The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) (5 page)

I’ve
been in the staff room since 6:45 a.m., and the only person I’ve seen so far is
Darren, coming off a nightshift—looking extremely tired and pissed off. I gave
him a polite smile, and in fairness he did return one, but it definitely looked
strained. No sign of Andrew though. Roger let me in earlier. He gave me an ID
badge, told me to wear it on my chest with pride, and for me
not
to lose
it. I look a little shell-shocked in the photo—but who the hell cares?

I’m a Cleaner!

It’s almost eight by the
time Andrew walks through the door, wearing just his grey joggers and a
T-shirt, and carrying a metal briefcase. “Hi, Cath,” he says, seeming all
flustered and rushed, like someone just dragged him out of bed. “Sorry I’m
late. We got a late call last night. False alarm though. Just some crazy tramp
fucked up on God-knows-what, trying to bite chunks off another lowlife.”

“Really? Another one. I
guess you get a lot then.”

“Yeah. At least four or
five a week. It’s the police and nurses, see. They don’t like to chance
anything. Once they spot someone suspected of being infected, they report them.
They’ve got to. It’s too much of a risk to the public to take chances. That’s
why we’ve managed to stop Necro-Morbus becoming an epidemic. It hasn’t been
easy, though, I can tell you.”

“I bet.”

Andrew starts to pour
himself a coffee from the jug by the projector screen. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” I reply,
shaking my head. “Still got one.”

He sits on one of the
chairs, just in front of me, takes a long sip of his coffee and then sets it
down on the table.

“Any near-misses?” I ask.

“What do you mean? Like
bites?
Hell yeah
.”

“No, I mean near-misses
with, you know, the virus spreading into one of the cities. I haven’t heard of
any, but I know what the government is like. They only tell you half the
story.”

“We’ve had a few. There
was the stadium incident a few years back. But that was all over the news.”

“Oh yeah. I think I
remember reading about that.”

“
Yep
, that was a
close one. But other than that, we’ve been doing a pretty good job keeping it
back.” He takes a gulp of coffee and then lifts up the briefcase and places it
on the table.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Antiviral,” he replies,
unclipping the catches at the front, and then opening up the case, revealing a
blue injection gun and six glass bottles of clear liquid, each roughly the size
of a shot-glass. “These have been around for about six years. You seen one
before?”

I shake my head. “Only on
TV. No one I know has ever had to have one.”

“Count yourself lucky,
then.”

“Do they actually work? I
read somewhere that unless you take a shot within a few seconds of infection,
they’re pretty much useless. Is that true?”

Andrew shrugs. “Maybe.
Depends.”

“On what?”

“On the host. For some,
they can work for a while after getting bitten, and some, well, they don’t even
work within seconds of infection. Everyone’s different, Cath. It’s the same
with Necs. Some walk, some stumble, some sprint, and some don’t even wake. It’s
hit or miss. All depends on the person.”

“Couldn’t we just take a
huge dose before we go into a hot zone, you know, as a precaution?”

“No, that would be a total
waste. And they’re bloody expensive. They’re only effective after Necro-Morbus
is in the bloodstream.”

“Oh, right. So are these
antivirals for the people we help, or are they for us?”

“Both, I suppose. For you,
mainly. You have to think of the bigger picture. You’re no good to anyone as a
Nec, so you have to stay healthy, stay clean. Otherwise, all those people, all
those helpless children, old folks, relying on your skills to get them out, to
clear the streets of Necs, are all screwed. And that’s the hard truth, Cath.
It’s just us between them and the dead. And we can never fail—no matter how
little staff we have, how underfunded we are. We still have to fight. Do you
understand?”

“Yes. Totally. So how many
of those shots can we carry?”

“You’ll always have one
injection gun strapped to your vest and one antiviral bottle, sealed in a
protective case. We always keep spares in the back of the van. Just in case.
You can inject one of these into almost any muscle. Doesn’t have to be near the
bite. They’re pretty straightforward to use.” He slurps the last of his coffee,
gets up and pours himself another. He then turns to me, leaning up against the
table. “Okay, Cath,” he digs into his pocket and pulls out a handful of long plastic
strips, about twelve inches in length, and a black muzzle. Not the kind you’d
strap onto a dangerous dog, more like the ones you’d find in some nasty sex
dungeon—but without the
Pulp Fiction
snooker ball to bite down on. It’s
just a thick piece of leather-looking fabric, which wraps around the mouth and
chin.

I see an image of those
decomposing
Necs
from yesterday, coming at me; their mouths covered with the same
muzzle.

Gross.

He holds up the plastic
strips. “I take it you’ve seen these before.”

“Yeah. They look like
cable ties.”

