Body tensed, I wait to feel her teeth sinking deep into my arms.
This is it.
I love you, Wendy.
Thoughts of becoming one of those things, or ending up incinerated, repeat in my head.
Please don’t let it be painful.
Of course it will! Someone tearing chunks of flesh from your arm—fully conscious—is bound to be agony. It’ll be like—
Where’s she gone?
Still cautious, I slowly remove my arms from my head to see.
The Nec isn’t there.
Where the hell did she go?
She can’t have seen me. Maybe she thought I was already dead.
I scan my surroundings for any other Necs. It’s clear, apart from a bunch of roamers a few metres ahead, the other side of the aisle. Like vermin, they’re scrounging for leftovers along the seats. From here, all I can see are piles of bodies, motionless; any turned are most likely buried. The rest of the stadium is obscured. I’ll have to keep moving forward, head for the concourse. Who knows, maybe it’s clear by now. Perhaps, get one of the fire exits open.
With what? A battering ram?
Last time you were there, it was locked up tighter than a bank vault.
Dragging my legs out from under the bodies, I stay down, slinking along the floor, as if crawling under a cargo net. The noises all around me, the agonising wails, the distant cries for help—it’s all too much to handle. Even if I did have something to get the exit open—Christ, even if they were hanging wide open—how the fuck am I supposed to get there in one piece? There are thousands of Necs stuck inside; all it takes is one to spot me and I’ve got them all on me. I’m screwed no matter what.
Then what have you got to lose?
Everything.
Just as I reach the steps, I freeze when three Necs stagger up from the concourse. Holding my breath, I watch them pass, heading down towards the pitch.
I sigh with relief and attempt the mountainous journey back down onto the concourse. Body crouched down low, I start to examine my surroundings. The entire stand, both sides, is teeming with rotters—thousands. Too many to count.
Any second now and one of these bastards will see me—and then I’m fucked.
Descending the steps, I can see the lights of the concourse. Holding onto the railing, petrified beyond belief, I take each step like it’s the edge of a treacherous cliff.
Hopefully, the majority have dispersed, spread out to look for food. Maybe I can slip past a few, hide behind the food counter until the coast is clear.
But when I see the concourse, when I see the hundreds of Necs, congregating, with barely space for another body, I know, without a shadow of doubt that there is no way out.
No hope of escape. And no chance of surviving a bomb drop.
My heart sinks with dejection as I turn back towards the stand, unable to think of another solution.
The low, guttural groan of a Nec comes at me from the left, then the right. With nowhere to run, I’m suddenly faced with four rotters, their football jerseys smeared in blood and gore.
Even as the adrenaline courses through my veins, I know it’s worthless. There’s no getting out of this. But it’s simple really: curl up and die? Or go out fighting?
Easiest answer of my life.
A burst of energy hits me like a dose of Amphetamine. I slam my shoulder into the first Nec, dropping him to the floor. I do the same to the second. Before the other two can even acknowledge me, I slip past them, heading down the steps towards the pitch.
Another Nec stumbles out from an aisle, so I slam my fist into her temple. She collapses on her side, over the seats, and down onto the next row. The stadium is alive and kicking with movement. But I don’t stop to take it all in. I don’t need to see where they’re coming from. I already know—everywhere!
Reaching a set of railings, I see a Nec stood by the steps to my left. I drive my lucky-white-trainer into his chest and watch him roll down the stairs. I follow him down onto the first tier of the stand. I can’t help but gasp when I see the hundreds of Necs, filling up nearly every inch of the stand. Don’t look at them! I push past the first few easily, but have to detour a little down an empty row to avoid a pack.
I’ve got to get onto the grass. Need an open space to run. Maybe I can get the field gates open.
But they’re bound to be locked as well!
People would have already tried it.
Fuck it! It’s still worth a shot.
I barge my way down, reaching the edge of the pitch, roughly the halfway point. To the left, I see the field gates; they’re closed, and most definitely locked. Got to take my chances. Wrist throbbing, chest tight, I bolt along the grass, dodging Necs like a game of tag. There must be two hundred of the fuckers scattered across, ambling, looking for their next meal.
