Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Jenkins, Steven

  I get up off the chair and make my way over to Anna. I stare down at her face. Her eyes are empty, and her skin is drained of all life. I sprint over to the side of the furnace and vomit.

  I stand, with one hand on the wall, staring down at the puddle of bile on the floor. I try to get my breath back as I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Straightening, I take in a lung full of air and then walk back over to her. The growls from behind the muzzle disturb me like nothing before, and I can see the deadened veins in her neck pulsate as she struggles with her restraints. My eyes are fixed on hers. I can’t help it. I can’t seem to look anywhere else.

  But I have to. For Sammy’s sake.

  Gingerly, I reach down and start to unbuckle the muzzle, hands shaking uncontrollably. I know it’s stupid. I know she’s dead. But I have to. Just to be sure. I pull the muzzle away from her mouth, dragging a web-like trail of saliva and blood in the process. I fight hard not to vomit again. Throwing it on the floor in disgust, I hear Anna’s teeth clack together. The sound goes through me causing me to clench up in repulsion. “Anna?” I say. “Can you hear me? It’s me. It’s Robert.”

  She doesn’t respond. Just the snarls of a rabid dog.

  “Anna,” I say again. “It’s your husband. It’s Robert. Can you understand me?”

  Her levels of aggression have increased as she snaps her teeth at me. The other three body bags are now moving far more fiercely—as if feeding off Anna’s rage. I try to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. “Anna. Please. It’s Robert. I’m begging you. Please. It’s your husband. Can you hear me?”

  Please…

  I start to cry. I can’t hold it in any longer. I haven’t cried in years. Maybe a tear or two when Sammy was—

  I have to get to him.

  He’s out there somewhere. Dead or alive, I have to find him.

  For Anna.

  I zip up her body bag, trying not to make eye contact, and then wheel her over to the furnace. I try not to cry, but tears are now streaming. Reaching for the door handle, I pause, only for a moment, before something inside orders me to pull it open, and to slide out the platform. I feel the heat even more so without my mask and goggles, almost unbearable. The muffled snarls from inside the body bag are like a rusty blade to the heart. It’s too much. It’s all too much. This can’t be happening.

  Not to me.

  Someone else instead.

  Suddenly, I hear the snapping sound of Anna’s restraints. The thick plastic bag starts to bubble up hysterically, like an animal caught in a net. I quickly roll her onto the platform, barely able to see through the tears. I slide her body inside and slam the door shut.

  Hand trembling, I push the large red button, and the furnace ignites. Dropping to my knees in anguish, I hold my hands over my ears to block out Anna’s screams.

  Forgive me.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m so sorry, Anna.

  I love you.

  6

  I punch in the door-code, leaving the three remaining bodies still inside the furnace room. They’ll be safe enough. No time to burn them. I race down the corridor to get to my car, ignoring the staff I pass on the way. A few even say something to me, but nothing registers. Nothing matters now.

  Only Sammy.

  As I approach the exit, I see the security guard. He looks at me oddly as I bolt towards the glass doors.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Stephenson?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I reply, struggling to speak as I slow for the doors. “Just late for something.”

  “All right. Well, you have a nice evening then.”

  “Thanks.” And then I’m out through the doors and into the cold, winter night. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. No signal. Shit! I frantically scramble into the car, start up the engine, and then pull away, wheels squealing painfully. I speed a little further down the road and hear the sound of a text coming through. Holding the phone up against the steering wheel, I read the text: ‘Hi hun. Hope ur ok. Will u b home 4 food? Ive made a stew. Luv Anna xxx.’

  I fight off another bout of tears as I picture Anna in the furnace room; her contorted face; the screams of agony from the fire.

  Exhaling, I hear another delayed text come through: ‘Hi hun. Not feeling 2 good. Cant seem 2 shift this food poisoning. Going 2 ask ur mum if shell have Sammy. Luv Anna xxx.’