“Gold star. You’re right;
they are cable ties. No different from those used at home. They’re very strong
and they go around the wrist and ankle of a sedated Nec. Make sure you pull
them as tight as you can, until the plastic
really
digs into the skin.”

A vision of rotten flesh
painfully shifting off wrist-bone fills my mind. Like tearing fried chicken
apart with oily fingers.

“Do you think they feel
it?” I ask.

Andrew smirks. “What—pain?
Of course they don’t.”

“How would anyone know
that for sure?”

“Because they’re
dead—that’s why. They don’t feel anything. How could they? They don’t breathe,
blood doesn’t pump around their bodies, and they don’t feel or care about
anything. They’re just walking, biting, viruses. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Never forget that or this job will seriously fuck up that head of yours. Trust
me. I know. I’ve been there.”

“No, I know that. It’s
just—”

“It’s just that every so
often you read some bullshit in the newspaper about Necs not actually being
dead. Am I right?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“Please tell me you don’t
believe that, Cath. If you feel that way, I suggest you call it a day right
now—
before
you walk into a houseful of Necs feeding on a bunch of kids.”

“No, it’s not what I’m
saying. I know they’re dead. And I know that it’s just a virus that’s taken
over a dead host. I know all that, I promise. But no one really knows what it
feels like to be dead. How could they?”

“Nothing
dead
feels
anything. It’s over. There’s no emotion. No love. No anger. Just some leftover
instinct to eat. That’s it.”

Why can’t I just keep my
big mouth shut? I can tell that I’m pissing the guy off. I’ve only just got
here and already I’m giving my opinions to a man who clearly isn’t interested.

Shut the fuck up, Cath!

“Okay, the muzzle,” Andrew
begins, clearly desperate to change the subject. “This little piece of leather
is probably the most important thing a Cleaner can have on him—
after
the
tranq gun, of course. But a tranq will only last so long. Get this thing around
a Nec’s mouth, and the smelly bastard ain’t tucking into anyone,
that’s
for damn sure. It’s very simple. You take the strap. Place the leather pouch
directly over the Nec’s mouth—preferably when it’s comatose—and then fasten one
strap over the top of his head, and the other around the sides.” He shows me
the two buckles at the end of each strap. “Just tighten these at the back of
the head like you would a belt. Easy.”

“Can we reuse them?”

Andrew shakes his head.
“Once these are strapped onto a Nec, then that’s it. They’re shipped over to
Romkirk for burning. It’s too dangerous to open the body bags and remove the
muzzles. A lot of the times, the sedation has worn off by the time they get
there. It’s only the cable ties, body bags,” he lifts the muzzle up and jiggles
it, “and these babies, keeping the Necs from chewing down on some poor Burner’s
throat.” He hands me the muzzle and smiles. “You wanna try it out?”

I frown with puzzlement.
“What? On me?”

Andrew sniggers. “
No
.
Not on you. A bloody Nec, of course.”

“Oh, right,” I reply,
relieved.

He makes his way towards
the door, motioning with his head for me to follow. “Right, Cath, let’s get to
the training room. We’ve got lots more to get through today.” He turns to me,
and grins. “You ready to shoot some zombies?”

I smile back. “
Damn
right.
”

Sunday
the 22
^nd
of February 2015. 2:16 p.m.—a day that will be remembered
for many years to come.

The day of my very first
call-out.

Nerves have slowly got the
better of me. I’m trying my utmost to swallow them down, but it’s hard. I’d
like to think that it’s just pure excitement, a surge of adrenaline—but I know
it’s not. Andrew’s a little worried, too; I can see it in his eyes.

But I won’t let him down.

I can’t.

“So how far’s this farm
house?” I ask, holding onto the sides of my seat as he speeds down one of the
narrowest country lanes I’ve ever seen.

“It’s not that far. Maybe
another fifteen miles or so. It’s just outside Port Talbot. I had a feeling
we’d be back up this neck of the woods.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some teacher got infected
nearby. She said she’d caught it off her grandfather over in some nursing house
in Newport. We did our usual clean up, took down the infected, bagged them up.
But I had one of those feelings that something wasn’t right. It was just…
too
easy.”

“So what happened with the
nursing home?”

“It had to be shut down.”

“The whole place?”

“
Yep
.”

“For how long?”

My entire body flies over
towards my door as he burns around another bend.

“Not sure how long,”
Andrew replies, his face calm and collected, as if he was leisurely driving
down the countryside with his family. “Maybe a few months.”

“So what happened to the
old people?”

Andrew shrugs. “Not sure.
Probably re-homed temporarily until the place is properly decontaminated. All
that shit, piss, blood, needles. Government can’t risk any further infection.”

I snort. “You know, I
thought I knew everything about being a Cleaner. I really did. But there’s so
much to learn.”

