The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot (8 page)

Jonny suddenly comes to life. “I still say we should throw him out,” he says, coldly, not even looking at Ted. “That tie won’t hold shit.”

I walk over to Ted and help him to his feet. “It’s a good idea,” I tell him, optimistically. “But what are we supposed to tie you to?”

There’s a moment of quiet as most of us scan the room for something securely attached to the floor.

There’s nothing obvious. No pillars, no pipework. I can’t even see a bloody radiator.

Ginge steps up to the bar and pokes his head over. “Nothing back here.”

Natalie gets up and checks the spectator seats. “These might work, but the metal bases are a little too thick.”

“Can’t we just tie his hands behind his back?” I suggest. “Or his feet together?”

“What good would that do?” Ginge asks. “He can still bite us.”

“I know that,” I reply, “but it should slow him down a little, give us a chance to fight him off.”

“Shut up!” Adriana cries as she leaps up from the sofa. “My husband’s not some animal you can just put on a leash. He’s a human being, for Christ’s sake.”

“This is how it’s got to be,” her husband tells her, as if nothing would ever change his mind. “If there were another way, then we’d do it. But there isn’t.”

Jonny hops off his stool, drags it away, and then points down at the bottom of the bar. “You can tie him to that. It’s bolted down to the floor.”

Fixed to the base of the bar and the floor is a footrest. It’s a long piece of metal piping that runs along the entire front. It’s perfect.

I walk up to it and inspect it. Grasping the smooth, rounded steel, I jiggle it to see just how secure it is. It doesn’t budge. “This’ll do the job. We can put the sofa cushions on the floor.”

Ted shuffles over to it, prods the footrest with his leather shoe, and then nods. “Yeah, this’ll work fine.” He turns to his wife. “Pass me a cushion, love.”

Adriana looks at him with grave disappointment in her eyes, but then reluctantly pulls up the thick sofa cushion. I take it from her and lay it down next to the bar. I help Ted down; he winces painfully as his heavy body settles on his new bed.

“Can you tie me up?” Ted asks me with a thin, strained smile. “I can’t do it with my arm like this.”

I notice his wound again. It’s oozing from the cloth, the darkened veins now snaking up his neck.

Taking the tie, I kneel down in front of him. “No problem.”

I wrap it around his wrists twice, avoiding any contact with his bite mark; don’t fancy getting infected from his blood. I try not to show any revulsion on my face as I secure the end around the footrest.

Ted gives it a yank to make sure it’s a strong hold. “It’s good,” he says, nodding. “Good job. Thank you, boy.”

Adriana stands over her husband, peering down at him with a lost expression. And then she sits next to him, rests her head on his shoulder, and closes her eyes.

But I doubt she’ll get any sleep.

13

It’s 19:03 and I’ve been gasping for a cigarette all day. Jonny lit one earlier, but then put it out when he realised that the room is rigged with smoke alarms and sprinklers.

The phones have been dead for the last four hours. No signal, no Internet, not even a landline.

Something’s up.

The power’s still working, so at least we’re not completely cut off. The TV is on but with the volume all the way down. We’ve had to resort to reading subtitles to find out when this nightmare will be over. So far, all they’ve said is: there’s been a breakout of Necro-Morbus in the stadium (No shit Sherlock!), and that the government has managed to contain the spread of the disease. According to some dickhead from Disease Control, they’re close to finding a solution to the problem, but their primary concern is protecting the rest of the city.

None of that helps us, though. And did they really need to cut off all communications in here? What the hell was the point? We can’t exactly make things any worse.

Ted looks pretty ill, but he’s still conscious. His wife hasn’t left his side not even for a split second. That’s real love for you—either that or she’s terrified what Jonny might do to him the moment she steps away.

Jonny’s gone through at least twelve bottles of beer and devoured his coke in a matter of minutes, and he’s taken so many pisses behind the bar, the room has started to smell. I’m worried about him. Usually, a little of the white stuff levels him out, helps take the edge off the drunkenness. But not this time—not after losing Nathan.

Natalie is still sitting on the floor with her brother, both with their eyes half-shut. I feel like joining them, maybe get a few hours’ sleep to escape this crazy day. But I can’t. I can’t leave Adriana alone with Jonny. Not when he’s been so volatile.

