“Sorry, Robert, you know I know as much as you do. We get the call, and then we deal with it.” He makes his way towards the exit. “Ignorance is bliss, Robert. I’ll see you later. Be careful now. We don’t want another incident like last week. Can’t have everyone taking time off for stress.” He’s a dick, but I can’t argue with that.
And then he’s gone.
I see the two deliverymen roll their eyes at him as they wheel in the next stretcher.
No ‘thanks’ again for coming in early. Typical. I don’t know why I bother. Why can’t I be like the rest of the country and make up some excuse involving my baby? Why don’t I go to the bloody doctor and complain about ‘stress’ like everyone else?
Because you’re a grafter, that’s why. You’re better than that. Better than those lazy bastards.
I spend the next twenty-five minutes helping the men offload the remaining stretchers from the truck.
Seventeen. Not too bad.
The truck noisily starts up and then pulls off towards the gates.
Returning to the room, I lock the door behind me. I approach the first stretcher, and the yellow tarpaulin bag that’s strapped firmly to the top. I grab a pair of safety-goggles from the shelf and slip them over my eyes, then cover my mouth and nose with a plastic mask. I carefully unzip the bag a few inches down to see its contents.
It’s another child.
My stomach turns as I pull the zip down a little further to confirm.
It is. The third this month. A girl. No more than seven years old. Easily.
Any death is sad—no matter what age. But children? Never children. Children should be out riding their bikes, or playing on their computers, or whatever the hell kids do these days. Not crammed in a body bag!
It’s not right.
I walk up to the control panel, turn the dial to green, and then flip the main switch. There’s a loud rumble as the furnace ignites. Instantly, I can feel the heat radiate from the sides of its heavy door. The noise circulates the room causing the metal stretches to roll and rattle into each other.
Time to get to work.
Before I wheel the body over to the furnace, I stop to take another look. One last look before someone’s child is reduced to nothing more than cinders. I can’t help but think of Sammy back at home. I try not to. God knows I try. But how could I not think of him? I’m a Dad. That’s what Dads do: we worry. That’s what we’re best at. It’s not providing for them; it’s not even protecting them—it’s worrying about them every second of every bloody day.
And that’s just sad. It really is.
Opening the furnace door, a gust of eyebrow-singeing heat hits me in the face. Despite the goggles, I close my eyes and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. I pull out the steel platform from inside, unclip the two straps that hold the body bag in place, and then roll her onto it. When I slide the platform back in, it feels light. Too light. I slam the door shut and lock it. Shoving away any lasting attachment to the nameless child, I press the large red button, and the furnace comes alive with fire, burning the body bag and its contents in a matter of seconds.
One down. Sixteen to go.
The next body bag seems a lot more filled-out, which gives me a quiet relief. I unzip the bag and see the face of a middle-aged man, with blond, slightly receding hair. I’m not supposed to open the bags. It’s not my job to know—or care for that matter. But something in me always tells me to. I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it’s out of respect. Or maybe just honest-to-God nosiness. Regardless, I have to look. Anna thinks I’m mad. She says that my job would be a lot easier if I just treated the inventory like inventory—and not human beings.
Maybe she’s right. She usually is.
I stare at the man’s pale complexion, his red, swollen eyelids, and wonder what he did for a living—when he was…living. Was he a doctor? No, he doesn’t seem the type; his bright yellow shirt is too loud and way too scruffy. Maybe a vet? Possibly. Or perhaps he was just a bum like the other twenty percent of the country.
Suddenly his eyes spring open.
I flinch. And then swiftly zip up the bag.
I wheel the stretcher over to the furnace, ignoring the muffled cries through the thick plastic. The intense heat hits me again as I open the door. I slide his body inside and lock it. Pushing the large red button once again, I hear the muffled cries become a crackling sound as the body bag ignites.
Two down. Fifteen to go.
I see that the next bag has started moving already. I pause for a moment and contemplate skipping the face-check.
But I can’t resist.