It won’t be me.
With just a few metres from stepping off the pitch and reaching the gates, I glance back to see how many are in pursuit.
Not one!
How the hell did I manage that?
As I lock eyes on the gates again, I’m met with a storm of Necs. Too late to stop, to sidestep the pack, I slam into the first one’s chest. My body flies backwards onto the grass, head slamming into ground. Before I can even process the setback, I scramble to my feet. There must be at least fifty in front, blocking my path. Oh, shit! This is not good! Turning, I consider bolting the other way, maybe taking the long way around the field. But there are too many. I’m completely surrounded. They’re so close. It’s just a matter of time now.
Eaten or blown up?
Neither sounds like a great option.
Out of routes, I try to run through the pack. I manage to shove one of the Necs down onto the grass, but then I’m face to face with another. And another. I try again, but can’t help but wonder how the hell I’m still alive.
Why the fuck haven’t they eaten me yet?
As I scan my surroundings, glaring at their decaying faces, something strange occurs to me.
The Necs aren’t interested in me.
Frowning with confusion, I take another look, this time deeper into the eyes of these rotting bastards. But there’s nothing there. No anger, no cries of hunger—just wandering bags of pus.
What the fuck is going on?
I see a small gap form in front, so I glide through it. The thought of being so close to them churns my stomach. But once again, the Necs don’t acknowledge me. More and more gaps form, so I push through, rubbing against blood-soaked clothing, enduring a noseful of death-stench. But after less than a minute, I’m off the grass and onto the concrete path that leads to the gates.
What’s happened to them?
Have they just stopped hunting us? Got tired of eating meat?
No way.
Just before the gates, I can see into the concourse. The entire area is jam-packed with Necs, some kneeling over victims, pulling chunks of flesh from them, while others roam, dragging twisted limbs along the concrete.
The thick metal gates are at least twenty feet high and about fifteen feet across. Through the bars, I can see the stadium car park. It’s deserted apart from a few seagulls flapping and squawking. Beneath the centre of the gates lie ten or twelve bodies, all dead, half-eaten or crushed to death. Not sure if any will turn. Maybe it’s a little late now; they’ve probably been here since the beginning.
With just one hand, I start to drag the bodies away to get to the heavy padlock, which is hanging on the outside of the gates. A sudden rage bubbles up when I picture someone locking us all inside. Sick bastards! Pushing my arm through, I grasp the padlock to double check that it’s secure. There’s no way that thing’s coming off. I tug on it, praying that I made a mistake, that by a miracle it’s only stiff and not locked. Of course it’s locked. Otherwise, these people would have died for nothing.
“Shit!”
I look up at the top of the gate, hoping to see a gap. But there’s none. There’s no way through.
I
turn to face the stadium, my back pressed firmly against the metal bars. I’ve come so close—and all for nothing. Nathan’s dead. Jonny and Ginge. Natalie, Curtis. All gone! And still I’m stuck in here, still breathing—waiting for some lunatic to drop a bomb on me.
What’s the fucking point?
I’m dying for a cigarette. One last smoke before I’m cremated. Even though I know damn well that I don’t have any, I pat my pockets down anyway. In my shorts, I feel the weight of the flick-knife. I pull it out. Fat lot of good this was. I raise it up past my shoulder, ready to launch it. I hate this fucking thing. Should never have brought it here. At least I’ll never make the same mistake again. At least today is the last day of Alfie Button fuck-ups.
But then it hits—I can pick the bloody lock!
I push the button on the handle, and the blade pops out. Sliding my broken wrist through the bars of the gate, I grasp the padlock, biting down on my bottom lip in agony. I haven’t picked a lock since I was thirteen—Phil’s whiskey cabinet. The blade is thin enough to slot into the keyhole. I jiggle it about a little. My face is pressed against the bars, listening out for that all-important click. I don’t hear it so I keep prodding aimlessly.