  I hit the steering wheel in anger, causing the car to swerve on the country road. “Fuck!” Then another text comes through. I almost don’t want to read it. But I have to. For Sammy. I need to know where he is. If he’s safe with Mum. I push the button and the text opens: ‘Im sorry hun. I fucked up. I dont know what 2 do. I think im infected. Come home now.’

  Another text comes through: ‘Answer ur fucking phone u cunt. Where r u. I cant fucking. I cant. There burning. I cant see him. Hun. Sammy. Sammy. X’

  No more come through.

  I dial Anna’s number. It’s a long shot, but maybe Sammy has Anna’s phone, or Mum, or anyone who can help me. Even a neighbour.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  “Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel again.

  I try once more, but still nothing.

  I call Mum’s house.

  No answer.

  I try Mum’s mobile instead. She’s never got her bloody phone on, and it pisses me off. What’s the point of having a fucking phone if it’s never on? Surely today of all days will be an exception. I dial the number and wait for the call to go through.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mum!” I launch the phone onto the passenger seat when I hear Mum’s irritating voicemail message. “What the hell’s wrong with her? Shit!” Frustration causes me to speed up even more.

  The country roads are blind. Luckily I haven’t seen a car since leaving Romkirk. And some of the roads have only enough room for one car. And I know exactly which car is getting through. Manners are out the window tonight. Nothing’s going to stop me getting home.

  A few miles down the road, I come to a busy junction. Cars whiz past as I try to edge out to join the main road. Can’t just pull out recklessly. I’m no good to anyone dead and buried in metal. I have to be smart. Finally, I pull off to a deafening beeping sound as I almost hit an oncoming lorry. Normally I’d hold up an apologetic hand.

  But not tonight.

  As I race down the same old roads I travel every day, I can’t help but notice the people walking by, chatting, or driving, mouthing the words to some lame song on the radio. Normally these things wouldn’t register; wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. I’d be too busy thinking about Vegas, or singing along to my own shit songs on the radio. But tonight, every smile I see, every calm stroll, every dog-walker, every lit up living room, just makes my blood boil. Why are all these people so content, so composed? Why aren’t they running for the hills, or running to their loved ones? Why aren’t they petrified like I am? Petrified that some corpse isn’t out there somewhere taking bites out of their children?

  Why has only my world been pulled out from under me?

  It’s not fucking fair!

  I see a police car about half a mile or so ahead. I contemplate stopping, asking them for help. But what the hell can they do? They can’t exactly get me there any faster. And if my whole street’s been quarantined, there’s no way they’d let some average cop through the barriers. I stand more of a chance than they would. Afraid they’ll stop me for speeding, I start to slow down as I near the car. Can’t have that. Not tonight. Have to be smart about this. No room for error. The clock’s ticking.

  As I cautiously pass the parked police car, I notice the two male cops inside laughing at something.

  Laughing?

  How could they laugh? How could they be so cold, so relaxed, when Sammy’s out there somewhere? Without his father to protect him?

  Without his mother.

  I start to feel nauseous again as Anna’s grey, deadened eyes pop into my head. I shake the image off and focus on the road ahead. The cops are now out o
f range, so I put my foot down again; engine screaming violently as I hit another batch of country roads.

  About six miles further along, I leave the countryside and hit Bristol town centre. The pavements are packed with people. Student night. It had to be tonight. Of all nights. I’m forced to slow down as I approach a build up of taxis, cars and buses. I feel the stress start to flood my body as I almost have to stop the car because of the traffic. “Fuck. Got no time for this shit. Move your fucking cars! For Christ’s sake!” I hit the steering wheel again in anger, and then hold down the horn. The ear-piercing noise does nothing apart from cause the entire pavement of students to stare. Normally any scene where I’m the centre of attention causes me to clench up and hide. But not now. I couldn’t care less about these people. They’re nothing to me. In fact, if it wasn’t for this stupid black cab in front, they’d be a blur in the corner of my eye.