Unzipping the bag, I see the face of another man, this time he’s a lot older, maybe sixty, and he’s completely bald. His grey, deadened eyes are wide open, and I can hear faint growls behind the leather muzzle wrapped around his mouth and chin, buckled tightly around this head and neck. I wonder what he’s thinking. If at all he does think. I’m sure he does. If that’s a positive thing, the jury’s still out, but either way, after all these years I still think of them as people. Or something similar anyway. But they’re Necs. Well, that’s what we call them. They’re not classed as human anymore, so I suppose we have to call them something. Can’t exactly call them just The Dead. That would only confuse them with the actual Dead. And we definitely couldn’t refer to them as bloody zombies. Not only is that extremely insensitive—particularly to the families who might have lost someone to the disease—but how utterly ridiculous it would sound if a newsreader had to say the word zombie live on TV. Not a bloody chance. And Necro-Morbus Sufferer is quite a mouthful to say. So calling them Necs is probably the safest option. Easier on the tongue. And there’s no cure, no vaccine. They’ve come close though, managed to put together an antiviral shot to take after infection. But that only works a fraction of the time—and that’s if you catch it early. But I suppose it’s better than nothing. The government even tried to issue homes with an emergency shot, but there were just too many paranoid people, injecting themselves after any sickness: flu, food poisoning, chickenpox—even after a night on the bloody booze. It just got too expensive, so they scrapped it after about a year. Now you have to get one at the hospital.
I still wonder what’s behind the lifeless eyes. I can’t help it. I know it would make my job a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t. But that’s just me: I’m an optimist. I always have been. Even when the first outbreak happened in Swansea, I believed that these people could somehow be cured; that they were still human underneath all the decay and God-awful stench of rotting flesh.
But they’re dead. I know that now. It’s taken me a while, but I do.
And the dead must be burnt.
It’s a dirty job. But someone’s got to do it.
*
I reach the twelfth body and look at the time on the wall clock. 2:44 p.m. Not bad. With a bit of luck, I’ll be home in time for dinner. And I’m starving to death. No lunch break again. Typical. It would be nice if once—just once—Stuart would cover me for even ten lousy minutes, just long enough for a quick bite. But no. He’s tucked away in his nice cosy office, far from the trenches, sipping his herbal tea with a dash of cinnamon.
What a dickhead!
This next body bag is definitely not one to open. I’ve made that mistake on more than one occasion, and it’s not something I plan doing any time soon. It’s what we like to call: Moving Meat. The body bag is filled with several small bags, each one with a variety of severed limbs, everything from dismembered arms and legs to heads and torsos. Very disturbing—even for a job like this. But it’s not the sight of such horrors that’s so nauseating…it’s the wriggling. I mean, Jesus, these things are hard to kill—not even a pickaxe to the head can bring one of these bastards down. It’ll probably slow them down, but that’s about it. If they can’t be sedated with a tranquiliser to the head, then they’re cut up into pieces and shipped. And that’s the point where you have to disassociate them from human beings. You have to—otherwise you’re bound to lose it.
The next body is a woman, mid-twenties, slim. Completely naked. Was she asleep when she was bitten or was she, in fact, a stripper, in the middle of giving some lucky guy a lap dance? I mean, she’s got the body for it—or had the body for it. And if you look past the muzzle, grey eyes, and bloody gouge on her shoulder, she’s not that bad to look at.
Guilt washes over me as I spend a little too long gaping at her slender body. She stares back at me, with eyes that no longer blink. I know she’s dead and it’s wrong, but I am human after all. I mean, can doctors really switch off their basic urges when they have to examine a beautiful, naked woman? I’m not so sure. And this one seems a lot livelier than the others—which makes her seem all the more alive. I check the buckle on the muzzle; it’s secure. Thank God. As I reach to zip the bag back up, I hear a snap. Suddenly I feel a cold hand grab my wrist firmly. Trying not to panic, I carefully begin to pry her grip from my wrist, one finger at a time. Then another hand reaches for me. I leap back in fright, inadvertently pulling the naked woman half-out of the body bag. She is slumped out the side of the stretcher, the straps barely holding her. I manage to break free from her grasp, but now she’s trying to wriggle out of the bag. I race to the furnace, open the door, and then bolt back to the woman who is now almost off the stretcher completely. Swiftly unclipping the straps, I run to the back of the stretcher and push it towards the furnace. The blistering heat is sucking out the air in the room as I ram the stretcher into the open door. The force throws half the woman into the fire. I grab the other half and launch it in. Slamming the door shut, I hear the beating of fists on the furnace walls. I push the large red button and the beautiful woman is no more.
