Burn the Dead

by Steven Jenkins

  And a piss up’s a piss up. They say the groom can never get drunk at his own wedding—well, I managed to prove them wrong. So did Anna. Too drunk even to remember consummating the marriage. Not that it matters these days, anyway. Try before you buy, that’s what I say.

  Anna’s always believed in God. Even with everything that she saw on the news. Soldiers coming home in body bags. Children getting abused and murdered around the world. Floods and earthquakes wiping out whole cities. The dead walking around, eating innocent people, spreading their disease with every bite. Even after all that shit, after all the pain and suffering that goes on every day, she still hung on to the belief that somewhere out there, someone was watching over her. I always told her that the only one watching over her was me.

  Fat lot of good I was.

  If he is real, then where the hell was he when she was bitten—when she turned into one of these things?

  I try to shake off these bitter feelings of anger and remorse as my eyes start to adjust to the darkness. I can just about make out that I’m standing in an office of some sort. There’s a desk with a chair on its back, and over to the left there’s a large cupboard. Its doors are wide open, as if someone has ransacked it to see if there was anything of value inside. I doubt it. Maybe stacks of cash the vicar was hoarding. Apart from that, almost certainly junk.

  I creep towards a door directly ahead. Each footstep on the hard wooden floor makes a loud creaking sound. I tighten up for fear of being heard. But I’m pretty sure this place is completely abandoned. Cleaners may have given it the once over as a precaution, but that’s about it. Reaching the door, I grasp the handle and pull. Stiffly, the door opens. I can hear the rust from the ancient hinges rain over the floor. I step out into a passageway. There is a narrow spiral staircase at the end, just a couple of metres away. It’s still almost pitch-black, apart from a small light seeping through the stain-glass window to the side. Cautiously, I make my way down the staircase, one step at a time, holding onto the stone wall all the way down. Normally, I’d be terrified of spiders in a place like this, but tonight, all I care about is getting home, to Sammy. Nothing else matters.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I see a small wooden door. I grab the doorknob and turn it. Nothing happens. I push and pull it hard, but it still won’t budge. I try again. Still nothing.

  “Shit.” I decide to kick it open, praying that it doesn’t draw any attention from the Cleaners. Stepping back, I pick a spot just above the handle as if lining up a shot in a darts game. I take a breath to ready myself, raise my right knee up past my waist, and then drive my foot into the door. The noise echoes around the entire church; dust falls all around me, into my eyes. But it’s all for nothing. The door still hasn’t shifted. I try again, this time stepping back even further. Taking in another three preparation breaths, I line up another shot. I step forward, and then slam my foot into the door. Once again the sound carries around the building. But this time I hear the wood from the door split. I take another stab at kicking it open. And another. Then another, until finally the door is hanging from its hinges, with the wooden frame in tatters. Exhausted, I place one hand on the wall to rest. The door is still not completely open, so I barge through it with my shoulder. Breaking the door down leaves me strangely satisfied, like a cop on some American TV show.

  I skulk down another dark corridor leading to a small door. There is a faint light glowing from its edges. Can’t see a lock, just a handle. I take hold of the handle and push. The door is stiff, but it opens, dragging against the stone floor.

  Suddenly I’m inside a huge nave, lit only by the streetlights coming through the stain-glass windows. As I step forward towards the aisle, I’m overcome with a rancid odour.

  The stench of death.

  And then I freeze in absolute, inconvincible horror.

  A room once used as a place of worship and forgiveness, for weddings and christenings, is now bursting with at least a hundred Necs—their reanimated, rotting bodies scattered around the massive room.

  Terrified beyond belief, I slowly backtrack towards the corridor. I feel my legs begin to buckle as I creep back towards the stairs, trying to remain completely silent.

  Reaching the third step, something dawns on me. Why aren’t the Necs storming through that doorway right now, tearing chunks out of my skin with their teeth? The noise from kicking the door would have surely disturbed them.

  Something’s not right.