  A minute or so passes and I’m finally through. I slam down the accelerator pedal and the car screams past the lights and out of the city centre. Still I worry about being pulled over by the police. Can’t let anything slow me down. But I wouldn’t let them stop me.

  Not tonight.

  They’ll have to catch me first. Not that I’d get that far in this four-door piece of shit. I wanted the black BMW, or the silver Audi, but no, she wanted the…

  Family car.

  Exhaling forcefully, I hold back another barrage of tears.

  I’ll cry later. When I know Sammy’s safe.

  She’s always been the boss; always got her way. And always managed to convince me that it was my way. But I didn’t care. Even if sometimes I’d act otherwise. Everyone needs a leader—even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.

  And she was our leader. Our captain.

  That’s why I need her now more than ever.

  Don’t think I can do this alone.

  I start to cry. I can hardly see the road through the tears. Tears that I promised myself I’d hold in.

  Tears that I could do without.

  “Shit!” I shout as I wipe them away with a sleeve. “Get a grip! Think of Sammy! You’ve got no time for this shit! Focus!”

  Approaching Rose Avenue, I see just two police cars parked up, lights still flashing on top. I can’t see any barricades, no Cleaner vans, which means two things: the infection here isn’t too bad, maybe just a few isolated incidents, or they’ve finished decontaminating the area already—which is exactly what I don’t want.

  I slow down as I turn the corner for Rose Avenue. I slam the brakes on as I’m met with a storm of police vehicles, and plain white vans. But more unsettling is the fifteen-foot-high steel wall, spread across the entire junction; a portable barricade on wheels to stop anything getting out.

  A female officer gets out of a police car and marches up to my window, carrying a clipboard under her arm. My stomach churns as I push the button to open the window.

  “Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to turn your car around,” she informs me, “and head back the way you came. You need to follow the yellow diversion signs behind you. They’ll take you back into the city centre, and then down through Clifton.”

  “My name is Robert Stephenson, and I live on 63 Marbleview Street.” I feel my entire body tremble, as I brace for her to tell me something terrible, something earth shattering—like Sammy is dead.

  No! Don’t even think like that! He’s fine! He just needs his father—now more than ever.

  The officer leans in closer to speak. “I’m afraid…” I can feel myself about to be sick again, even though my stomach is empty. I can feel my vision start to blur. I think I’m going to pass out. I can barely make out the rest of her sentence.

  But then her words seep through.

  “…The whole of Crandale’s been evacuated. Richmond Street, Rose Avenue, The Mount, Davies Street, and I’m afraid Marbleview too. There’s been a breakout of Necro-Morbus in your area. That’s all I can tell you, Mr Stephenson. Now if you can stay with a friend or a family member, then—”

  “I work for Romkirk Limited,” I interrupt, showing her my ID badge. “As a Burner. And I know about the outbreak. I just need to get through.”

  “Mr Stephenson, I’m afraid I can’t let anyone through tonight. I know you’re concerned, but I assure you we’re doing everything we can to get your street decontaminated. You should be able to get home within the next forty-eight hours. We were lucky,” she smiles, “they’ve managed to contain it.”

  Lucky? I feel my heart sink to the floor as I think of Anna. How can she say such a thing? She wouldn’t think it was so lucky if she’d just burned her husband in a bloody furnace.

  “What happened to my son? His name is Samuel Stephenson. Please. I haven’t heard from him. Did he get out safely?”

  She consults the clipboard, running her finger down the list. I watch nervously as she flicks through each sheet of paper, my body tightening with every page she flips over. The sound is torturous. I have to massage the temples of my head to stay calm. She gets to the end of the seventh page and then pauses. She glances at me for a split second before she lifts an eighth sheet. This time the paper is red.

  Red.

  My heart almost stops as I watch the officer anxiously scan the page.

  I know exactly what the red sheet is for. I wish I didn’t. God, I wish I didn’t. But I do.

  It’s the list of the infected. The dead list.

  Red is for dead.

  7

  “How can he be missing?” I snap. “He’s only four years old. There’s got to be a mistake with the list. Check again. Please.”

