Burn the Dead

by Steven Jenkins

  And again.

  And again.

  Until I’m screaming it.

  Sobbing it.

  I can’t breathe.

  Where are you, Sammy?

  Please…

  12

  I’m in the living room, sitting on the single sofa chair, staring at the faint light coming through the closed curtains to the right. The gap separating each curtain shows me a little from the street outside. Barely. I’ve seen at least three figures walk past. Most likely Necs. No living person would be strolling down the road. Not tonight. Maybe yesterday.

  I take another sip from the bottle of lager, and then wedge it between my thighs. Even though I’m no longer using the torch, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I can now make out everything in the room, not just the silhouettes of the furniture. It still doesn’t feel like home. Even though I’m drinking the alcohol I purchased just last weekend. And even though I’m sitting on the cherry coloured sofa that Anna picked last year, despite us having a row over the price and colour. It’s not home. Not anymore. Not without Sammy and Anna. How could it be? They were the heart of this house. Without them, it’s just an empty shell. Just a building for squatters to piss in.

  I can’t even bring myself to look at the photos of Sammy, sprawled along the wall. It’s too hard. There’s also a wedding photo of Anna and me that’s been burning a hole in the side of my face. I felt it from the moment I sat down.

  Too much has been lost.

  I gulp down the last of the lager, and then set it down on the floor. Just as I’m about to get up for another, I hear a loud stomping sound outside the front window. Frozen solid, I try to make out the noise—living or dead. But by the sounds of the snarls and cries, it’s pretty clear what’s out there.

  Getting up from the sofa, I make my way towards the door.

  Time for another drink.

  Walking through the darkened hallway, into the kitchen, it’s as if I can see in the dark, like a blind man. But how could I not know my way around this place? I’ve spent enough time here, making quick trips down to the kitchen from bed. Usually at Anna’s request. Not that I minded—in spite of a little protest. She’s worth any request. Anything in the world.

  Even burning her in the furnace?

  Shut up! Someone had to do it. I’d never let anyone else push that red button. Only me. She’s my wife. It’s my responsibility. My choice. I know with every ounce of my being that she would never want to live as a monster. Not in a million years. It’s no different to switching off a loved one’s life-support machine. It has to be done. Someone’s got to do it. Someone’s got to make that choice.

  I’m glad it was me.

  Glad I was there.

  At least, if a part of her was still in there, at least I was the last face she saw.

  Before she—

  I wipe away a few tears from my cheeks as I open the fridge door. One lager left. Don’t know why I feel disappointed. It’s not like it’s the worst thing to happen today. I grab the bottle, pop open the cap with the bottle-opener, and return to the living room.

  I sit down on the sofa chair again. Taking a huge gulp of lager, I listen to the sounds of animals rioting outside. I place the bottle between my thighs again, and then cover my ears with my hands. The noise outside fades. I close my eyes and think of Sammy. My little boy. Where is he? Why can’t I muster up the strength to find him? I made it this far. I got past the barricade. I survived the church. Why can’t I think of a solution? I know he’s not dead. I’m sure of it. He’s alive somewhere. I know he is.

  So why isn’t he here with me?

  I press harder against my ears as the screams begin to seep in. Now all I hear is an echo, like the ocean at night.

  And the faint sound of a telephone ringing.

  Is it my mind playing tricks on me? Am I losing it? God knows I’m due.

  I slowly remove my hands from my ears. Turning my attention to the coffee table to my left, I hear the sound again.

  And again.

  Knocking over my bottle, I reach to answer it; terrified that the ringing will alert the Necs outside. I pick up the receiver and hold it to my ear.

  I brace for a moment before whispering: “Hello?”

  13

  “Robert,” the voice on the line whispers. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper back, apprehensively, as if about to be scammed by some cold-caller. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Edith. Edith May. From number sixty-one.”

  A smile forces its way across my face. Never thought I’d be smiling tonight. Not until I find Sammy, anyway. “Jesus, Edith. Where are you calling from? Next door?”

  “Yes. I heard you come in earlier. I wasn’t sure if it was you or one of those men.”

  “Thank God you’re all right. Is my son with you?” I ask, desperation in my voice. “Is Sammy there?”

  “No. Sorry. I haven’t seen him.”

  “What about Anna? My Wife? Have you seen her today?”

  “No, I haven’t. Is everything all right, Robert?”

  My heart sinks.

  “Can you get to me?” she asks. “From the garden? It’s too dangerous from the front.”

  I don’t answer. What’s the point of going over? I’m just wasting time; she can’t help me.

  But what’s the alternative? Raid the drinks cabinet? Sit here and get drunk, hoping that Sammy will just knock on the front door?

  No! That’s stupid! I’ll go to her. Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on. There must be something she can do to help. “Okay, Edith. I’m coming over to you. Sit tight.”

  “All right, Robert. But for the love of God be careful. Those things are bloody dangerous.”

  “I know. Don’t worry now. I’ll see you in a second.”

  “Okay. Just give a little tap on the backdoor and I’ll let you in.”

  “No problem.”