  And then it hits me: the best place to store the Necs before sending them off to the furnace is not the community centre—it’s in an old, abandoned church. It’s big, sheltered and has little to no chance of anyone living in it, or even in the vicinity. It’s perfect.

  Jesus Christ, how could I have been so stupid? So careless?

  I stop about halfway up the stairs; heart still pounding; sweat dripping down into my eyes. Think, Rob. Think. If they’re here then logically they should be secured, ready for bagging. Wrists and ankles fixed. Mouths muzzled.

  I have to forcefully shake off thoughts of Anna in that way, like a nasty taste in my mouth.

  If I’m right, then it should be safe enough to get past them and out the main doors. In theory, anyway. Walking carefully back down the stairs, my hands begin to tremble. When I reach the bottom, I make my way slowly through the corridor, tiptoeing silently, fists clenched. I peer inside the nave again, hoping that maybe my eyes have played a trick on me, and I’ve exaggerated the amount of Necs.

  I haven’t.

  In fact, I’m sure there could even be more than a hundred dotted around the room. Next to the far wall is a row of about twenty Necs, already sealed in yellow body bags, while others, without bags, have been left on the floor of the aisle and beyond, squirming like a tank of cockroaches. But the most disturbing of all are the ones sat on the long wooden pews either side of the aisle, resembling nothing more than everyday churchgoers.

  Judging by the sheer numbers, and my ridiculously loud entrance, I’m pretty sure that every single one of them is bound and gagged—otherwise there’d be nothing left of me. Even if one happened to be untied, they’d be through this door, snapping at me in a matter of seconds. So all I’ve got to do is walk past them slowly and then get the hell out.

  Simple.

  I take one slow step out into the nave, as if warily putting my bare foot into a bath of hot water. I scan the room. I was right: from what little light the church has, the Necs seem to be all muzzled-up, wrists and ankles tied. Taking slow, controlled breaths, I take another step forward past the wooden podium, and then another, and before I know it I’m standing in the aisle, ankle deep in bodies. I try not to look at them, at their eyes, for fear of an uproar. Even after all the years working at Romkirk, I’ve never been around so many at once. Yeah, I may have had the odd fifty, sixty bodies in one day, especially after the stadium incident. But this many—never. As if walking across a minefield, I try not to touch any with my feet as I make my way towards the main entrance. But it’s impossible. I can’t help but brush past a few wriggling bodies. The feeling sends a shiver of fear and revulsion through me, like walking through a spider’s web. Even though my eyes are solely fixed on the double doors directly ahead, I can’t help notice that some of the Necs, particularly the ones seated on pews either side, are fully aware of my presence. I can hear their stifled cries of fury from behind the muzzles. I start to pick up the pace, my feet and ankles rubbing past more and more. But it seems that the news of my arrival has begun to spread, because the room is now filled with diluted snarls and the sound of thrashing bodies. Still trying to remain calm, I speed up even more, stepping on one or two in the process. I see some of the seated Necs fall off the pews as they hysterically try to squirm towards me.

  The room is now alive with movement. My careful footsteps have turned into giant leaps as I hear that horrid sound of growling from the floor around my feet. Ignoring the eruption of noise and movement filling the room, I keep pushing forward towards the entrance
.

  Something grabs my left ankle.

  I fall to the floor onto one of the Necs; face to face, staring deep into its grey, emotionless eyes. Panic washes over me as I try to scramble to my feet. But all I can do is fall once again onto my side, in between another body. Something still has a hold of me.

  Turning my head, I see a hand gripping my leg so hard I can feel its coldness through my trousers. I kick hard, trying desperately to free my leg. But it’s no use. And now I can feel its other decayed hand on my right ankle. I kick out even harder, this time freeing both legs and kicking its head in the process. The Nec rolls away onto its side as I quickly get to my feet. I jump over the last few bodies and watch in loathing as it slithers like a python towards me, mouth still gagged, ankles still bound. Struggling to catch my breath, I bolt towards the entrance, knowing full well that it’s only a matter of time before more of them break free of their restraints.