  The officer shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Sir; he’s down as ‘missing’. I’m sure he’s fine. You just need to let the clean-up crew do their jobs, and then—”

  “Look, if my son’s still in there somewhere, then I need to get in. I need to find him. He might be in danger.”

  She shakes her head again, putting the clipboard back under her arm. “I’m sorry, Sir, but that’s just not possible. You’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

  “Look, like I said, I work for Romkirk. Do you know what we do over there?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then surely you can let me through. Come on, this is what I do for a living. I deal with shit like this every day. Please. I’m begging you.”

  “I understand your concerns for your son, but there’s nothing I can do. My hands are tied. And if you work at Romkirk, you should already know the procedure. So, again, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay calm and wait. He’s not the only one missing. There are still some people unaccounted for. And like any one of these operations, especially an area this populated, they usually turn up somewhere, completely fine. You have to be patient. Just find a safe place to stay for the rest of the evening and sit tight. The Cleaners are still searching each house. You need to give them a chance to do their jobs.” She pulls a small card from her coat pocket and hands it to me. “Here,” she says, “This is the number for Disease Control. Give them a call in the morning; they’ll be able to keep you up to date. Okay, Mr. Stephenson?”

  Okay? It’s far from bloody okay. But what choice do I have? There’s no way I’m talking my way in tonight. It might as well be Fort Knox.

  “Where are all my neighbours?” I ask (one last throw of the dice). “Can I talk to them? Maybe someone knows something.”

  “I’m afraid they’re with Disease Control.”

  “Well, where’s that? Can I go there?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, Sir, that location is strictly confidential.”

  “All right, but can I just get a message to my neighbour. Just a quick question. Just a phone call or something. Anything.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “For fuck’s sake! Can’t you do anything? I’m not asking for much, just a little help getting my boy out safely!”

  “Sir, you need to calm down, please.”

  “No, I won’t calm down! You have no idea t
he day I’ve had! No fucking idea at all! The shit I’ve had to do! And all I’m asking for is a simple phone call! One fucking phone call! It’s not a lot to ask!”

  A second male officer steps out of the police car and makes his way towards us. The female officer holds out a hand and her colleague stops in his tracks. “Everything all right?” he asks her.

  “Everything’s fine, Doug,” she calmly replies, “Just give us a second.”

  The male officer pauses for a moment, and then gives a subtle nod and heads back to his police car.

  My knuckles are white from squeezing the steering wheel so hard. I can barely catch my breath from sheer anger. I just need to punch someone; punch something. Anything. The frustration is too much—too much to take. I have to get through the barricade. I have to find him. I know he’s in there somewhere. I know he’s hiding under his bed, waiting for his daddy to come and rescue him.

  I let go of the wheel and place a hand over my chest. I feel sick again, lightheaded.

  And then something occurs to me.

  Mum!

  “Is my mother on the list? Susan Stephenson.”

  Despite having almost no patience left for me, she grabs her clipboard again and reluctantly checks the list. After running her finger down each page, including the red one, she shakes her head. “She’s not down on the list, Sir. What’s your mother’s address?”

  “She doesn’t live here. But she may have been here today.”

  The officer smiles. “Then go to her. Give her a call. She may have your little boy safe at her house. There’s nothing you can do from here.”

  “All right,” I say, as I put the car in reverse. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. And good luck. I’m sure your son is fine.”

  I swing the car around and head towards Clifton. I grab my phone from the passenger seat and dial Mum’s house. The dial tone irritates me as I fretfully wait.

  “Come on. Come on. Pick up.”

  Nothing.

  I throw the phone on the passenger seat again and hit the steering wheel.

  Disappointment washes over me as I drive to her house. It’s only a fifteen-minute journey. I can probably do it in ten. I have to check at least. And then I’ll find a way through the barricades. There’s always a way in. How much would they notice someone trying to get in? Who in their right mind would want to break into a quarantined street? No one. No one would be that dumb.