Ginge has been hovering by the window for the past twenty minutes, staring down at the devastation.

I join him.

The neighbouring VIP suites still seem empty. Hard to know for sure, though.

Nothing much has changed below; there’s still a mass of roaming Necs, and piles of dead bodies scattered along the seats, covering nearly all the rows on both tiers. There seems to be fewer people running. The majority are probably hiding, dead or most likely already turned.

Ginge has a look of disbelief etched onto his face. That jokey, optimistic expression is absent for now. But he’ll get it back. I’m sure he will. He has a gift of finding the humour in any situation. Maybe not about today, but it’s still there. Somewhere buried deep amongst all the carnage. Even during his father’s funeral, he managed to get everyone laughing with his eulogy. Don’t know how he did it; his mother broke down as soon as the coffin arrived. But that’s Ginge for you: never let anything get you down.

Even after hours of all this shit, I don’t think the chaos has truly sunk in yet. Maybe it never will. And I can’t see Jonny shaking off today’s events any time soon.

That’s if we make it out alive.

Of course we will.
We’re safe enough. Nothing’s getting in, and the seats below are way too far for anyone to climb up.

But what about Ted?

I glimpse over at him, his wheezing lungs punctuating the silence of the room. Maybe Jonny was right. Maybe we should put him outside the door. He’ll be dead soon, and then he’ll turn on us all. And then what are we supposed to do? We’ll be too exposed. We’ve got no weapons and no way of escaping. We’re not safe here at all. We should have just kept moving down the corridor, taken our chances.

Shut up!

We can’t just throw Ted outside. Adriana will end up going out with him—and then we’ll have
her
death on our conscience as well.

Help
will
be here, long before Ted becomes a Nec. I’m sure of it.

How sure?

“So what now?” Ginge asks; eyes still locked on the desolation.

I shrug. “I don’t know. We wait, I suppose. It’s not like we have any other options.”

“We could call for help?”

“With what? The phones are dead. So is the Internet.”

He turns to me. “Maybe we should do it the old-fashioned way and shout for help.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jonny blurts from his barstool. “Who are you gonna shout to?”

Ginge points to the door. “We can get inside one of the other rooms; the ones that look out onto the car park. If we can signal to someone outside, that we’re alive, maybe they’ll send up a ladder for us. It’s got to be worth a try.”

“No chance,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s too dangerous out there. There could still be a corridor full of Necs just waiting for us. I say we just wait it out a few more hours.”

“But what if waiting gets us killed?” Ginge replies. “The longer we’re stuck in this stadium, the more time there is for people to turn. Who knows, by tonight there might be twenty thousand of those bastards out there. And no sofa and flick-knife are gonna keep that many back.”

I forgot about my knife.
It sparks off the memory of that wanker from the bar. I shake it off and focus on the now. As much as I hate to admit it, Ginge is right. By now maybe only a fraction of fans have probably turned. So things are most likely to get worse. But the thought of leaving the safety of this room is too daunting.

“Let him go, Alfie,” Jonny says, a big smirk on his face. “Let him be the hero for once. We’ll see how well that fat bastard does out there.”

“This isn’t funny,” I snap. “He could get killed.”

“Well, that’s the risk you take going out there,” Jonny replies. “If he wants to be
Mr Ginger Tough Guy 2009
, then I ain’t standing in his way. And neither should you.”

Natalie gets up off the floor. “I’ll go with him.”

Jonny turns to her, a giant scowl across his forehead. “You? Don’t be so fucking stupid.”

“No, I’ll go with him,” I offer, regretting it the moment I say it. She didn’t leave me much choice. I can’t exactly stay in here and let her go out there. I’ll never live it down. I’m a lot of things, but a coward definitely isn’t one of them. “He’s my friend, so it should be me that goes with him.”

“
Fine
,” she says, bitterly, “but don’t screw this up.”

“We won’t,” Ginge says, walking up to the door. “We’ll be five minutes. I bet the car park is filled with police, Cleaners—the
works
. There’s probably a fire engine already out there, waiting.”