What a waste!
I walk over to the stool and sit, exhausted and shaken up.
Stupid! What’s wrong with you? You could have been bitten.
Time for a coffee, I think.
4
As I finish up the last remaining bodies, I daydream about Vegas. The lights, the booze—that’s about it really. It’s a stag weekend, after all. Can’t see me and the guys visiting the Grand Canyon or sitting through a Celine Dion concert. No bloody chance. There’ll be no time. Maybe next year, if I take Anna there. I can totally see her dragging me to some shit show, or on a sight-seeing trip. All the boring stuff. Although, I’m not really much of a gambler myself. Never have been. More of a watcher. Gambling’s a little too stressful for me. Oh, I’ll probably have a flutter, just to say I have, but other than that I’d rather hold on to my cash—not that I have much of that these days.
I slide the seventeenth body into the furnace and push the large red button. A sense of satisfaction washes over me as the blaze inside obliterates the old man.
Done. Simple.
The life of a Burner.
I push the empty stretchers against each other neatly, and begin to remove my apron. Just as I’m about to hang it up on the wall-hook, I hear the bleeping sound of the code being entered outside. The door opens and in walks Stuart again. “We’ve got another four for you, Robert,” he tells me. He’s wearing his coat and holding a briefcase, clearly about to leave for the day. All right for some.
“Just four?”
“Yes. It shouldn’t take too long—even for you. Just think yourself lucky you’re not stuck in a stuffy office all day. I know where I’d rather be.”
“You should try it some time, Stuart,” I say through gritted teeth. “You might find it harder than you think.”
“No, it’s all right, Robert, I’ll leave it to the Burners. Someone’s got to hold the fort back there. Romkirk won’t run itself.” He throws me one of his smug grins. “Well, I’m leaving for the day now, so you’re on your own. Call head office if there are any major problems, and don’t forget to finish your paperwork.”
“No worries, Stuart,” I reply, forcing an obedient smile as I watch him leave.
Good riddance, asshole.
Sighing, I look at the time: 4:17 p.m. There goes another early finish.
I can dream, can’t I?
When the four stretchers are safely inside, I lock the door. Slipping my apron back over my head, I think of Vegas again, and start to count the days in my head. I can almost taste the first beer in the hotel lobby. Somehow it tastes better than any other I’ve had. I notice that the first body bag is large. I feel relieved as I unzip it. It’s a woman, no older than twenty-five, and she’s chubby. Probably bullied in school. Battled with various quick-fix diets for most of her short life. Had a string of failed relationships. Classic fatty. She stares deep into my eyes. Her eyes seem sad.
I zip up the bag and burn her in the furnace.
The second body bag is small—not child-small though. This one seems another lively one. I contemplate avoiding the face-check but can’t resist, ignoring my earlier near-miss. I slowly unzip the bag, and then stop to make sure that there’s a muzzle strapped on. There is. Thank God. I continue to pull the zip down to chest height.
It’s another woman.
My heart almost stops as I stumble backwards.
Not you.
Please God, not you, Anna.
Choking on my own breath, I creep forward. Please let it be a mistake. I pull down my mask and throw off the safety-goggles.
It’s not a mistake.
Anna snarls behind the muzzle someone has strapped over her mouth.
I pull the zip down almost all the way.
She squirms and twists, trying to break free from the plastic cable-ties fastened to her limbs.
I can barely stand. My knees almost buckle, but I grab hold of the stretcher. I think of Sammy and wonder where he is—if he’s also in one of these body bags. A frantic burst of energy hits me and I rush over to the other two. I pull the zip down on the first: it’s another woman, mid-forties. Jesus Christ, it’s the woman who lives across from our house. Susan Price. I feel sick. My heart is pounding hard against my chest. I’m sweating profusely. I unzip the last bag. Please, God don’t let it be him. I beg you.
