BURN THE DEAD
Purge
Written by
Steven Jenkins
Amazon Kindle Edition
BURN THE DEAD: PURGE
BOOK TWO
Copyright © 2015 by Steven Jenkins
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The right of Steven Jenkins to be identified as the author of the Work has been asserted to him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published in Great Britain in 2015 by Different Cloud Publishing.
www.steven-jenkins.com
Table of Contents
Free Book!
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Epilogue
Coming Soon From Steven Jenkins
About the Author
Other Titles by Steven Jenkins
Fourteen Days
Burn the Dead: Quarantine
Spine
Rotten Bodies
“For Dad.”
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“If you love scary campfire stories of ghosts, demonology, and all things that go bump in the night, then you’ll love this horror collection by author Steven Jenkins.”
COLIN DAVIES – Director of BAFTA winning BBC’s The Coalhouse.
For a limited time only, you can download a FREE copy of Spine - the latest horror collection from Steven Jenkins.
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www.steven-jenkins.com
Prologue
Can’t sleep again. Too cold.
Dad won’t switch on the central heating, says it’s too expensive. He tells me to use the spare blanket. But I hate using that. It’s so itchy, and there’re spiders in the cupboard. Dad tries to teach me to face my fears, says I’m a silly little girl for being afraid of a furry bug. But he just doesn’t get it. I’m thirteen years old, and I’ll be fourteen in a month—so if I haven’t got over my arachnophobia by now, then I guess I’m stuck with it. For life.
I switch the TV on. Sometimes watching some shitty film manages to knock me out, but the volume has to be low. Can’t disturb Mum and Dad—Dad will kill me. He’s already threatened to take the TV away if I wake him again. He tells me that I’ll understand when I finally go out into the real world, working, earning a living. The usual grown-up crap.
At least I wouldn’t scrimp on the heating.
Another hour passes and I switch the TV off. There’s nothing on apart from shopping channels and weird reality shows. Not my cup of tea. Mum loves that kind of rubbish, but I can’t see the attraction. Most of the girls in my class watch them. But I guess I’ve always been a little different. I’d rather be watching action movies, or shows about police arresting drunks. The kind of junk Dad watches.
Almost four in the morning and I’m still wide-awake. Got school tomorrow. Can’t see me being too alert for maths first thing. I’ll have to sit in the back, try to avoid eye contact with Mr Morgan. I should be all right. He usually picks on the boys. Plus, he has a soft spot for me and Chrissie. He always smiles at us in the corridor. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. He used to live next door to Uncle Pete. It’s weird seeing teachers outside of school. Not sure why. It just is.
Need a pee. Not desperate but once the thought pops into my head, I’ll never get to sleep. Best get it done now rather than lying here thinking about it for another two hours, so I get up and tiptoe onto the landing. Mum and Dad’s bedroom door is half-open, so I move even slower, holding my breath as I get to the bathroom. Once inside, I lock it and sit on the toilet. So glad it finally has a lock on it. It took Dad ages to finally get one. He’s always been against locks in the house. Don’t know how many times I’ve asked him for one for my room. Can’t see that happening any time soon. Maybe when I’m twenty-five and married, with kids of my own.
I finish up, flush and start to wash my hands. The sink is directly under the window, which looks onto the garden. Most people have frosted glass in the bathroom, but of course Dad has to be awkward. Just pathetic, flimsy blinds that get tangled if you pull too hard. Dad says that there’s a knack to it, that I’m doing it wrong. Most of the time I just roll my eyes, (after he’s gone, obviously). Drying my hands with the towel, I look down at the pitch-black garden. Can’t see a thing apart from the thick oak trees and the outline of the shed. But the more I stare, the more my eyes adjust, the more I’m certain that I see a person standing next to the tree.
Can’t be.
I climb onto the bathtub and pull open the top window. Poking my head out into the cold air, I take a closer look. It still seems like a person, dressed in white, with a slim body, and not that tall; but it’s too dark to be sure. Maybe I should call Dad? In case it’s a burglar? No, he’d kill me; he’d tell me it’s just the trees and my lack of sleep playing tricks on me.
But what if he’s wrong? What if it is a burglar? And I didn’t say something?
Best be certain before I wake him. If I can get the garden light sensor to come on, then I’ll be sure. Bending down, I pick up one of Mum’s fancy soaps, the ones she never uses, then push my head and shoulders out into the cold night air. I see the figure again. It creeps me out. It’s not moving so it might be some branches, or some rubbish that’s blown into the garden. The light sensor is to the left of me, so I launch the soap near it, praying that I don’t hit Mum and Dad’s window by mistake. The soap hits the wall and then drops down onto the grass below, with virtually no noise at all. But the sensor doesn’t catch it, and the garden is still in darkness.
Bloody hell!