  Slaloming past one or two more Necs, I manage to reach the entrance, not looking back once, not even when I hear the sound of another restraint snapping. Just as I’m about to grasp the door handle, I pause for a moment. Expecting the door to be locked tighter than a bank vault, I find that it’s slightly ajar. Confused, I give the huge door a nudge to open it. As it slowly opens, I catch a glimpse of a Cleaner. Male. He’s lying on his back on the concrete paving, wearing his thick, white clothing and black gloves. His riot helmet is on the ground next to him, its thick, plastic visor split down the centre.

  And crouching over him, tearing into his throat like a lion would over a gazelle, are two rotten Necs, fighting for flesh.

  I almost consider returning to the nave, back to the swarm of bodies. But I can barely move. I feel my limbs start to seize up as I watch in absolute disgust as the man is eaten in front of my very eyes. I can only pray that he was dead before they got to him.

  But that’s unlikely.

  I manage to somehow move slightly forward, hoping to find a safe path to make a run for it, before the Necs notice me. But as I look down the side of the church, towards the overgrown graveyard, I see another Cleaner being ripped to shreds by four other Necs; half his face and scalp devoured; his glove and fingers missing. This time one of the creatures sees me. With a mouthful of blood-soaked hair and torn skin, he growls at me, his ravenous eyes locked firmly onto mine. Then a female Nec, which has her back to me, slowly turns her head towards me, her jaw also dripping with blood.

  I freeze again, eyes fixed on the Nec as if face-to-face with a wild animal.

  Do I run, or do I keep still?

  Either way, someone has completely fucked up this so-called clean-up operation.

  10

  Fight or flight.

  A concept that, until now, has never raised its ugly head. Even back at school I managed to avoid any real confrontation. But this, this is a completely different level of fight or flight. This one has teeth, riddled with disease, an uncontrollable violence seeping from its pores, a raging hunger for human flesh—and, of course, this one is as dead as a doornail!

  Quickly scanning for all my possible exits, I feel my body return to life from its frozen state. I see a rusty gate, which leads down onto Richmond.

  Suddenly I burst into a sprint, kamikazing down through the overgrown graveyard, around the four Necs. Can’t look back. Have to ignore the strained screams I can hear behind me. Getting closer. And closer. I focus on the gate, blocking out the thudding of footsteps ploughing down the grassy bank, just metres from me. I fight the urge to look back, to see how many are chasing me. But the impulse gets the better of me. Turning my head, I see four, maybe five Necs in pursuit. The sight is almost too much for my thrashing heart. Turning back to the gate, I see a gravestone directly in front. Too late to dodge it, I try to hurdle it instead. But as I’m nearly clear of it, my foot clips the top, propelling me into the air. I land painfully onto my side, momentum rolling me down towards the gate. Shutting out the pain, I scramble back onto my feet, but the Necs have managed to gain a few metres. One of them is close. I can smell the stench of rotten flesh as it nears.

  Reaching the gate, I consider trying to leap over it, but it’s too high, even with all the adrenaline surging through my body. I slam into the gate and push hard. It’s jammed! The frantic shrieks of fury and hunger are deafening as I barge the gate as hard as I can. The gate only half-opens, but still nearly taking the hinges with it. Just as I squeeze through the gap, the first Nec is there, snarling loudly, spitting disease from her unmuzzled mouth. I grab the gate and slam it into her chest as I close it. The force knocks her down; the sound of ribs cracking echoes around the graveyard. But somehow she recovers in a second, unfazed by the effects of the heavy metal gate. I kick the gate as hard as I can to jam it shut, at least to hold them off for a few more seconds. The others are now behind the gate, clawing and barking at me, so I turn and sprint in the other direction onto Richmond. Completely exhausted.

  That was close.

  Too fucking close.

  Not sure how long that gate will hold them back. Not long. Need to keep moving.

  Nothing seems real as I tear down the deserted road, running just on fumes. Not even the familiarity of Richmond. Everything’s in tunnel vision, like some strange dream. I mean, I recognise everything: the house colours, the post-box up ahead, the redundant telephone box, even the old bus stop. But at the same time it’s as if I’ve never set foot here in my life.