The sun is now completely up; the sky light blue. If I do die here this morning, at least it’s on a sunny day. At least it’s not pissing down.
Shut up, Alfie! You’re not gonna die. You’re almost out.
Through the groans of the dead, I hear a faint rumble outside the stadium. It’s the sound of jets in the distance.
It’s getting closer.
No. Not yet!
I’m almost out!
The panic hits me hard. Palms sweaty, I keep twisting and jabbing at the lock, but it still won’t open. Come on, Alfie! You can do this!
No, I can’t. It’s impossible!
The knife slips out of my hand and falls outside, bouncing onto the concrete surface.
“Fuck!”
Dropping to my knees, I stretch my arm all the way through, my fingertips just about touching the knife. That sound—it’s getting louder. Nearer. Forcing my face painfully against the bars, I manage to grab the knife. Leaping to my feet, I stick the blade into the keyhole again. Alfie Button doesn’t give up without a fight! With the palm of my hand, I ram the knife deep into the lock and then twist.
I hear a click.
The padlock pops open!
With no time to celebrate, I unhook it, drop it on the ground, and then open the gates. Stomach stirring with excitement, the blazing sun blinding me, I start to run towards the car park.
To freedom!
But then the idiot inside my head forces me to stop.
What if it’s not the jets coming? Maybe there’s still more time. I can’t risk letting all those Necs out.
“Fuck!”
Running back to the gates, I see a crowd of Necs swaying over to the opening. Others will follow. I slam the gates shut, the tall, metal structure cracking the ribs of a Nec, flinging his withering body backwards. Quickly returning the padlock onto the latch, I lock it. An array of arms and putrid faces push through the gaps between the bars. They bark and bite, as if in frustration—their chance of escape snatched.
I sprint across the car park, heading for the walkover bridge about two hundred metres ahead. I don’t look back, not even when I hear the jets above me. I keep running. It’s what I do best. Just run. Focus on the finish line. The ground shudders when the bombs hit the stadium, but I keep moving—through the pain in my eardrums, through the searing heat, gnawing the back of my neck, burning my hair. The narrow bridge vibrates as I dart over it. I can no longer run as the wooden beams under my feet split like glass. The shockwave thrusts me forward. I land on the other side of the bridge, scraping off the skin of my palms as I slide along the gravel, the pain in my wrist torturous.
But I get up—and I keep running.
And I won’t rest until the ground stops shaking. Until my skin stops burning.
I’m alive. I don’t know what happened to the Necs, how I managed to slip past them—but it doesn’t matter.
I’m out.
Lungs at bursting point, I start to slow down, until finally stopping when I reach a small playground. I hold onto a picnic bench, trying to catch my breath; too exhausted to feel any relief or sadness.
I glance back towards the stadium, but it’s too far away to see the devastation. All I can make out is a giant cloud of grey smoke.
It’s over.
I start moving again, out of the park, holding my injured wrist against my chest.
The hospital can wait. The only place I want to be right now is home. To Wendy.
I made it.
As I come to a narrow footpath, leading onto Holloway Street, something sharp pierces the side of my right shoulder. The morning sun suddenly brightens, becoming a fusion of colours.
I can’t remember where I am.
The ringing sound buried in my eardrum disappears.
I don’t feel the pain as my head smashes into the hard gravel.
I don’t feel anything…
EPILOGUE
The sound of something beeping disturbs my dreams.
But at least I’m dreaming.
Or am I?
What if I’m dead? How the hell would I know?
I see Natalie. I see her standing by the bar, smiling at me with those pearly white teeth. And then I see us kissing in the VIP suite. At that moment we were somewhere else, miles away from danger; on a first date, sitting in a restaurant, or at the cinema, watching some chick-flick.
But then I see her disappear, swallowed up by a flock of Necs.
I hear a voice.
A woman. It’s soft, but confident. Like a schoolteacher.
Wendy?
