They’ll probably come later.
Part II
Dead Dreams
6
It’s 8:17 p.m.
I put my phone on silent the moment I left HQ. Didn’t want to speak to any friends. All I’ve done since coming home is tell my parents the news of my failure, and listen to them struggle to find nice ways to say I told you so. But in the end, no matter how they dress it up, no matter how many sympathetic smiles I get, the bottom line is: they were right. Everyone was right. Everyone but me. Don’t know what I was thinking.
I thought shooting one of those Necs would have been the highlight of the day, the highlight of the training. My life. Not some stupid sack-pulling race. I didn’t even get the chance to celebrate taking the first one down with the tranq. I was too dazed for it to even register. And for all I know, it was just a fluke. I can hardly remember pulling the trigger. It’s a good thing that Roger failed me. What possible use could I be in the field if I freeze at the first sign of trouble? Back when I was a little girl, I thought shooting Necs for a living would be the greatest and easiest job in the world.
Shit, was I wrong.
Greatest? Maybe. Easiest? Definitely not.
But to rub salt in the wound, I’ve got to go crawling back to the restaurant to get my old job back. Why on the earth did I have to quit? I should have just taken a few days off, done the training, and then told them where to go. At least then I wouldn’t have to go back there, tail between my legs, with everyone knowing that I failed miserably.
I was so sure that I’d pass. So confident in my abilities.
Silly little girl.
I hear a gentle tap on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I call out.
The door slowly opens and in walks Dad, dressed in his shirt and tie, a compassionate smile on his mouth. “How are you feeling, Angel? Any better?”
I shuffle up into a sitting position. “I’m okay, Dad. Just dreading going back to that restaurant.”
Dad sits on the end of the bed. “Do you think your boss will take you back?”
I shrug. “Hopefully. I’ve worked there long enough. Just not looking forward to seeing that smug look on his fat face, that’s all.”
“Well, maybe you should hold out for something else. Something better.”
“No, it’s all right, Dad. Don’t want to stay in bed for the next two weeks, moping about some job I didn’t get. Got to keep earning. Pay my way and all that.”
“That’s the spirit, Cath. And look, maybe you could apply to the police instead.”
“I’ve already looked into it. They’re not recruiting until next year. Not in Wales, anyway. And I don’t fancy moving all the way to Birmingham on my own. It’s not for me. I’m a Welsh Lass through and through.”
Dad beams. “That’s good to know. I’d hate for you to leave us. Your Mum and I kinda like having you around.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He pats my leg. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Just need a day or two to get back on track. Who needs that stupid job anyway? Bunch of Neanderthal, sexist assholes. Good riddance.”
“Yeah. Life’s too short to dwell.” Dad gets up off the bed. “Right, well, I’m off to do some paperwork. It’s not quite as exciting as catching zombies for a living, but it suits me to the ground.”
“They’re called Necs, Dad,” I correct him, chuckling. “Short for Necro-Morbus. Not zombies.”
“Same bloody thing,” he replies as he exits the room.
Zombie.
Never heard Dad refer to them as that before.
Sounds pretty stupid out loud.
Once I’m showered, teeth cleaned, I go back into my bedroom and pull out my hairdryer from my dresser. I sit in the chair and stare into the mirror as I dry my hair. Even though the steaming hot shower has woken me up, I can tell by my puffy, dark ringed eyes that I’m exhausted. Definitely need an early night.
Don’t know how I’m going to face setting foot in that restaurant tomorrow. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I should hold out for something better.
Once my hair is dry and brushed, I get up from the chair and walk over to my bedside table. I notice my phone, still on charge, still set to silent. Pulling the cable out of the socket, I see that I’ve had four text messages, two from Steph, one from my parents, and one from Rachel. Can’t be bothered to read them right now. I know exactly what they all say: ‘Hi Cath. How did it all go today? Did you pass? Have you taken out any Necs yet?’ Don’t think I’m quite ready to tell them all about my disastrous failure. Not right now anyway. I also see that I have four missed calls: two from Dad and two from unfamiliar numbers. There’s voicemail. I click the icon and put my mobile to speakerphone so I can finish dressing.
