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.
What the fuck is going on?
“Where is everyone?” Ginge asks, his face pressed tightly against the glass, probing the entire outside area. “I thought there’d be a TV news crew, police cars. The works.”
“I don’t know. The police must have sealed off the stadium even further back.”
Ginge hands me his bottle of whiskey and then unlocks the window. It opens like a door but only halfway out. Holding onto the frame for support, he pokes his head outside.
“Do you see anyone?” I ask him; trying to look past his thick body as it squeezes through the opening.
“No, nothing. They’ve just left us here to die.”
“Don’t be so stupid. They can’t just leave us in here. There are twenty-one thousand of us. If even a fraction of that got out into the city, then everyone’s screwed. Not just us. They’ve probably got a huge barricade up half a mile away.”
Ginge looks directly below him. “Maybe we could climb down.”
“It’s a thirty-metre drop onto a concrete car park. Good luck with that.”
“I didn’t say we should jump, you dickhead. All we need is something to lower us down.”
“Well, that sounds easy enough. Let’s just tie a load of bed sheets together and lower ourselves down. Piece of cake.”
“Fuck off, Alf, I didn’t mean bed sheets. But there must be something lying around here.” He pushes his body out a little further. “Or we could use the—”
Suddenly, I hear a faint thud and then Ginge’s body goes limp.
He starts to slide out the window.
“Oh shit!” I say, dropping the both whiskey bottles on the floor as I grab his waist. The sound of glass shattering booms around the kitchen. I manage to wrench his heavy body back inside. He slumps down onto the cold tiles, completely unconscious.
Oh, fuck me!
Is he dead?
Please God no!
Not Ginge!
But then I see his chest rising up and down, and a wave of relief washes over me. There’s a small patch of blood coming from his left shoulder. A bullet wound? Rolling the sleeve of his jersey up, I see a small bloodied piercing in his skin.
It’s got to be a tranquiliser.
I shake his shoulders. “Wake up, Ginge.” No response. Got to get him back to the others now. I go around to his head, drop to one knee, and slip my arms under his armpits. Pulling him up into a sitting position, I start to drag him backwards towards the door. With his weight, each inch is a struggle as his legs and ass slide against the floor. Nervous beads of hot sweat run off my head, into my eyes, burning. I can’t wipe them away.
I’ve got to keep moving.
Reaching the door, I open it and start to drag him out onto the corridor. I don’t see any Necs, so I continue towards the VIP suite. The strength in my arms is fading fast as I pass the other rooms. Nearly there, just a few more metres.
The sound of footsteps fills the corridor.
I freeze for moment, eyes wide, but then start moving again, only much faster. I look behind me; no Necs.
Suddenly a low, guttural growl resounds along the corridor.
Then another.
“Oh fuck!”
Moving as fast as possible, I inch closer and closer to the room.
The footsteps have increased. So have the moans.
They’re coming!
Choking with horror I see a horde of Necs tearing towards me, screaming like wild apes.
The door is just five metres away.
“Wake up!” I yell to Ginge. “You’ve got to wake up!”
No response.
The dead are closing in. There’s so many of them; ten, maybe twenty.
We’re fucked.
“Wake up, Ginge!”
They’re getting closer. What the fuck do I do?
“Someone help me!” I shout. “Please!”
But it’s too late.
The first Nec pounces onto Ginge’s motionless body, the rotter’s weight pulling him from my hold. I drive my foot into its chest, propelling it backwards into an oncoming Nec. “Get the fuck away from him!” Another slithers over Ginge. Just as I’m about to shunt him off, two more dive on. Like a horrible dream, I find myself drifting backwards, away from my best friend as a flood of Necs bite down, ripping chunks of flesh and muscle away like chicken off a bone. The walls somehow feel narrower as I float towards the VIP suite.
I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it.
No one follows as I reach the room. I don’t even hear the sound as I beat my fist on the door. All I can hear is the sound of chewing as the Necs tear open Ginge’s bulging stomach and pull out his intestines like thick, blood-soaked cable.
Most of the Necs can’t get a purchase on Ginge; there are just too many of them. I bang hard on the door again, and this time I hear the sound just fine.
The dead have heard it too.
Should I run, find somewhere else to hide?
But that decision is made for me when the door opens, and I’m heaved inside by Jonny.
I fall, face down on the floor in a heap when Jonny lets go of my arm. I don’t have the strength to get back up. I’m drained, too broken to help him with the sofa as he pushes it against the door. The Necs have gathered outside, beating their rotting fists against the wood; their cries of rage travelling around the room. They’ll get through, eventually. It’s just a matter of time. The louder they get, the more they’ll draw others from the rest of the stadium. And before we know it, we’ll all be torn open and eaten like Ginge. Like Nathan.
