The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot (6 page)

My hand shaking with terror, I reach down and twist the door handle, double-checking that it is locked. It is—
thank God
. I move away from the door. After a few more seconds, Ginge does the same.

“Sounds like they’ve gone,” Natalie whispers. “I think we’re safe.”

“How can we be safe with those things out there?” Curtis asks. “We’re finished, Nat—there’s just too many of them.”

“Keep your voice down,” I say as I sit on a stool, my body completely shattered. “You want them to find us?”

Curtis turns to me, scowling. “Why don’t you fucking
make me
?”

“Is there something wrong with you?” I reply, wiping the sweat away from my eyes. “Do you really think that now is a good time to argue?”

“You were at the bar earlier, weren’t you? At The Farmers Arms. You and your friends attacked us.”

“Yeah, he was,” says Ginge, his voice firm, ready to tear his head off. “And so was I. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

“Who
gives
a crap?” Natalie asks, stepping in front of her brother. “None of that matters now.”

“Your friend nearly killed me, you prick,” I snap, standing up from the stool. “He nearly strangled me to death.”

“
Yeah
, and you nearly bit his hand off,” Curtis retorts. “What the fuck is wrong with you Swansea lot? You’re like a bunch of
fucking animals
.”

“Hey, you and your mates were the ones who decided to come down in the first place,” I point out. “We were outnumbered—and we
still
fucked you up.”

“Just sit back down, Alfie,” Natalie says. “This is not the place to bring up all this shit. It’s not important.”

Curtis turns to his sister, his face creased with fury. “And how the
fuck
do you know this nigger’s name?”

Ginge races over to him, grabbing him by the collar of his Cardiff jersey. “Say that again!” Ginge threatens, slamming him against the door with a loud thud. “Go on, say it again! I fucking
dare you!
”

Clutching Ginge by his thick, rounded shoulders, Natalie tries to pry him off her brother.

Someone calling me a nigger, any other time—and especially a Cardiff prick—and I’d happily smash their heads against the wall. But right now, in this moment of bedlam, all I can think about is Nathan lying on the stairs,
dead
. And Jonny? Most likely dead as well.

I shouldn’t have left him. I should have made him come with us. Of course he’d want to stay there—the Nec had just ripped his brother’s throat out. I should have dragged him away, kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took. Who cares about an elbow to the mouth!

And now they’re both gone, and we’re barricaded in this room—with a bunch of bloody strangers.

“Stop fighting!” someone shouts from the left of me. Startled, I turn to see a man, mid-sixties, thick mop of white head on his head.
Shit!
Where the hell did he come from?
“You’re scaring my wife.” The man is slouched on the cream-coloured, leather sofa, his huge gut almost popping the buttons off his light blue shirt, which is drenched through with sweat. His skin is pale, and he’s holding a blood-soaked cloth over his right forearm.

Is that a bite mark?

Ginge loosens his grip on Curtis, allowing Natalie to pull him away and step in front of her brother.

“We all need to keep our voices down!” the man says, his tone aggressive. “We can’t have every Tom, Dick, and Harry knowing we’re in here.” He starts to cough loudly, holding the same cloth over his mouth.

The grey-haired woman is sitting next to him. She hands him a bottle of water from the small glass table in front of the sofa, and then takes the cloth from him.

“Your arm’s bleeding,” Ginge says to the man. “What the hell happened to you?”

“That’s none of your business,” the woman snaps, walking over to the plush white drinks-bar to the left of the sofa. Hanging over one of the draught pumps is a blue cloth. She grabs it and then gives it to her husband. “You lot need to get out of here. I should have never opened that door.”

“Have you been bitten?” Ginge asks. “Did one of those Necs attack you?”

“Shut up!” Natalie snaps. “It’s nothing to do with us.”

“Of course it is,” Ginge replies. “If he’s infected then he’ll turn into one of those things.”

“You’d prefer to be outside then, would you?” the man replies. “By all means, no one is stopping you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to the man, sincerity in my tone. “We’re all just a little freaked out, that’s all. One of our friends was just killed. And the other one is probably dead. We just need a place to hide out until it’s safe to leave. We promise we won’t be any bother.”

