for
indication of what he should do. The colonel nodded and said, “Corporal Wilbur, escort Mr. Turner to his car.”

Chapter 3

     Once I got out of the airport, I began to
doubt the events of the morning. With a little time and distance, they began to take on the unreal quality of a movie seen in the distant past.  I suppose as a reporter I should have had a better grip on reality, but there you go. Considering some of the things that I had seen that morning, it was certainly reasonable to have a little doubt.  After all, having a half-eaten torso crawl after them is not something that most people experience in their lives. On top of that, I had received a not-so-subtle threat from the colonel.

     As I drove back across a nearly-empty Golden Gate Bridge, I considered what to do next. Nothing I had seen could be used in a story without someone to
support the facts. That brought Jerry Clark to mind.  Tracking him down and paying a visit to his house to conduct the interview might be worth the time.

     I pulled into a rest area near the bridge just off Highway 101.  A few tourist
buses were parked at the back of the vast parking lot while their passengers were making the obligatory tourist pilgrimage across the bridge. I had a wide choice of spots and took one near the restroom. 

     I checked my phone but saw no new messages. 
I considered calling Carole at the Gazette again but decided against it.  Instead, I grabbed my laptop from the backseat.  I took it out its bag and set it on the passenger seat. The wireless Internet connection came up after a moment, and I entered “Jerry Clark” into the people search website.   Seconds later, a collection of 14 Jerry Clarks appeared. Fortunately, only one of these lived in Northern California. This Jerry Clark lived in San Rafael at 4127 Pickwick Drive.  I typed the address into the GPS navigator on top of the dashboard and was off to San Rafael. 

     The trip up Highway 101 was pretty uneventful
aside from the unusually sparse traffic. I realize that I keep going on about the lack of cars on the road, but there were fewer cars out than I had ever seen at any time day or night. Anyway, the normally forty-five-minute-to-an-hour trip only took about twenty minutes.

     Pickwick Drive was a
pleasant, quiet tree-lined street, and I was lucky enough to find a parking space not too far from an older two-story house with “4127” painted in black script on the curb.

     Like just about every place else I had been that day, the neighborhood seemed deserted.  No one was outside mowing the lawn or heading off to run errands.   I got out of the car and leaned against the passenger door for a minute looking at the house and neighborhood. It was
quite a peaceful street with nice-looking houses.  I actually felt a twinge of jealousy at those being able to live in such a pleasant place. Bonnie and I could forget our problems and start enjoying life again in a place like this.  I caught myself before Bonnie took my full attention away from the task at hand.

     I walked over and stood next to the mailbox in front of 4127. The mailbox was one of those customized wooden things which are a miniature version of the house.  I couldn
’t help but smile. A well-groomed yard surrounded the ornate white-with-dark-green-trim house.  I walked up the few steps to the porch and rang the bell.  The ornate front door had squares of thick glass in columns down each side.  While I could not see through the glass, there seemed to be a shadow of someone passing on the other side.  I rang the doorbell a few more times, but no one answered.  I walked slowly back to the car and considered what to try next.

     As I walked back to the car, I noticed a
mail truck double-parked at the end of the block about a hundred yards away.  I stood on the sidewalk watching.  Something about seeing mail being delivered gave me some comfort. Apparently, neither wind, nor rain, nor dark of night, nor weird,  cannibalistic attacks will deter the mailman from his appointed rounds.

     My sexist preconceptions were
clearly showing as I was surprised to see an attractive, muscular young woman with short black hair emerge from the truck. She had a large mail sack hooked over her shoulder as she marched up to the first house.  I am not sure what it was about the mailwoman that interested me, but I continued to watch from the side of my car.  As she delivered to the first few houses and got closer to where I stood, the sound of her coughing and sniffling reached me.

     As the mailwoman came closer, I said, “Well, it sure sounds like you got a nasty cold like everyone else.”

     “You got that right,” she smiled at me and then wiped her nose with the back of her hand before reaching in her bag to get another bundle of mail.

     “Take care of
yourself,” I said even as she was already passed me and approaching the next house.