It’s a man, early-fifties.
I thank God for that at least.
Let him be safe. Please.
Anna is now writhing so much that her stretcher has begun to move away from the wall. As I walk over to her, I think of her vomiting last night. How could I have been so stupid—so blind? I should have taken her to the hospital. They could have given her a shot. There might still have been time to save her. Was I too tired to think straight? Was I too preoccupied with a stupid Vegas trip? Jesus Christ. What about Sammy?
I can’t seem to focus anymore. I think I’m gonna pass out. To see her like this is too much. I contemplate zipping her body bag back up. Out of sight, out of mind.
But how could I? I love her. So much. More than anything in the world. And she gave me Sammy: the single greatest achievement of my life.
I lurch over to the stool and sit. My stomach is in knots as I listen to her cries of pain and anger. I can’t look anymore. It hurts too much to see her like that; a shadow of her beautiful self—her tender, placid self.
It’s not you, Anna. It can’t be.
It’s someone else.
Please let it be someone else.
Anyone but you…
5
Another day. Another dollar.
It’s a dirty job.
But someone’s got to do it.
Please don’t let it be me.
The three remaining body bags are now moving quite violently. Anna’s even more so.
Why is her bag moving so much? Why not my neighbour’s bag? Or the fat woman’s? Why Anna’s? Is it just pure coincidence, or is it something more? Maybe she recognises me. Maybe she’s trying to speak to me? I mean, after all, they do say that each infected is different. Depending on the host. Some bite. Some don’t. Others can barely move. Christ, some can even run!
And what if she’s not dead? Perhaps they made a mistake. A horrible mistake.
Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell do I do?
As each question floods my overcharged mind, I fear for Sammy’s safety. Every second spent sitting here I waste precious time. I have to deal with this. Now.
I get up off the chair and make my way over to Anna. I stare down at her face. Her eyes are empty, and her skin is drained of all life. I sprint over to the side of the furnace and vomit.
I stand, with one hand on the wall, staring down at the puddle of bile on the floor. I try to get my breath back as I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Straightening, I take in a lung full of air and then walk back over to her. The growls from behind the muzzle disturb me like nothing before, and I can see the deadened veins in her neck pulsate as she struggles with her restraints. My eyes are fixed on hers. I can’t help it. I can’t seem to look anywhere else.
But I have to. For Sammy’s sake.
Gingerly, I reach down and start to unbuckle the muzzle, hands shaking uncontrollably. I know it’s stupid. I know she’s dead. But I have to. Just to be sure. I pull the muzzle away from her mouth, dragging a web-like trail of saliva and blood in the process. I fight hard not to vomit again. Throwing it on the floor in disgust, I hear Anna’s teeth clack together. The sound goes through me causing me to clench up in repulse. “Anna?” I say. “Can you hear me? It’s me. It’s Robert.”
She doesn’t respond. Just the snarls of a rabid dog.
“Anna,” I say again. “It’s your husband. It’s Robert. Can you understand me?”
Her levels of aggression have increased as she snaps her teeth at me. The other three body bags are now moving far more fiercely—as if feeding off Anna’s rage. I try to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. “Anna. Please. It’s Robert. I’m begging you. Please. It’s your husband. Can you hear me?”
Please…
I start to cry. I can’t hold it in any longer. I haven’t cried in years. Maybe a tear or two when Sammy was—
I have to get to him.
He’s out there somewhere. Dead or alive, I have to find him.
For Anna.
I zip up her body bag, trying not to make eye contact, and then wheel her over to the furnace. I try not to cry, but tears are now streaming. Reaching for the door handle, I pause, only for a moment, before something inside orders me to pull it open, and to slide out the platform. I feel the heat even more so without my mask and goggles, almost unbearable. The muffled snarls from inside the body bag are like a rusty blade to the heart. It’s too much. It’s all too much. This can’t be happening.
Burn the Dead Page 2