“I’m sorry too,” Natalie says. “My brother and me, we’re stuck in the middle of everything. We barely got out alive.”

“Yeah, until we saved your ass,” Ginge points out.

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” I tell him. “You need to drop it. We could have been killed out there but we survived. We made it. So cut the shit, all right?”

Ginge, clearly pissed off with my outburst, takes a few deep breaths to calm down and then sits on a stool.

“I’m Natalie,” she informs the couple, “and this is my twin brother, Curtis.”

Twins?

The woman stares blindly for a moment as if mulling over whether to offer any welcome at all. And who the hell can blame her? We didn’t exactly give her much of a reason to trust us. A bunch of football hooligans at each other’s throats. Not the greatest of first impressions.

“I’m Adriana,” she finally answers. She motions to the man. “And this is my husband, Ted.”

“Hi,” Natalie says with a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for opening the door. You saved our lives.”

“It’s fine,” Adriana replies. “The last thing we need is for anyone else to get hurt.”

Natalie walks over to the bar and sits on a stool. She wipes the sweat from her face and drags her fingers through her long blonde hair.

“We need to call the police,” I say. “Or those Cleaners.”

“We’ve tried,” Adriana replies, “but the emergency line is down.”

“What do you mean it’s down?” I ask. “It can’t be.”

“It’s probably being overrun with thousands of calls,” she replies. “We need to give it a little more time.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the signal—there’s barely one at all. The networks are probably clogged up.

“What’s the point of calling for help?” Curtis asks. “You think they don’t know what’s happened in here? There are twenty-one thousand of us. And they’ve got us on lockdown. Every exit was sealed. Remember?”

“What are we supposed to do then?” Ginge asks, shrugging. “Just sit here and wait for a hundred zombies to burst through that door?”

Natalie nods her head. “Yeah. That’s exactly what we do. But if we keep quiet and keep that door blocked off, then we’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that?” I ask, cynically, imagining how easily a hundred Necs would destroy that door. “There are a lot of them out there.”

“Yeah, but they’re out
there
. If they’re Necs, then they won’t know we’re in here. They’re not logical. They’re only attracted to movement, smell and noise.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Make sure all your mobiles are on silent. Or better yet, turn them off. They’re no use to us right now. You don’t want to drain the batteries; we might need them later.”

Without even questioning it, everyone does what she asks, but I opt to switch mine to
Vibrate
instead. Even on a day like today I still can’t be without it. Before I slip it back into my pocket, I send a quick message to Wendy telling her not to worry and that I’m alive.

At least for now, it’s true.

10

Silence grips the room as the events only now start to kick in.

I finally get a moment of clarity to take in the room, and all its beauty; even better in the flesh. I’ve seen it a hundred times before on the website, on YouTube, but being here now seems so surreal. Just wish it were under better circumstances. The rectangular room is about thirty square metres in size, with only one way in or out. There are two high-legged circular tables with two stools next to each one, and a sofa, which is facing a giant flat-screen TV fixed to the opposite wall. I have no idea why a room like this would even need a TV, let alone one at least seventy inches wide. But it’s magnificent nonetheless. Next to the sofa is the drinks-bar, stocked with everything from Champagne to whiskey, with three draught pumps, and on the bar surface there’s a tray of sandwiches and various other snacks. The floor has a red carpet that looks brand new even though the stadium was built four years ago, and the walls are a strange mix of blue and grey. But all those bells and whistles don’t mean shit without the main attraction: The giant viewing window. The glass is massive, at least six by four metres, which covers the entire front of the room—giving fans the greatest view of the greatest team. A sight reserved for only the rich. In front of it are two rows of black leather spectator seats, four on each level. The first row is on a low step so that the back row has a clear view of the game.

I walk down the four steps to the window and press my body against the glass. There’s a small panel at the centre and a latch. I slide it open, and the room suddenly fills with screams—a mix of Necs and terrified fans crying for help. The sound is vile, so I quickly close it.