“You’ll get used to it,
Cath. Today’s gonna be a breeze. This farmhouse is in the middle of nowhere.
Just how I like it. No other people for miles. So there’s very little chance of
any hordes of Necs coming at us.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely! If you didn’t
get the job, I’d probably have gone on my own.”

“Really? On your own?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re not
supposed to, but Roger’s cool like that. Well, if he knows that it’s only a
small thing like a farmhouse.”

“Oh right, I see. So you
reckon this’ll be a walk in the park then?”

“Of course, Cath. Don’t
worry about it. You’ll be fine. All I need you to do today is watch and learn.
And if you can, cover my ass just in case. That’s all. No one’s expecting you
to take down an army of rotters. So try and rein in those nerves, all right?”

I nod and smile, trying to
show him
convincingly
that I’m calm, in control, without the flutter of
a single butterfly.

But I’m far from calm.

And I’m positive Andrew
knows it.

“Do your parents know
you’re on a call-out today?” he asks as he turns another corner, almost
clipping a grass bank.

“No. They’ll be stressing
out all day. Especially Dad. They think I’m just watching instructional
videos.”

Andrew chuckles. “Probably
for the best. Last thing you want is family worrying.”

“Yeah—my thoughts
exactly.” I close my eyes for a second when we narrowly miss a passing tractor.
“So how about
your
family? Do they still worry about you?”

Andrew doesn’t answer.
Can’t tell if he’s just concentrating on the lorry up ahead, or that I’ve said
something out of turn.

“It’s just me now,” he
finally replies.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to
pry.”

“
No, no
. It’s fine,
Cath. Fran and me have been divorced for about fourteen years now. After we
lost Tessa,
well
…things just weren’t the same.”

“I’m
so
sorry.”

“It’s all right. It was a
long time ago. Fran and me still talk occasionally—not as much as we used to,
though. You lose a child; you lose a part of
you
. I think that was the
part that was missing from our marriage.” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just
life, I guess. Sometimes it’s great. Other times it’s horse shit.”

“So what happened to your
little girl?” I ask, regretting the question the moment it leaves my lips. “
Sorry
.
It’s none of my business.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind
talking about it. I’ve repressed it long enough. I’ve learned the hard way that
bottling things up is stupid. Tessa was just seven years old, and I’d left the
back door open; I’d been in and out of the house all day trying to finish off
the garden. That summer had been a washout, so it was the only day I had to mow
the lawn. I had no idea there’d been an outbreak in town. I was in the shed
when I heard the scream. I ran into the house and found this rotten bastard
digging his teeth into Tessa’s leg.”

“
Oh my God
. I’m so
sorry.” I swallow hard. “That’s awful, Andrew.”

“
Yep
. Pretty shit.
I had to smash its brain to mush, right in front of my little girl. There was
nothing anyone could do for her. Back then, there was no antiviral. It was only
a matter of time before…”

I’m lost for words. Why
couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? Why do I always have to keep digging?

Nice one, Cath!

“That’s why I applied for
the job,” Andrew continues. “It was the only way I could process what’d
happened. I thought if I could kill as many as possible, then maybe I’d spare
some other family the same fate.” He shrugs again. “Something like that.”

I wish I could think of
something wonderful and useful to say, but I can’t. I’ve got nothing. Instead,
I just sit back, eyes on the road ahead, and promise never to open my big trap
again.

* * *

After another few miles of
tearing down deserted lanes, I start to feel a little queasy, as if I’ve just
spent an hour on a rollercoaster. Got to take my mind off the road. “I never
got the chance to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For talking Roger into
letting me keep the job.”

“Don’t worry about it.
He’s a good boss, but that doesn’t stop him acting like a prick sometimes. He
just doesn’t see what I see. Not yet anyway.”

“What do
you
see?”

Andrew glances over at me,
then his eyes quickly return to the road. “I see a hard worker—and a fighter.”

“Really?” I ask, blushing.

“
Yeah
, I do. I’ve
never seen anyone pull those sacks the way you did. I mean, yeah, most of the
guys who go for this job make short work of them; half of them are ex-military,
ex-cops, so they’re used to handling that kind of weight. But you? Well, there’s
nothing of you and you
still
managed it. So, for me, that’s all that
matters: determination and guts. Yeah, you froze in the training room—
but
who cares
. Every job is a learning curve. You’re not expected to make a
bloody
Big Mac
on your first day without being shown how. Do you know
what I mean?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“There’s no question. And
doing this job is not just about being strong; it’s about moving people to
safety. Out of their homes. In the middle of the night. Cleaners rely too often
on the police to do the talking when it comes to reassuring people why their
children are being shipped off. If that were me, if that were
my
family
,
I’d much rather some pleasant, calm, woman come to my door and tell me that
everything is going to be all right. Not some muscle-bound brute, barking
orders like he’s still in the bloody army. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do. I never
thought of it like that. I had it in my mind that I had to be exactly like you
guys.”