Light begins to seep through my heavy eyelids. I resist at first, but then open them. Vision cloudy, I try to focus on the room. The walls are white, and there’s a small window directly in front. It has bars over the glass.
Bars? Where the hell am I?
“Can you hear me?” the woman asks. I slowly turn my head to face the figure standing over me. It’s not Wendy. Who is she? I blink my eyes a few times, and the fog begins to lift. The woman looks old, maybe fifty. She’s short, with tied-back brown hair, wearing a long white coat. She must be a doctor.
“Alfie,” the woman says, “my name is Doctor Hughes. Can you hear me?”
As the disorientation clears, the ringing sound in my eardrums returns. So does the pain in my wrist. I’m lying on a hospital bed. There are four other beds here, without any patients. Stuck to my bare chest is a series of grey pads with wires attached, leading to a beeping computer monitor. And there is a plaster cast over my left hand, up to my forearm. I go to move my other arm but can’t. I try again, only to find my wrist handcuffed to the railing of the bed. What the hell is going on? I yank my arm as hard as I can, but stop dead, wincing, when I feel a sharp sting in my right shoulder. There’s a large white plaster stuck to the side of it. What the fuck is that for? But then the memory of getting shot seeps through the haze.
I start to panic.
Need to get out of here now!
I try to move, but my legs aren’t working.
“I’m paralysed!” I mumble in horror, pulling the blanket to see if my legs are still attached.
“You’re okay, Alfie,” Doctor Hughes says calmly. “It’s just the after-effects of the tranquiliser. It’ll wear off soon. Apart from a few burns, a broken wrist and mild concussion, you’re fine. You were lucky.”
Lucky. How the hell am I lucky? Everyone is dead.
“I’m sorry about the shoulder, boy,” another voice says in the distance, this time coming from a man. “But I had to take you down. Just in case.”
There’s a stocky man with a shaved head sitting down on a chair to the right of me. He’s in his late thirties, early forties, dressed in a white overall with a military-style combat vest. And attached to his hip is a holstered gun.
�
��You shot me?” I ask; my mouth dry, my words croaky. I cough to clear my throat.
“I had no choice,” the man replies. “You could have been a Nec.”
The doctor gestures with her hand over to him. “This is Andrew Whitt. He’s a Cleaner.” He gives a slight nod and a half-smile. “He and his team were partly responsible for keeping the outbreak contained.”
I tug again at my restraint. “Am I under arrest or something?”
The doctor shakes her head. “No, of course not, Alfie.”
“Then why the fuck have you handcuffed me to a bed?” I ask, my head and shoulder aching as I clench my body in anger.
“It’s just a precaution,” the doctor replies.
“For what? Can’t you tell that I’m not infected? Haven’t you already tested my fucking blood?”
“Yes, of course we have.”
“Then what the fuck am I doing here?” I ask, thrashing hard, trying to somehow break the handcuffs. “Answer me!”
Andrew gets up off the chair, his hand hovering over the gun.
“What the hell are you gonna do with that?” I ask the Cleaner, sitting upright, a brave smirk on my lips. “You’re gonna shoot me? Again?”
Doctor Hughes puts out her hand for Andrew to stand-down. He hesitates at first, but then reluctantly sits.
“You’re currently in foster care. Is that right, Alfie?” The doctor continues. “In the care of a Philip and Wendy Egan?”
“Yeah. So? What’s it got to do with you?” Jesus Christ, Wendy probably thinks I’m dead! “Does she know I’m alive?”
“Don’t worry,” she replies. “They know you’re safe.”
“I want to see her,” I say, frustration building as I keep pulling on the handcuffs. “Where is she?”
“You’ll be able to see her soon enough. But I need to ask you a few questions about your biological parents.”
“Well that’s easy: I know fuck all about them! Now let me go, you stupid bitch!”
“You need to calm down, Alfie,” the Cleaner says as he marches over to the bed, his hand by his gun again. “Doctor Hughes is here to help you.”
The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot Page 11