Still leaning against the frame of the open window, I glare at the so-called figure. But the more I look at it, and the more it sways slightly from side to side, the more certain I am that it is a person. Still not sure enough to wake Dad. Not yet, anyway. I need more evidence.
I leave the bathroom and tiptoe downstairs. The last few steps are really creaky so I avoid them, lunging my leg past them to reach the bottom. Creeping into the living room, I automatically flick the light switch, but then immediately turn it off. I’ll see better into the garden without it. Over at the glass patio doors, I push a few blinds over to the side to see outside.
My heart judders as I stare into the pale face of a woman.
I let go of the blinds and dash out of the living room, heart racing, and scramble up the stairs to wake Dad. Opening the bedroom door, I poke my head through. They’re both still fast asleep, so I reach down and prod Dad on his shoulder. “Dad,” I whisper. “Wake up. There’s a woman outside.”
Dad begins to stir and then his eyes half-open. “Go back to bed,” he mumbles. “It’s just a nightmare, sweetheart.”
He shuts his eyes, so I prod him again. “Dad. Wake up. There is someone outside. I think it’s a burglar.”
Dad opens his eyes again, sits up in bed, and switches his bedside lamp on. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s a woman standing in our garden.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Dad. I’m positive. I saw her standing by the patio doors.”
He climbs out of bed, puts his slippers on and follows me out onto the landing. “Stay here,” he says firmly, and I watch him as he walks downstairs. From the landing, I can see him enter the living room. Can’t help but feel nervous. Dad could easily defend himself against anyone, especially a woman. But you never know. She might have a knife. Or a gun!
I’d better go help him.
Moving fast but quietly down the stairs, my mind fills with visions of Dad being shot by the burglar. Can’t think like that. Dad’s strong and he’s not an idiot. He’d never let it come to that.
Inside the dark living room, I see him pressed against the wall, with his head peering through the blinds. I creep over to him. “Can you see her?”
“Bloody hell!” Dad blurts out in fright as he turns to face me. “I told you to wait upstairs! Why don’t you ever listen to me?”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Shaking his head, he returns his attention to the window.
“Can you see her?” I repeat. “Is she still out there?”
“I can’t see anyone. Are you sure you saw someone? It’s pretty dark out there.”
“Yes, Dad. I’m sure. She was standing by the tree, and when I came down to the living room she was by the glass, looking right at me. I swear it.”
Moving away from the window, Dad walks past me and out through the doorway.
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer, so I follow. He walks down the hallway and into the dark kitchen.
“Stay back now,” he orders. “I’m going outside to check. Maybe it’s just some drunk from town, wandered into the garden.”
“Shouldn’t we just call the police?”
“Not yet. And keep that light off.”
I nod as Dad opens the door. A sudden gust of cold air hits us both in the face. “Be careful,” I say, my stomach full of butterflies. Then he steps outside and closes the door behind him.
Standing in the kitchen, in silence, for what seems like an eternity, I listen out for something, anything. I can feel my hands shaking as I stare at the door handle. Please be okay, Dad.
As the seconds turn into minutes, I find myself edging closer and closer to the back door. Curiosity has always been my weakness, (or strength, depending on how you look at it). Maybe I should just open the door and pop my head out, just to check if he’s all right. Surely he won’t get mad. I won’t actually be following him—just having a nose.
Another minute or so passes and I’ve reached the handle, grasped it and started to turn it. Don’t know how much help I can be if Dad’s really in trouble, but I have to at least try. Chest tight, I slowly open the door, one inch at a time.
Suddenly, the outside light comes on and the back door bursts open.
I’m flung backwards onto the floor, hitting my head on the fridge.
I see Dad, rushing to get the door shut and locked, his face white, his eyes wide, like he’s just seen a ghost. But before he can pull the bolt across to lock it, the door flies open, knocking him to the floor, his body landing on top of mine. The blonde woman is standing in the doorway, snarling like a dog; her eyes grey. The moment she spots us on the floor, she lunges towards us. Dad lifts both his legs up and manages to catch her body with the soles of his feet, and then pushes her back towards the opening. She lands hard onto her back, howling as she scrambles to her feet. Dad quickly gets up off the floor, his hands stretched out in front, ready for a second attack. I try to follow him, but I’m frozen. All I can do is cower further back against the fridge, behind his legs. The woman darts towards Dad again, black spit oozing from her mouth, her arms reaching forward. Dad secures both her wrists and wrestles her backwards towards the door. I watch in horror as the woman tries to pull Dad’s arm towards her open mouth.
“Leave him alone!” I scream as I get up off the floor.
I see Dad’s golf clubs, propped up in their bag against the table. Hauling out one of his putts, I hold it up like a shotgun, aim the metal end forwards, and then drive it into the woman’s face, splitting her nose like a peach. The distraction is enough for Dad to push her outside into the garden. But she still has a firm hold of his wrists, pulling him out with her. Just as I’m about to take another stab with the putt, I hear a thud.