“Hi, Cath, it’s your Dad. How did it go today? Did you knock ‘em dead? No pun intended. Call us when you’re done. Love you.”
A second message comes through: “Hi, Miss Woods. Did you know that you might be entitled to compensation? If you were miss-sold Payment Protection Insurance we can—” Don’t fancy listening to another second of that shit so I quickly delete it.
The final message begins to play: “Hi, Catherine, it’s Roger. Roger Davies? Can you give me a quick call when you get this message? There are a couple of things I’d like to speak to you about. Thanks.”
Intrigued, I dial the number. It rings for a few seconds before a voice comes through the speaker: “Hello. Roger Davies speaking.”
“Hi, Roger, it’s Catherine,” I answer, trying to conceal the apprehension in my voice. “Sorry I missed your call; my phone’s been on silent. Everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine, Cath.” He clears his throat loudly. “Look, I’m sorry about today. I know things got a little heated between me and Andrew, which was unprofessional. Unfortunately, in a job like this, tempers can flare up, moods can swing, and disagreements are commonplace. But this is always the way with a team like the one we have.”
“It’s okay, Roger. I understand. You have a job to do—you’ve got to look out for the staff. I get that.”
“Good, good. I’m glad. But, as Andrew pointed out, this job is a learning curve, and in spite of the rule book the government has set out, it is my ship. And as captain I do have a little power to do things in a way I see fit. So, I’ve spoken to Andrew, and he’s agreed to let you shadow him for six months training. Out in the field.”
What?
I’m nearly sick to my stomach when I hear his words.
Did I actually hear them? Or am I just half sleep?
“So, I know that three months is the standard probation period,” he goes on, “but as a compromise I’ve had to increase it to six. I hope you can understand that, Cath. I mean, this wasn’t an easy decision to make. It took a lot of ear bending, particularly from Andrew, but, well…what do you say? Are you in or out?”
If he could see the great big smile spread across my face like The Joker, he’d know my answer. “Of course I’m in, Roger. I’d love to. More than anything.”
“That’s great, Cath. Seven tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”
“No problem, Roger,” I reply, trying to rein in my exhilaration. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Okay then, Cath. I’ll be leaving you in the safe hands of Andrew. Don’t worry, he may seem like a soft touch, but he’s a tough Cleaner. Been at it even longer than I have. He’ll be running you through the last of the training—gun practise, antiviral shots, muzzles—those sorts of things. If there’re no call outs, I’ll even get him to run you over to Romkirk furnace. You’ll get to see how all this ends. Okay with you?”
“Sounds awesome, Roger. Looking forward to it. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Cath. Enjoy the rest of your evening and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay, Roger. And thanks again.”
“Bye.”
I end the call
and then sit on the edge of the bed. Need a moment to absorb the crazy, unprecedented news. It’s like Christmas, Easter, my birthday, and quitting my shitty job at the restaurant, all rolled into one.
Leaping up from the bed, I grab my phone, unplug the charger and slip it into my handbag. I just want to scream the news from the landing, down to Mum and Dad like a kid excited about a brand new toy. But I don’t even know how they’d take the news. They want me to be happy—that much I’m certain of. But actually getting to be a Cleaner—full-time? Who knows?
But more importantly—who cares?
I’m going to be a Cleaner!
Me!
The girl Suzy May used to pick on!
I ain’t such a pushover now!
The dead had better stay dead, because Catherine Woods is coming for blood!
7
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 how 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.”
8
Sunday the 22nd of February 2015. 2:16 p.m.—a day that will be remembered for many years to come.
The day of my very first callout.
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 farmhouse?” I ask, holding onto the sides of my seat as he speeds down one of the narrowest country lanes I’ve ever seen.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 21