At each side of the giant window, there’s another window, much smaller, that leans into the neighbouring VIP suites. I push my face against the glass to look inside. All I can see is the front row of leather seats. No movement and no sound. I try the other side—it’s the same. For some reason, I feel disappointed. I’m not sure why. Seeing another group of survivors next door would offer no help to us. The only way through is via the corridor, and I’m not planning on stepping out any time soon.

Should I give the glass a knock
? The people could just be congregating by the door.

What if it’s teeming with Necs? A knock would draw them to us. If there’re enough of them, they might break the glass. It’s best to leave things alone.

I look down from the centre of the giant window. The vastness takes my breath away. The VIP suites were designed to be up high, away from the stand, almost like a balcony effect. From the window, there’s roughly a five metre drop down to the upper tier of the stand—keeping the riffraff like us separate.

Peering down at the pitch, my stomach curdles in dismay. Instead of seeing some of the greatest players in the world, running across a stunning green field, I see hundreds of bodies lying face down in the grass, each one being devoured by a pack of Necs. As for the stands, both sides are stacked with more half-eaten people. Some probably crushed during the stampede, while others most likely taken out by Necs.

We had a sold-out stadium here today, and now I have no idea how many are still alive, hiding somewhere—or how many are dead.

“So what happened to you, Ted?” Ginge asks, standing by the door, his back pressed firmly against the wood. “How the hell did you manage to get bitten from in here?”

Ted looks at him with untrusting eyes, but then sits up on the sofa, wincing in pain as he straightens. “When Adriana and I saw the devastation from the window, I just stepped out the door to ask the steward what was going on. But the corridor was deserted. So when I went down the stairs to find someone, that’s when I bumped into him.”

“Bumped into who?” Ginge asks.

“The steward; he was lying on the floor, bleeding from his abdomen. I went straight over to him to check his pulse. But it was too late. Before I could even stand, he’d already turned. Took a bite out of my forearm.” Adriana puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are filled with tears, clearly struggling to cope with the situation. “And that’s when I realised he was infected with Necro-Morbus.”

“Bloody hell,” Ginge mutters. “So what happens now? I mean, how long will it take for you to turn?”

“Shut up, Ginge!” I snap. “Don’t be so insensitive.”

“I was only asking.”

“It’s all right,” Ted replies, his voice getting croakier with every word. “I don’t know how long I’ve got. It all depends on the host. Some last a few hours, some even less. But once the infection reaches my brain—that’s it.”

Adriana bursts into tears. “Don’t say things like that, Ted. You’ll be fine. We just need to get you to the hospital.”

Ted shakes his head, with a look of defeat like a worn-out boxer. “There’s nothing anyone can do for me.”

Adriana’s head drops into her hands, muting her cries.

Glancing over at Natalie, I see that she’s crying too.

This is unbelievable. This morning I was happy, waiting for one of the biggest games in years.

And now this.

Why the hell were the doors locked? Did someone from the outside know what was going on in here? Did they seal the doors to stop the infection spreading to the city? It makes sense. Why else would they trap us in here like rats?

“Is there something we can use to barricade the door?” Curtis asks.

“Everything is bolted down,” Ted says. “The only thing left is the sofa, tables and the stools.”

“Well they’re not going to be much use,” Ginge points out. “We need something big and heavy.”

Ted gets up off the sofa and sits on one of the barstools. “Then we’ll have to use the sofa. It’s probably not that heavy, but it’s better than nothing.” Adriana follows him up.

“Don’t be silly,” Natalie says. “You need it.”

Ted shakes his head, a thin smile on his dry lips. “Thank you—but I’ll be fine here.”

Natalie throws him a pitiful nod and grabs one end of the sofa. “Well, is someone going to help me with this thing or what?” she struggles to say.

I grab the other end and pick it up off the floor. She’s stronger than she looks; this thing weighs a ton.

Ginge gets up from his stool and races over to help, taking the back of the sofa. We steer in past Ted and Adriana and arrive at the door. Curtis is sitting with his back against it, both hands in his jeans pockets, glaring at us.