The Most Uncommon Cold I - Life in the Time of Zombies (22 page)

     Bonnie
’s face was replaced by the janitor’s face. What had once been Vincent the janitor who gave my wife the creeps was now a detestable thing without the sense to know that it was dead.

     “Yer not supposed to be here,” it repeated.                                                                     

     My disgust turned to rage once again. To my mind at the time, the ashen, wrinkled face of the shell looked at me with obvious contempt. It was too much for me to take, and I launched myself at the thing. The handle of the mop snapped and fell to the white tile floor with a loud clap. My arms took on a power beyond me as they repeatedly forced my fists into the face and body of the shell. Even after we tumbled to the cold tile floor of the corridor, my fists continued to pummel the limp thing beneath me. When I stopped minutes later, the shell was still with blood and urine oozing out from beneath and mixing on the tile to make a pinkish fluid.

     I stood slowly while still watching the
thing for any sign of movement. Since the form looked like some life-size inflatable doll that had been deflated with the face almost flattened of recognizable detail, movement seemed highly unlikely. However, just a couple days ago, the notion of people who had died continuing to move around as shells of their former selves also seemed highly unlikely, and yet here they were. In any case, the bloody thing at my feet did not move.

     I kept my eyes on the
shell as I slowly backed away. For whatever the reason, I was unable to accept the fact that I had killed the dead thing. The thought brought a grin to my lips, and I was still grinning like an idiot when I turned to face Principal Thomas. 

    
His head was tilted slightly to the right as if he was confused by what he was seeing. Not that I was sure he was seeing anything. His eyes looked glazed over and unfocused. The head shifted its tilt from one side to the other.  I wondered if the change in angle brought any change in perception.

    
“Is Bonnie here today?” the principal asked.

     I started to answer but then noticed the blood trickling out of his ear, down his neck, and under his shirt collar.
I looked into those dead eyes on the face of the thing that had been Principal Ron Thomas. I wish that I could say that I felt sorry for him.  But that would be a lie, and I was sure that the young principal would not approve of lying.

     To be truthful, I felt a twinge of
satisfaction at the thought that even the good and handsome principal could not escape the fate of so many others who had become shells.

     “Is Bonnie here today?”
the principal-thing asked again of no one in particular. 

     There was a lengthy pause in which nothing moved
, and no sound was heard. I realized I was holding my breath only after it rushed out of me as the shell suddenly started shuffling forward. The head shifted its tilt to the opposite side. The thing, which was once Principal Thomas, halted after a little movement. Its head tilted downward as if the mound of the dead shell in dark green coveralls had just been noticed. Its head suddenly shot up, and its cold eyes met mine.

     His
mouth moved slightly as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words. In the next moment, the principal rushed forward. I was caught off guard by the speed with which he moved and did not react quickly enough to escape his outstretched hands. The force knocked me backward against the wall. A puff of air and spit flew out of my mouth and into the principal’s face as he pushed my shoulders back against the wall.

     His face was close enough to mine that I could smell the coffee on his breath as he once again asked, “Is Bonnie here today?” 

     For some reason, this time his mention of my wife’s name brought a strong reaction from me. The fury I had felt at seeing Bonnie with him at the dunk tank instantly returned. I brought my head forward and struck the principal directly in the nose. Blood began trickling down over his chin and to the floor.  As he took a step backward, I rushed forward to shove him. The mound that had been Larry the janitor tripped the principal.  He fell to the floor, and I was instantly on top of him.

     Once again, my fists were striking in a flurry. But this time it was different. This time my fists were not hitting the nose and cheeks. Instead, I felt pain as my fists hit hard surfaces and pain as my nose and cheeks got hit. I stepped back as I realized that this
shell was actually fighting back.  

     It took a moment for this new
fact to sink in. Up to this point, the shells I had encountered had been fairly passive, acting on something like reflex.

     I gazed at the
principal beneath me on the floor. His hands were drawn up just beneath his chin in fine boxing form. He sneered at me and let out a growl. In the next instant, I felt the thud of his fist on my cheek. Suddenly, I was no longer atop him. I was staring up at a sky-light in the ceiling of the corridor. I felt the cold tile beneath my back. Under my head, I felt something else. It was cold and wet and soft. I reached up near my ear to touch the strings of the mop head. I raised my head as I pulled the mop out from under me.  The mop came out faster than I expected since the handle only extended about a foot from the mop head. It had broken and formed a pointed end. 

     The
principal-thing was standing over me with something like a twisted smile on his face.  It was still standing there when I plunged the broken mop handle into its stomach.  A howl burst out of the thing as the handle continued to move further inside its stomach.  My hands moved with the handle until they were pressed up against the stomach and covered with warm, sticky blood.  Its mouth continued to move, but a little gurgling sound was all that came out.

     I continued to look into the
shell’s cold blue eyes until suddenly realizing that I was not alone in the hallway.  I heard the squeak of shoes on the just-mopped tile floor just behind me.   Everything went dark after that.   

Chapter 18

     When I finally forced my eyes to focus, I saw a white acoustic-tiled ceiling above me.  Whether my eyes fixed on that ceiling for five minutes or five hours, I am not at all sure. All I know for certain is that when I tried to sit up my body refused.  

     The inability to move sent a jolt of
panic through me. With those shells wandering around, paralysis quite literally made me a sitting duck. Reflexively, my mouth curled into a smile at the thought of such an overused expression in such a bizarre situation.  I felt my heart rate slow even as the image of a duck sent my mind off on a whirlwind of cartoon faces from lisping ducks to wise-cracking rabbits to a  chubby, bald hunter. 