  I hang up the phone and leave the living room, and then race eagerly to the utility room, despite the shortage of light. At the backdoor, I reach for the lock, but then stop all of a sudden as my fingers touch the metal latch. Slow down. You’re rushing. You don’t know what’s out there. There could be a hundred of those things just waiting, ready to tear your head off.

  Be smart! Be methodical!

  I go to the window and pull the blinds slightly to the side to see into the garden. The small garden is way too dark to make out any Necs. I can’t even see any outlines of various garden features, like the flowerbed, and the lawn, or even the shed. But I don’t see any movement, so that’s a plus.

  I unlock the door, and then carefully start to turn the handle, as if defusing a bomb. The door quietly opens, and a gust of cold air blows into the room. I can feel the tension start to build again in my muscles as I step out into the pitch-black garden. It’s silent apart from the sound of faint cries from the front of the house. Moving stealthily, I can feel the blind terror gripping my body with every step. I can just about make out Edith May’s wall, but other than that I see nothing, not even moonlight. As I’m just a metre from the six-foot wall, I pray that I don’t kick over a metal bucket. Not sure if I even own one. Maybe one of Sammy’s many garden toys.

  Just as I reach the wall, the sensor-light comes on, filling the garden instantly with colour.

  My heart almost stops dead in fright.

  There is a female Nec standing next to the shed.

  She spots me immediately and darts towards me, her angry, ravenous screams echoing around the garden. It’s merely a blink of an eye before she reaches me. I panic and make a dash for the wall that separates Edith and I. But there’s no time to scale it. I can feel the Nec as she claws at my jacket from behind. I hear her jaws snapping together as I try to shake her off. Turning, I see her dead eyes, her lifeless skin, the bite mark on her left forearm. I manage to grab her wrists and pry her from my jacket. I’m too afraid to punch her in the mouth in case of infection, so I drive my knee into her chest and thrust
her away from me as hard as I can. She flies backwards, landing on the ground. Turning to the wall again, I hear her scramble to her feet. With my back pressed hard against the wall, I slam my foot into her stomach. But this time she stays on her feet.

  Need a weapon.

  I quickly scan the ground for something. Anything. Something hard. Something sharp. Where the hell’s a chainsaw when you need one? Next to my feet I notice Sammy’s mini-trike. I kick the Nec again and then reach down to grab the small, metal toy. But before I can hold out any hope of swinging it, she’s on me. With my jacket once again in her clutches, she pins me against the wall—her teeth just millimetres from my face. Still not wanting to drop Sammy’s trike, the only barrier against her teeth is my left hand, which is firmly wrapped around her throat. Even though she hasn’t breathed air for some time, I can still smell the rancid, dead breath-like odour as she angrily snarls. The stench is overpowering.

  And then suddenly the garden is in darkness again as the light goes out. I can no longer see the Nec, only hear her, feel her…smell her. I don’t know how far she is from biting me—all I know is that I have to get her off me—and fast.

  I manage to lunge my right knee into her stomach, which only drives her back a little, but enough to make her release my jacket. I lift my leg up and kick her backwards. As she soars away from me, the garden light comes back on, revealing exactly where she is. She bolts at me, black bile oozing from her mouth, I swing the trike as hard as I can, smashing it into the side of her head, knocking her clean off her feet. Not wanting to take any risks, I decide that one hit isn’t nearly enough. I cover my mouth from the thick spray of congealed blood, as I continuously beat the woman’s head with the trike, until there’s barely anything left of it.

  Satisfied that the danger has gone, I step back—exhausted—and stare down at the Nec’s limbs, very much alive, still clawing blindly at nothing. I drop the blood-soaked trike and make my way over to the wall. As I climb, I take another look over my shoulder at the body. Have to be sure. I’ve seen enough movies to know that you should never assume that they’re dead—or in her case, immobilised. The word dead has lost all its meaning.

  Can’t believe I have a body, with a caved in head lying in my garden. Jesus Christ, how things can change so quickly.

  At the top of Edith May’s wall, I try to see through the darkness of her garden. Don’t fancy having another encounter with a Nec. From what I can remember, her garden is almost identical to mine. In fact, all the gardens on this road are the same. And so are the houses. I can’t see any obvious movement, and I’m sure the noise from my previous fight would have disturbed any lurking Necs. Just to be safe, I let out a short and sharp cough. I listen out for any response. There’s nothing—just the sound of the female Nec’s limbs writhing behind me. I cough again. Still nothing. Then suddenly I almost fall off the wall in fright when I hear a loud squeaking sound.

  Tensing up, I ready myself for round two.

  “You all right, Rob?” a soft voice asks.

  Relief washes over me when I see Edith’s face pop out from the backdoor. “Thank God for that,” I say, holding a hand over my thrashing heart. “Thought you were one of them.”

  “No, just me. None of those things out here. I’d know if there were because my garden light would come on. Great inventions, don’t you think, Robert? They stop cats shitting on my lawn—and now they warn me if any of those bloody monsters are here too. Money well spent, I think.”

  “You’re right. They are great.” Then I drop down into her garden.

