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

by Steven Jenkins

  “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.

  “Move,” Natalie demands. “You’re in the way.”

  “What’s the point?” he says, coldly. “We’re all fucked anyway.”

  “We need to seal up the door,” she replies. “If they find out we’re in here then that lock might not hold.”

  He doesn’t budge, and then looks away like a spoilt toddler.

  “Bloody move, Curtis!” she snaps. “Now!”

  He turns to her and then sighs loudly. “Fine,” he says, moving away from the door, too lazy even to take his hands out of his pockets, giving us barely enough room to put the sofa down.

  What a complete twat! I knew there was a good reason I hate Cardiff.

  I look at the door and then at the sofa. It’s not exactly planks of wood nailed down—but it’s better than nothing.

  “What are you doing?” I hear Adriana ask. “You’re not well.”

  Turning, I see that Ted has started to get up off the barstool.

  “Stop it, Ted,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Sit down.”

  Ted pulls out of her grip and stumbles frantically over to the far right corner of the room. Adriana chases after him.

  Before I even have time to guess what the problem is, I see brown vomit gushing out from Ted’s mouth, splattering all over the carpet. Adriana rubs the centre of his back, his body clenching with every wretch.

  I glance at Ginge; he has that same worried look on his face as Natalie has. Puking is definitely not a good sign.

  Curtis is now sitting on the sofa, looking pretty disinterested in the whole situation; his eyes glued to his mobile phone. Texting a loved one maybe? Or just distracting himself from the situation? Either way, I dislike the guy.

  How the hell did this prick end up sharing a womb with Natalie?

  After a couple of minutes, Adriana escorts Ted over to the sofa and carefully lowers him down. Curtis reluctantly goes to sit on the floor, his back against the wall, his eyes locked onto the dying man.

  The couple sit quietly. Ted closes his eyes, clearly drained from being sick. It’s probably best if he keeps his eyes open—just in case. But I can’t bring myself to mention it.

  Natalie and I each sit on a barstool; Ginge sits on one of the other stools, staring at the door. I wish we’d found an empty VIP suite, I wish we didn’t have to look at a grieving wife as she waits for her husband to die. Even though I know jack shit about them, I still feel sorry for them; still feel a responsibility to keep them safe. Well—keep Adriana safe, because sooner or later Ted will turn.

  And then we’ve got even bigger problems.

  I look through the window. From here, all I can see is the blue sky and the top of the opposite stand. None of the craziness of the day, all the death. Just an ordinary football match on an ordinary summer’s day. Even the muffled screams sound like cheering fans. Will all this hell just fade if I keep staring, keep imagining? Probably not. But it’ll do for now.

  I snap out of my daydream when I hear the knock on the door.

  Everyone’s eyes focus on the noise. Ted and Adriana slowly move off the sofa, hands clenched tightly together.

  Fists clenched, I hear another knock. I get up and edge towards the door. Adriana slowly shakes her head as if to say don’t let anyone else in.

  Is she right?

  But what if they hadn’t let us in? We’d be dead.

  Maybe they’ll move on, try another door, one of other VIP suites further along the corridor.

  Maybe it’s a Nec.

  My phone in my pocket starts to vibrate. Frantically, I pull it out, as the low hum is louder than I thought. Just before I get to the Cancel button I notice the name written across the screen.

  I push the Answer button and put the speaker to my ear.

  A grin slowly forms on my lips when I hear a familiar voice.

  It’s Jonny.

  11

  Ginge and I slide the sofa out of the way and then unlock the door. Even though I know it’s safe, that there can’t possibly be a pack of Necs stood behind it, I still have to brace myself before opening it. Jonny hurries inside; his entire body drenched in sweat. Ginge locks the door behind him, and we push the sofa back into position.

  To see his face, a face that I thought I’d never see again, fills me with such relief, it almost cancels out this shit-storm of a day. I go to hug him, but he pushes me away.

  “Fuck you, Alfie,” he snaps. “You left me and Nathan out there to die.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, flashes of Nathan’s death filling my head. “I tried to pull you away, but you elbowed me in the mouth. Don’t you remember?”

  “You don’t give up on friends,” Jonny scrutinises the room, “so you can shack up with the enemy.”

  I shake my head in amazement. Even for a coked-up Jonny, that’s pushing it. “There’s no enemy in here, mate. We’re all in this shit together. The enemy is out there, ripping everyone apart—both sides.”

  Ginge steps in and places his hand on Jonny’s shoulder. “Look, Jonny, we had no choice. Necs were coming from everywhere. We had nowhere else to hide.”

  Jonny shoves Ginge’s hand off, and walks over to Curtis. I see an image of Jonny throwing a kick while Curtis sits on the floor. But he doesn’t; he just throws him one of psycho looks, and then steps behind the bar. I’m not sure I even care what happens to that Cardiff nob; it’s Natalie I’m concerned about. She’s caught up in the middle of this stupid feud. Jonny opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer. He pops off the cap with the bottle-opener, letting it fall to the floor, and then downs the entire bottle in one go.

  “If you’re gonna stay in here,” Adriana says cautiously, as she lowers her husband back onto the sofa, “then you better stay calm. We don’t want to draw any attention to us.” She sits down.

  Jonny opens another bottle and smirks at her. “This is me calm.” He glances at Curtis. “You haven’t seen me angry yet.”

  I have. Plenty of times.

  Curtis keeps quiet. I can tell by his eyes that he’s desperate to get up off the floor and stand up to Jonny. But he’s completely outnumbered in here. And even if he weren’t, he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a pissed-off Jonny anyway—especially not after the guy just lost his only brother.

  Jonny gulps down the beer and then opens a third. Any other time and I might ask him to slow down a little, save some for us. But not now. Let him vent.

  He sits up on the back c
ounter of the bar, his legs dangling across the fridge, watching Ted and Adriana with curious, glazed over eyes. “So what’s wrong with you two, then?” he asks, sipping his beer.

  “None of your business,” Adriana says with a venomous tone. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Jonny’s already figured out what’s up with Ted.

  Jonny chuckles and looks at me. “Fucking hell. What’s this bitch’s problem? I only asked a simple question.”

  “Just keep out of it,” Natalie says to him. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  He finishes his drink, reaches between his knees and opens the fridge to get a fourth bottle. “Of course it has.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Natalie replies.

  “It does when one of us is infected,” he replies, turning his attention back to Ted.

  “He’s not infected,” Adriana says, “he’s just injured himself, that’s all.”

  “Now I know that’s bullshit,” he replies, jumping down from the counter and walking over to the couple.

  Adriana leaps up from the sofa and blocks his path. “Piss off back to whichever hole you crawled out of. This is our room. Find somewhere else to hide.”

  Jonny spots Ted’s injured arm, with its blackened veins spreading like tentacles.

  He steps closer.

  “I mean it!” she snaps, pushing him back. “Get away!”

  “Don’t be so paranoid, woman,” Jonny replies, standing firm, a cold grin spreading across his face. “I just want to see the bite mark; that’s all. I’m not gonna do anything.”

  Adriana’s eyes are wide, filled with tears, and her hands are shaking. “Get back!” she demands. “I’m warning you.”

  I can’t bear it any longer—she’s been through enough. So I go over to him and grab his shoulder. “Come on, Jon, leave them be, yeah? They’re good people.”

  Jonny slowly turns his head, looks down at my hand like I’ve just smeared shit over his clothes, and then punches me square in the jaw. I fly backwards onto the floor, crashing into the barstools. A clanging of metal echoes around the room as they topple over like dominos.