“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 home 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 callout today?” he asks as he turns another corner, almost clipping a grass bank.
“No. They’d 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 dumb 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.”
“And what happened next? Did he wake all right? Was he aggressive at all to you? Anything unusual? Cursing perhaps?”
“Absolutely not! Keith would never use bad language. Certainly not in the house.”
“How is he this morning?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been asleep all day. That’s why I called for an ambulance. Never seen him like this before. It’s not like him to get sick. He’s as tough as old boots. So I left him in the bedroom.”
Andrew glances over to me, signalling with his eyes that it’s time to enter the house. My heart rate starts to increase. I battle hard not to let it, but the apprehension is overwhelming.
I can’t freeze. I can’t let Andrew down. One Nec or not, it’s still dangerous no matter how many there are.
“Mrs Rosemont,” Andrew says, his tone firm, filled with authority, “for your own safety, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside while we examine your husband.”
“For my own safety? What on earth are you talking about?”
I decide to step in, to show that I’m not just here for the ride, that I can actually contribute. “Mrs Rosemont,” I say, softly, “it’s safer that you stay outside. There’s been a report of Necro-Morbus around here, so just as a precaution, we’re going to take a look at your husband. It’s probably a false alarm, but we need to be sure. We’ll be five minutes, I promise. Is that okay?”
Mrs Rosemont shrugs stubbornly. “Well, I suppose.” She then steps out of her house. “He’s upstairs—last room at the end.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling, ushering her over to the van. “He’s in safe hands. You don’t have to worry.”
Andrew gives me a slight grin, clearly happy with my performance, and puts on his helmet. I return the grin and slip mine on too.
Now my heart is really racing!
Inside the house, Andrew pulls out his gun; he whispers for me to do the same. He then slowly closes the front door, and it quietly clicks shut. I wish he didn’t have to close it, I wish we could leave it hanging wide open. The thought of not having a clear exit fills me with such dread, such claustrophobia. But I understand why. We have to contain him if he’s turned. Can’t have him running out of the house, out of sight. It’s too dangerous.
“I want you to stay behind me—no matter what,” Andrew whispers. “Only shoot if I give the order. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, pointing my gun straight ahead, desperately trying to stop my hand from quaking. Don’t think Andrew’s noticed. Have to keep it together.
Creeping down the hallway, Andrew pokes his head into the living room. The room is filled with old-fashioned, brown, flowery furniture and there’s a large, swivel armchair positioned in front of the TV, which is on, with the volume a little too high. The foot of the low, narrow staircase is just opposite the living-room door. Andrew gestures for me to follow him up. Logic suggests that I stay downstairs, to cover all corners of the house. But I know he won’t let me out of his sight. It’s too risky. Certainly not on my first official day.
Each wooden step creaks loudly as we make our way up the stairs. I can feel my muscles tense up. I suppose that’s normal. Even Andrew must feel a little anxious walking up these stairs, about to face a potential Nec. I take a glance at his arms as he points his gun out in front. Steady as a rock.
It’s just me then.
At the top, there’s a narrow corridor with two doors along the sides, and one at the far end. The first door is already open—it’s the bathroom. Andrew edges inside. There’s only room for one, so I hang back by the doorway. There’s a bath, sink and toilet. No shower curtain for Mr Rosemont to hide behind. Thank God. I take a step backwards as Andrew exits the bathroom.
The second door is closed. Andrew grasps the handle. “Be ready, Cath.”
I nod, gun pointed firmly at the door, ready to take down any Necs about to burst out.
The door opens, revealing a tiny box room. It’s completely empty apart from a few boxes of junk, an ironing board propped up against the wall, and a chest of drawers with several golf trophies posit
ioned neatly across the top.
“Last room,” Andrew whispers as he slinks towards the third and final door.
Reaching the bedroom, the grip on my gun stiffens when I see that the door is slightly ajar. Andrew gives it a gentle prod and it slowly swings open, my shallow breathing saturating my helmet. This is it. My first real clean up. I’ve made it. It’s actually happening. I’m actually here.
And I couldn’t be more terrified.
Andrew’s large frame fills the doorway, blocking my view of the room. I try to see past his wide shoulders, but all I can see is a darkened room. Andrew steps inside, unblocking my view. From the doorway, I see that the curtains are still closed but there’s enough light coming in through from the landing to make out most of the room. There’s a small wooden wardrobe to the left, and just under the window, a chest of drawers, identical to the one from the spare the room. At the centre of the room is a double bed. The quilt is ruffled high, with a stack of various-sized pillows piled up by the headboard; at least six. Andrew walks towards the bed, gun still aimed in front. “Mr Rosemont?” he quietly asks. “Are you awake? We’re here to take you to the hospital.”
No response.
“Mr Rosemont?” he repeats, this time a touch louder. “Can you hear me? My name is Andrew Whitt. I’m a paramedic. I’m here with my colleague to take you to the hospital.”
Still no answer.
Using the tip of his gun, Andrew nudges the raised quilt, but the gun pushes the quilt all the way down to the mattress.
The bed is empty.
Shit.
Where the hell is Mr Rosemont?
Andrew whips the quilt completely off the bed to make sure. “We need to search this house fast,” he says, his voice still low, filled with urgency.
He pushes past me, and I follow him down the corridor, back to the stairs. Slowly, we skulk down each step, both guns aimed, ready for a sudden attack. At the bottom, Andrew peeps quickly into the living room, but once again the room is clear. “Stay here,” he orders. “I’m gonna check out the kitchen.” I nod and watch as he makes his way down the hallway. The kitchen door is ajar, so he pushes it open with his shoulder. As soon as it opens I can see that the back door is hanging wide open.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 22