“To a certain extent you
do. You still have to be strong. You still have to be fast.
And
you
still have to shoot straight. But there’s a lot more to being a Cleaner. And
you’ll learn that soon enough.”

“Thanks, Andrew. I’m sure
you’ll do a great job teaching me. I’m a fast learner.”

“I bet you are.”

The country road comes to
a fork. Andrew slams on the brakes and the van comes to an abrupt halt. Leaning
forward over the dashboard, he hits a button on the Satnav.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“We lost?”

Andrew squints at the tiny
screen and then shakes his head. “No. Not yet. Just over shot the turning.
Wanna make sure. Don’t fancy turning up at the wrong bloody farm.”

“Can I help?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just
turn her around.” He swings the van around with one spin of the wheel; the
front of the vehicle hits the grass bank in the process, and then speeds off
back in the previous direction.

It’s at least another four
miles before Andrew slams on the brakes again, and bombs it down a dirt track.
Flickers of mud and manure cover the windscreen and bonnet. Thank God it’s
winter and my window is up.

Another mile or so later,
I can finally see something in the distance. A farmhouse. Andrew slows the van;
I watch as he scans the trees and fields around us, as if hunting for
something. I can guess what he’s looking for—and my stomach starts to churn at
the thought of a Nec ambush.

What Andrew said earlier
makes total sense: a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere has probably the lowest
risk of an attack from multiple infected. Unless, of course, they’re a bunch of
crazed hillbillies, harbouring a family of fifteen Necs, made up of uncles,
aunties, kids, grandkids, the lot. But the farmhouse is quite small. Really
nice, in fact. Authentic thatched roof, white stone right out of a medieval
movie. There’s a small shed at the side of the house, a tractor parked in front
of a giant barn, and a mud-soaked Land Rover parked up at the side of a large
gas-tank. I inspect the field; can’t see any animals. No cows. No sheep. Maybe
it’s too cold for them. They must be in the barn.

“Should we be wearing our
helmets when we knock the door?” I ask, picking mine up from between my ankles.

Andrew shakes his head.
“Not right away. Keep it with you until the door opens. And keep your gun
holstered, too. The last thing we want to do is frighten the life out of these
people. Scared people do all sorts of dump things. Let them see a human face
first, and then we can put it on.”

“Okay. Got you.”

We pull up outside the
house. Andrew motions with his head for me to follow him. Nervously climbing
out of the van, stepping out onto the damp gravel, I pat myself down, making
sure I’m fully-equipped: gun, spare tranqs, antiviral, suit zipped up to the
top, gloves, boots. All there. I follow Andrew to the front door. Before he
reaches it, the door opens. Standing in the doorway is a woman, early sixties,
dressed in a pair of loose-fitting denim jeans, cream shirt, with a brown
cardigan; her grey hair in disarray, like she’s just rolled out of bed.

“Mrs Rosemont?” Andrew
asks, his right arm concealing his gun holster.

“Yes, that’s me,” she
replies, her voice hoarse and flustered. “Who are you? Where are the
paramedics?”

“We’re from Disease
Control. I’m Andrew. Andrew Whitt.” He points with his left thumb at me. “And
this is my partner, Catherine Woods.”

I give her a very
unprofessional, childlike wave—as if she’s a friend I’ve spotted across the
street.

“Why on earth would they
send you? My husband just needs a doctor.”

“Where’s your husband now,
Mrs Rosemont?” Andrew asks, brushing past her comment.

“He’s inside.”

“Is there anyone else in
the house?”

“No, just Keith. Oh, and
Genie of course.”

“Who’s Genie?”

“Our golden retriever. No
one else.”

“Have you been bitten?”

“By who?”

“Your husband. Have you
come in contact with any of his blood?”

She shakes her head in
protest, seeming disgusted by the very notion. “Absolutely not! He’s fine. He
just needs a doctor. I told you.”

“What are his symptoms?”

“Just a bit under the
weather. Coughing, high temperature, vomiting. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Just a bug. Or maybe food poisoning.”

“Had he been anywhere just
before? Maybe visiting someone?”

“Yes, to see his father.”

“And where was that?”

“Well, the nursing home
used to be over in Newport. Golden Meadows. But the place recently closed down
for refurbishments, so they’ve shipped him over to one in Bristol.”

“So that was last night,
yes? When he came home?”

“Yes. Around six in the
evening. I gave him some soup but he couldn’t keep it down, so I sent him
straight to bed.”