We quietly drag the sofa away from the entrance and press our ears to the door. “I hope you’re right, Ginge—otherwise we’re fucked.”

“Have some faith, Alfie,” Ginge whispers. “Waiting for help to come is nearly always a bad idea. You have to make things happen. Pro-activity and all that. So I ain’t waiting here to die. And neither are you.”

I don’t hear any signs of movements outside. Don’t imagine Necs walk that lightly so I think it’s clear.

“Good luck without a weapon,” I hear Curtis mumble from the floor.

He’s right; we need something. My knife? No, it’ll be ineffective. And I don’t want to show Natalie that I have one on me. Or Adriana and Ted. Ginge and me scan the room for something to use. The stools are too big to carry, so are the two tables.

“What about a whiskey bottle?” Ginge suggests. “We’ve got plenty of those.”

“Really?” I say with a hint of sarcasm. “It’s not a fucking party.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Rolling my eyes, I go over to the bar. “
Fine
,” I say, grabbing two bottles, “We won’t need them anyway. Our best weapon is running the
fuck away
.”

Jonny lets out a chuckle. “With that fat fucker?” He takes a huge gulp of beer. “You’re having a laugh.”

“Shut up, Jonny,” Ginge snaps, taking the whiskey bottle from me. “If you’re so brave, why don’t you go instead?”

“I never said I was brave,” Jonny replies. “I’m much happier just sitting here and getting pissed. I’ll leave all the heroics to you two.” He takes another swig of beer, finishing the bottle. “But unless you’ve got a flamethrower or a grenade, you haven’t got a hope in hell getting back here in one piece.”

The guy has just lost his little brother, so I don’t retort; none of us do. He’s drunk and high as a kite, so I’ll let him be an asshole. He’s only letting off steam. He’ll probably pass out after another couple of beers anyway—coked up or not.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the lock until I hear a clicking sound. “You ready?” I ask Ginge, trying to conceal the terror in my voice.

Brandishing the whiskey bottle like a sword, he throws me an anxious nod.

Pulse soaring, sweat glazed across my brow, I pull the handle slowly and the door opens.

14

Why is it always me who has to lead the bloody way?
Why can’t it be Ginge?
He’s supposed to be the cocky one. And he’s bigger than me.

The door locks behind us as we step out onto the deserted corridor. I feel so exposed out here, and with the door shut, it makes things a hundred times worse. We start to creep along the red carpet, in the opposite direction from when we first came. Ginge has a hand on my shoulder, like a blind man following a guide. We can’t see any Necs. Can’t hear any screams or moans, just the gentle hum of machinery in the distance. Maybe it’s coming from the kitchen. There has to be one close by. That buffet came from
somewhere
.

We pass four other VIP rooms, all with the doors closed. I can’t resist stopping outside one of them to listen for movement. I still can’t hear anything. Maybe no one booked it; I bet they ain’t bloody cheap. Must be hundreds—
thousands,
probably. No, someone would have booked it, especially for a game like today’s. I picture a similar set up of people like ours; holed up inside, arguing about whether to sit tight or wait for help.

“Come on,” Ginge whispers, prodding me with the bottle. “We haven’t got time for this. Keep moving.”

He’s right. All it would take is for one Nec to show up. We’re not exactly trained in silent combat. Enough noise will bring out the whole lot of them.

Another few metres down, we come to a room with a
Staff Only
sign on the door. We scan each end of the corridor; it’s still clear. Can’t hear any sounds coming from the room, so I grab the handle and twist it. I push the door open and then we step back, ready to face a storm of rotters charging at us. But the room is empty. And it
is
the kitchen. Maybe our luck is finally turning.

We enter the room, giving it a quick inspection in case any hidden surprises are lurking behind the equipment. Ginge closes the door quietly and walks over to the large window directly opposite. Despite the fact that this caters for VIP guests, the kitchen looks pretty standard: shiny steel worktops and sinks, lots of cupboards fixed to the walls, and a door to the left, most likely leading to a walk-in fridge and freezer.

At the window, we peer down onto the car park. I frown in confusion when I see that it’s deserted. No police, no firemen, and
definitely
no Cleaners.