  I pass tens of parked cars. Not a good sign. More cars mean fewer people got out. But it could also mean absolutely nothing. After all, maybe the Cleaners just piled all the non-infected onto a bus or something, and then just drove the hell out of here. Yeah, that makes more sense. No point in thinking the worst. The church was probably just an isolated incident. Can’t expect a clean-up this big be without a few stray Necs, without a few casualties. Backup is probably on its way now. The riot police are probably ready to burst in and take care of everything, to sort this bloody mess out. Not too soon, I hope; can’t risk getting caught—not when I’ve come this far. Sammy could be just around the corner.

  I know he’s alive.

  I can feel it.

  Approaching the junction of Davies Street, about three hundred metres from home, I stop behind a parked car. Can’t just sprint across; I’ll be too exposed. The street could be littered with Cleaners and Necs. I stay low to the ground, spider-walking towards the last house before the junction. Reaching it, I slowly poke my head out to peer down the street.

  I gasp in terror as I swiftly retract my head.

  The entire street, road and pavements are teaming with Necs. Seventy. Maybe even a hundred. Too hard to tell. A tidal wave of dread washes over me, fists squeezing together to stop them from shaking.

  How the hell did things get so bad?

  This is not what I imagined.

  Do I just make a run for it, and hope that somehow I won’t be spotted? Or do I wait it out somewhere?

  No, waiting is not an option. If Sammy’s hiding somewhere then I can’t have him waiting even a minute longer than he has to. I just can’t.

  But what if I get caught; get bitten and turn into one of those things? Or worse still, get eaten alive? What use will I be then?

  Christ! This is a nightmare. I can’t believe I’m here, in my own bloody neighbourhood, petrified that someone might eat me alive. I mean, how can an ordinary day turn into something so unthinkable, so unbearable? This morning I had a wife, a future, and a four-year-old son safe in his bed.

  Now all I have is a street full of walking corpses trying to kill me.

  I hide behind a car while I think of my next plan of action.

  Plan of action? I’ve done fuck-all planning since I left the furnace. Everything I’ve done has been reckless and spontaneous. It was sheer luck that Stevenage Crescent was deserted. And it was sort of lucky that I could get into the church—well, apart from all the Necs.

  So, planning can kiss my ass! And with that, I get up, take in a deep breath
, and then dart across Davies Street’s junction as fast as my legs can carry me. I don’t look down at the hordes of Necs. There’s no one to save. Maybe any other day, any other situation, I’d stop and help, maybe drag a Nec off some poor bastard, maybe pull them to safety. But not tonight. Not while Sammy is just past this junction. Not while he’s waiting for his Daddy.

  Not while—

  I can’t bear it any longer; I have to turn to see if they’re following me. Halfway down, I glance over my shoulder. Relief washes over me when I see that I’m all alone, running along the pavement.

  I slow down into a fast-walk, all the while fully aware of the looming danger all around me, in my so-called safe and perfect neighbourhood. Every inch of this once beloved place used to be somewhere me and Anna could bring Sammy. Push him up the hill in his pram, towards the school by Crandale Park.

  Bliss.

  Don’t think I can do that again. Not now, after everything. Can’t see me wanting to stay ‘round here after what’s become of it. Not without Anna.

  We’ll probably move. Somewhere away from people. Somewhere without any chance of widespread infection.

  Somewhere safe.

  Almost at the end of Richmond, I spot someone. A man. Well, more of a teenager. About sixteen. I stop for a moment, cautiously squatting down by a parked car. Is he alive? Too hard to tell. Can’t see any blood; any bite marks. Perhaps he needs help. Or maybe he’s seen Sammy.

  Just as I’m about to stand and call for his attention, the teenager turns his head in my direction. I feel a sudden surge of dread when I see that half the boy’s face is missing.

  As he limps across the road, I can’t help but feel sadness. Not terror this time. But a consuming pity for him. After all, he’s a victim in all this chaos, this contamination. He’s not the enemy. It’s the disease that’s the enemy. He’s just a boy who got bitten. Nothing more.