It’s just a matter of when.
Jonny is standing on the sofa; his shoulder pressed against the door. I should help, but I can’t move. All I can do is relive the disgust, the agony of seeing my best friend being devoured alive.
I should never have left him.
But what choice did I have? There were too many of them. They would have killed me too. At least he didn’t suffer. At least he was unconscious. I doubt he’ll turn, either. Can’t see there being much of him left after those vultures have had their feed.
Shut up! Don’t think about him like he’s a piece of meat.
“Help me with the door!” Jonny screams as the sofa vibrates under his feet. “Stupid fuckers!”
Everything seems so unreal—as if someone’s slipped me acid. I wish they had. At least then I could put all this down to a bad trip.
A very bad trip.
Natalie has now joined Jonny on the sofa, pushing as hard as she can, her cheeks red from the strain, her eyes filled with panic. Curtis is still down on the floor, staring up as if none of this is his problem. He’s got the right idea: keep your head down and stay the fuck out of things. That’s what I should have done—instead of stepping outside like an idiot. I should have talked Ginge out of going; made him stay put, leave the brave stuff to the experts. He’d be here with me now if I did. And we wouldn’t have an army of Necs trying to break the door down.
Shut up, Alfie! That’s stupid!
I need to get up. Need to help.
Jonny screams something to me, but I can barely make out the words. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s saying. I somehow manage to get back onto my feet, climb up onto the sofa, and press my shoulder against the door next to Natalie. I don’t even know if I’m even helping the situation. But at least it’s something.
The noise outside increases. The corridor must be teeming with them.
They’re gonna get through!
“Curtis!” Natalie calls to her brother. “Get off your ass and help us! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Curtis stares blankly at her for moment, rolls his eyes, and then reluctantly joins us on the sofa.
Even with the four of us, the pressure from outside ripples through our bodies like an electric shock.
With every blow to the door, all I can think about is Ginge. I turn to Jonny; does he even care about the death of one of his friends? Maybe a dead brother is all the mind can take in one day. Maybe everything else is just a minor inconvenience in comparison.
Suddenly Jonny’s earlier outbursts, the drinking, punching me in the face, all of that now seems so clear.
I glance at the heavily-stocked bar.
A bottle of vodka sounds pretty good right now.
15
I’m exhausted beyond belief.
We’ve been pressed up against the door for about half an hour. Most of the hammering has been replaced with faint scratching on the door, and a few weak groans.
I think the majority of Necs have moved on. Right now, silence seems to be our only weapon.
I glance over at the old couple. Adriana is still sitting by her husband’s side, her head resting on his shoulder. Ted’s bloodshot eyes are half open; I can still hear his heavy wheeze as his lungs struggle with every breath. Don’t know how much longer he’s got. But at least he’s tied down.
“So what the fuck happened to Ginge?” Jonny asks. “Is he dead?”
Nodding, I fight hard not to cry, straining to keep my chin from quivering. “When we got into the kitchen, Ginge stuck his head outside to shout for help—but then someone shot him in the shoulder.”
Jonny’s eyebrows rise with shock. “Shit. Really? Why the hell would someone shoot him?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, shrugging. “It must have been a tranquiliser ‘cause he was out cold.”
“They must’ve thought he was infected.” Jonny shakes his head. “That’s fucked up.”
I let out a long exhale, trying to wield off images of his death. “And then I started to drag him out into the corridor, to get back here—but there were just too many of them. They kept coming and coming. And then it was too late—I had to let him go. I had no choice.” The anguish tries to take over. I won’t let it! I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the sofa, face buried into my palm, battling hard to keep the tears back. “It’s all my fault.”
“Damn right it’s your fault,” Jonny says, bluntly as I take my head out of my hands. “I told you not to go out there. And you didn’t listen, did you? And you led them straight to us. You could have got us all killed. You fucking moron.”
I almost tell him to shut up. And I almost get up and swing a punch at his stupid face. But I don’t. How can I? He’s right—we should have never gone outside. It was a dumb idea.
And I fucked up!
All of a sudden, I feel lightheaded. And the room seems smaller, more claustrophobic. I need some space.
Where, though?
“Don’t listen to him, Alfie,” I hear Natalie say as I scramble to my feet and make my way over to the window. Her words are sweet but worthless to me.