     I began giggling and could not stop. 

     On the editorial page of
The Marin Gazette
, the following article appeared:

April 16, 2013

In another shocking example of the violent behavior which has become all too common in today’s world, a man went on a bloody rampage through the city over the last few days.  By the time he was stopped, at least three people were dead, and a number of others seriously injured.  However, this example of mindless violence is different from all of the others. The primary reason for this difference is that the crime was allegedly committed by one of our own. 

According to authorities, Kevin Turner, a reporter at this newspaper, is allegedly responsible for killing several people and may be involved in the deaths of others as well.  Among the dead are his wife, Bonnie, a teacher at Gerald Ford Juni
or High School in San Francisco; Ron Thomas, principal at the school; and Lisa Wu, a waitress at SFO’s The Landing Strip coffee shop.

Turner, 36, had been a reporter for
The Marin Gazette since 2006.  Colleagues found him to be a talented writer and diligent coworker.  Having worked with Kevin Turner during the majority of his employment with this paper, I can attest to his ability and dedication.  While some of us were aware that he had been experiencing marital problems, none of us realized just how deeply these difficulties were affecting him. 

In an interview with doctors, it was
reported that Turner was suffering from a psychotic break from reality.  Psychologist James Bruener at San Francisco Medical Center offered more information on the sort of episode Turner seemed to be having.  Bruener is considered an expert on mental illness of this type as he has conducted numerous interviews with subjects.  Dr. Bruener reports that the alleged killer is “suffering from psychosis and a dissociative state”.

According to Bruener, Kevin Turner is obsessed with the idea that those around him are zombies, dead persons given some semblance of life typically through some mystical means.

Dr. Jacqueline Morgan has researched and written several books dealing with similar delusional states of consciousness psychological disorders.  Dr. Morgan provided insight into the mind of Turner; “The subject appears to be suffering from a condition known as Cotard’s Syndrome.  This condition is marked by the delusion that either the subject or those in proximity have become simply ‘walking corpses’.  This syndrome mainly presents itself in subjects experiencing bipolar disorders along with schizophrenia but has also surfaced in those suffering from migraines, tumors, and trauma.”

In charge of the investigation of Kevin Turner is Lieutenant Detective Greg Lawrence…

     At the moment, Lieutenant Detective Greg Lawrence was sitting at his desk in his office on the second floor of the Hall of Justice building and rubbing his nearly bald head. Spread out on the
desk’s blotter in front of him was a collection of photographs and a street map.  He continued to stare at the seemingly random arrangement. 

     Lawrence had been a
lieutenant detective with the SFPD for over twenty years.  He couldn’t recall precisely how many other detectives had joined him in the office only to be promoted over him in that time.  The fact of the matter was he did not care. The truth was that the position suited him perfectly. His temperament and even his appearance were not entirely unlike a bulldog. This tendency to sink his teeth into something and not let it go had ruined two marriages and had sunk the possibility for any promotion.

     The
detective’s concentration on his desktop was interrupted by a stocky, red-headed officer sticking his head in the office door. “Lawrence, we got another ID on your guy,” he announced as he tossed a large manila envelope onto the desk.  

     “Dammit, Collins!” Greg Lawrence bellowed with more irritation than he actually felt.  In truth, he was feeling
frustration at the apparent randomness of the violent acts. Out of stubbornness, the detective ignored the new information for a few moments and went back to staring at the map on his desk. Then as if he could resist it no longer, he ripped open the envelope and dumped its contents next to the arrangement of photos and tossed the envelope to the side.

     There was a crime
scene report and several photos.   He glanced at the top of the report to see the location of the crime was Faith Lighthouse Church.  Lawrence spread out the photos one next to the other on the desktop.   The first one showed the front of a shabby-looking building with “Faith Lighthouse Church” stenciled in large blue letters across the large front window. In the corner of one of the windows was a blue and yellow neon light with the message, “Jesus Saves”.  The remaining trio of photos showed a mangled body covered in what appeared to be the black suit of a priest.

     Detective Lawrence looked closely at the photos to
see the precise injuries inflicted on the body.  Uncharacteristically, he found himself shaking his head at the savagery on display.  He could not accept the idea that this sort of viciousness was a reaction to a suspected affair. 

     After a moment, he pushed
back from the desk, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling. Somehow the easily-recognized pattern of holes in the acoustic tile always calmed the detective’s mind. This time the calming influence did not come as quickly as usual.  Finally, he stood up to walk around the office which held three other desks.  The usual occupants of those desks had gone home hours before.

     Lawrence strolled aimlessly around the office trying to
clear his head.  Before he reached that objective, the detective was standing back at his desk looking at the photos. There was nothing new to be found.  Then for some reason a lump in the newly-arrived envelope caught the detective’s attention. He slowly lifted the envelope from his desk.  Inside the larger one, he discovered a smaller white DVD envelope with 1535 written on it that he had previously missed. 

     Turning quickly, Greg Lawrence marched out of the office with the DVD and down the hall.  The place was
absolutely silent and still, which was not a surprise since it was after ten o’clock at night.  At the end of the hallway, he turned and went through an open door. 

     Inside, Lawrence went to
middle of the three large televisions on black metal carts against the back wall. He pushed the power button and slid the disc into the DVD player built into the front of the TV.  As the picture of the airport terminal flashed onto the screen, he grabbed the remote control and took a seat on one of the folding chairs in the middle of the room.