  14

  Edith guides me into her living room. The only light is coming from the landing. I pull the curtain slightly to peer into the street. There are several Necs roaming—some just sitting in doorways—while others are beating fists on front doors and windows—most likely trying to break in to feed on some poor bastard. But for all I know they could be trying to get into their own homes, some kind of sub-conscious memory left over after death.

  I sit on the couch next to Edith. Her frail, pitiful body, almost hunched in her seated position, makes me wonder if she truly knows the severity of today’s events. I mean, she’s old, maybe seventy-five, and she seems surprisingly relaxed. But then that doesn’t mean anything. People deal with stress in all sorts of ways. She’s not exactly senile. Yeah, she may be a little forgetful, but who isn’t. Jesus, I’m lucky if I can remember the names of half the people I work with. God knows what I’d be like in forty-odd years.

  “I’m so glad you came over,” she says, as I notice her white pyjamas bottoms tucked into her thick bed-socks. “Hope it wasn’t too much bother for you.”

  “No bother, Edith,” I reply, ignoring the memory of the garden-Nec. “I’m glad you called. How long have you been here?”

  She shrugs. “Since yesterday. Well, actually, the day before. I don’t really know what happened. One minute I’m outside calling for Bateman—”

  “Who’s Bateman?”

  “My dog.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, nodding. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t had him long. Maybe six weeks or so. He doesn’t go out much. More of a housedog. He’s a little pug. He’s been missing for nearly two days now. I’m shouting his name, then all of a sudden I hear loud sirens going up and down the street. And then Shirley, from five doors up, calls me. Tells me that some police officers and some men in white suits came and took her sister away, up on Richmond. And said that one of those creatures tried to break into her house. And then the phone just went dead.”

  “So you didn’t see Sammy or Anna today? At all? Maybe leaving my house in the morning?”

  “No, sorry. I didn’t see much of anything. We just locked all the doors and windows, closed the curtains, and waited for the police to arrive.”

  “Did you see anyone with a child, maybe another neighbour?” I ask, struggling not to break down, to keep my composure. “Or a policeman? Anyone at all?”

  She shakes her head disappointedly. “I’m sorry, Robert. I was too busy trying to secure the house. I don’t have a burglar alarm, so I had to make sure everything was locked up tight. Never seen one of those creatures before. Horrible things. Before any police even knocked on my door, I could hear them outside. Screaming. A few even tried to get in. They soon gave up and moved on to the next house. Thank God. Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.”

  I run my fingers through my hair and sigh loudly. “What time did this all start? What time did you hear the sirens?”

  “Not sure. About ten, maybe eleven this morning.

  “And the news? Have you watched it? What’s it say?”

  “Not much. They’re saying that it’s all an isolated incident. And there’s nothing to worry about. But once it went dark, I had to switch the TV off. Too much light in the room. They’d know I was in here. The room lights up like a Christmas tree with that thing on.” She points to the TV, which is resting on top of a wooden cabinet.

  “They probably won’t show everything that’s happened until after they take back control. They wouldn’t want any panic. And who could blame them—I wouldn’t want the country to know that I couldn’t sort out a few streets. I mean, Crandale’s not exactly London, is it?”

  “So what’s happened then? Usually, these things get sorted out quickly.”

  “Budget-cuts. Well, that’s what one of those Cleaners told me before—” I forcefully shake off visions of the driver getting eaten alive, and try to move the conversation on. “So how’ve you been keeping with all this going on? Have you been hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. Luckily we managed to stock up on food this morning. You never know—could be stuck in here for a few days. Not that I get out all that much with my heart the way it is. But at least we won’t starve. There’s enough for all of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’ve got enough food to last us at least a week.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “No, you said yo
u went shopping this morning. I thought you said you’d been home for the past few days.”

  “I have.”

  “Then who brought you the shopping?”

  “My brother.”

  “Oh, right. I see. And did he just drop it off to you and leave this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Then where did he go?”

  Edith tilts her head back and motions upstairs.

  “I’ve locked him in the bathroom.”

  15

  Peter Morgan.

  All that’s keeping him inside the bathroom is a red and blue scarf, with one end tied around the bathroom door handle, and the other fixed to the banister opposite. I can barely believe my eyes. How she managed to get him in without harming herself is beyond me.

  Maybe she’s not as frail and helpless as I first thought.

  “How long’s he been in there?” I whisper, shaking my head in bewilderment, staring at the door handle.

  “All day,” Edith replies, switching on a second lamp. “He came home with the shopping this morning. Put most of it away for me, even though he said he felt unwell. I offered to put it away myself, but he insisted. So I let him. He’s a stubborn one. Always has been. I put the kettle on and then he said he felt sick. So I told him to sit down and leave the shopping alone. But, typical Peter, he never listens, he just carried on. And then he was sick. All over the kitchen floor. He then ran past me, straight up the stairs to the bathroom. I followed up after him to make sure he was all right.”

  “Was he bitten?” I ask, eyes still glued to the door handle, subtly listening out for any movement from inside. “Did you see any bite marks on him?”