I catch a glimpse of Adriana as I pass. I can tell by her eyes that she’s been listening. But she has her own problems to deal with. I move to the front row of spectator seats and sit down in the very middle. It’s the one I would have chosen if I actually had a VIP pass. This suite is pretty much smack-bang at the centre of the stand, with the perfect panoramic view of the pitch. Why sit anywhere else? I imagine Swansea is playing Manchester United in the FA Cup Final, and the grass is filled with players, instead of decaying corpses. And the screaming is just the sound of excited fans cheering for the win. It’s 2-2 in the closing minutes of the game. It’s now or never. Make or break. Sherman takes the corner, shoots it clean into the box; Rhodes heads the ball straight into the back of the net. I turn to my left, half-expecting to see Ginge sitting there, blaring, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me in celebration.
But he’s not, and never will be again.
Just an empty seat.
I close my eyes as the wooziness passes, and try to think about home instead. Not that I’ll have a home in a few months. All I have left is a few friends, one of which is a drug-crazed nut-job who’d gladly kick anyone’s teeth in if you caught him in a bad mood.
“Mind if I sit?” I hear Natalie ask.
I open my eyes and see her standing in front of me; her face a mask of sympathy.
But I don’t need any. I can take care of myself.
Giving a subtle nod, she sits down next to me—where Ginge should be sitting.
“First time in the VIP suite?” she asks, softly. But I don’t need soft right now. I need space.
I’m not ready to speak. The best I can offer is another nod.
“Yeah. Me too. My father’s been in one a few times with his work. He said that it was an unforgettable experience.” She lets out a small chuckle. “He’s not wrong there.”
Forcing a tight smile, I slouch on the seat, gazing at the awesome view of the stadium.
We sit in silence. I can sense that she’s desperate for me to talk to her, but I’ve got nothing to say. I’d happily just crawl under a rock and wait for this all to be over.
After a few minutes, she asks me, “Do you go to college?”
I shake my head. College? Who gives a fuck about college? My friend just died.
“I’m in university,” she continues. “I’m studying to become a physiotherapist. My father wanted me to be a doctor,” she says. “But I don’t fancy spending all those years studying. Do you know what I mean, Alf?”
She’s persistent—I’ll give her that.
“I’m too dumb for all that,” I finally say, my words barely audible.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Alfie. You don’t have to be a brainbox to go to Uni. Hell, I’m no genius. You just have to apply yourself.”
I let out a small snort. “You’re starting to sound like Wendy.”
“Who’s that?” she asks. “Your girlfriend?”
“She’s my foster mum.”
“You’re a foster kid? Really? I had no idea.”
“Why would you? We don’t all have to wear foster kid t-shirts you know.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just…well…you just don’t seem the type.”
“So what’s the type?” I ask with a snappy tone. “Baseball cap, ASBO, a pocketful of drugs?” It dawns on me that I still have most of my coke left in my pocket.
And a flick-knife.
“Don’t be a dick,” she replies, throwing me a pissed look. “You know what I mean.”
She’s right; I am being a dick, but I can’t help it. Normally, I’d be over the moon if a hot girl came and sat by me. But with everything that’s happened, social etiquette has lost all its meaning.
Natalie starts to get up. “You need some time by yourself. We’ll talk later, yeah?”
“No, wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. My head’s just a little fucked right now. Stay.”
She ponders for a moment but then sits. “No need to apologise. You’ve just lost your friend. What was his name again?”
“Ginge.”
“I mean his real name.”
“Ian Mailing. But no one’s called him that for years.”
“I like nicknames,” she says with a smile. “So you and him were pretty close, yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah. Really close. He was the only one who bothered with me in school. And that’s handy when you’re the only black kid there. He was the one who got me into football. And, well, I suppose he was the one who’s put me off it—for life.”
“Don’t say that. You love football.”
I shake my head. “Not anymore I don’t.”
“How long have you been in foster care?”
“Since birth, pretty much. I was left outside the hospital when I was a baby.”
“Oh my God! I didn’t think people actually did that in real life. That must be a hard thing to deal with.”
I nod; my life as a foster kid flashing before my eyes. “It’s no big deal. It’s all I’ve ever known. And foster care has its advantages. You get to change schools a lot; you get your ass kicked by a drunken foster father—oh and you have to put up with annoying foster brothers like Harry.”
“Sounds pretty tough.”
“It is—but not all the time. Wendy is awesome. She’s the only one who treats me like a part of the family. She has to put up with a total wanker of a husband, and a houseful of little shits, but she’s always there for me, always willing to listen. I suppose she’s the closest thing to a real mother I’ve ever had.”
“She sounds nice.”
“Yeah, she is.” I see a vision of Wendy, from this morning, handing Ginge and me those bacon rolls. She always does stuff like that; always thinking ahead. And then my chest starts to tighten at the prospect of not seeing her again. “But all that’s gonna change soon. I’ll be eighteen in four months. No more foster care.”
The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot Page 7