Suddenly the woman lets go of Dad’s wrists and drops to her knees, eyes still wide open.
She collapses onto her back.
From the darkness of the garden, someone steps out. A man. He’s wearing white padded overall, white gloves, black boots, and has a helmet over his head. In his hand is a strange gun, pointed down at the woman. Dad steps back into the kitchen, pulling me behind him.
“Who is that?” I ask Dad in disbelief, as the fear started to fade—much faster than I thought it would.
“It’s a Cleaner.”
“A Cleaner?”
“Not that type of a cleaner, sweetheart. A different one.”
“What’s wrong with that woman?”
Dad pushes me further back into the kitchen. “She’s infected. She’s not well.”
I look up at Dad. “Is she a zombie?”
Dad nods, his eyes still gigantic.
“Get back!” the man orders as he straps something over the woman’s mouth. “And lock that door! Now!”
That was amazing! Wait ‘til Chrissie hears about this!
“I know what I want to be when I grow up,” I say as Dad starts to close the back door.
“What’s that, sweetheart?”
“I want to be a Cleaner.”
Dad locks the door, and the dead woman disappears from view.
“A Cleaner?” Dad asks, as he rushes to the kitchen window.
“Yeah.”
He pulls the blind over to one side, looks outside, and then turns to me. “Not a bloody chance.”
1
Nerves start to slither over me as I reach the steel gates. I can’t see any signs on the building, which looks to me like a small warehouse, or a factory. Strange. Pulling out the piece of paper from my jeans pocket, I double-check the address.
This is the right place. Don’t panic.
I push the gate open; it creaks noisily as the bottom scrapes against the concrete.
Inside the car park I see a large white van and two cars. I walk over to what seems to be the entrance. As I reach for the door handle, I can’t help but wonder if all this is just a cruel prank and there is no actual job. I mean, who the hell would want me as a Cleaner, anyway? It’s not like I have any real experience in security. I should have lied on my CV. Everyone does it. I should have told them that I’d worked as a bouncer for a year or two. Made up some pub, maybe; one that’s already closed down, in case they check up on me.
I push and pull the door handle but nothing happens. Locked! This is a wind-up. But how can it be? The Job Centre gave me the address. Must be a different place then; maybe it’s on the other side of Ammanford. I see a security keypad on the wall. I push the button with the bell symbol on it, half expecting it not to work. I can just about hear a faint buzzing sound echoing inside.
I wait.
I’ve got the wrong place.
I’ve buggered up my only interview. Nice one, Cath—you’ve blown your dream job before it’s even begun. How dumb can you get? After all the letters you sent, all the complaints you filed that women could just as easily do the job—and you go and mess up the bloody address.
Genius!
Walking away from the doors, I pull out my mobile phone from my handbag. Job Centre didn’t give a contact number, but I should be able to find it online, though. I remove my woollen gloves, slip them into my coat pocket and push the Internet button. Just as it connects, I hear the door opening. There’s a tall man standing in the doorway. He’s in his late-fifties, completely bald and wearing a shirt and tie; his top button is undone.
“Catherine? Catherine Wo
ods?” the man asks, his voice deep and husky, his eyes telling me that I am expected, but not welcome.
At least I’m in the right place.
He shakes my hand, squeezing it way too tight. Not sure if it’s just a force of habit, or some macho thing. I expect he does that to most men he meets, just to showcase strength and authority. But what the hell would he get from doing it to a woman? I think it’s already established from his size that he’s stronger than me, that he could kick my ass in his sleep.
“Hi,” I say, prying my hand from his grip, “you must be Mr Davies.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Did you find the place all right?”
“I found it fine, thanks. Just wasn’t sure that I got the right address. Couldn’t see any signs outside.”
“I know, it’s confusing. We try to keep the place low-key. The Job Centre should’ve mentioned it.”
“It’s okay. No big deal.”
“Shall we get started then, Catherine?”
I smile politely, but I’m guessing he already hates my guts, thinks I’m not right for the job. But I’m here now, no turning back. All he can say is No, thank you. Better luck next time.
“So,” I say, trying to break the silence as we walk along the grey corridors; my voice and footsteps echoing, “do many people know what this building is used for?”
“No, not many. Well, apart from the government, the staff, families, and probably a few others. I mean, it’s not like Area 51 or anything. It’s almost impossible to keep secrets these days. But it helps to stop the locals from freaking out. Last thing we want is complaints, or idiots snooping around at night. It’s way too dangerous.”
“Why’s that? I didn’t think you kept any inventory at your base. I thought they got sent for burning.”
Mr Davies stops at a door, grasps the handle and then turns to me. “Not all the time.”
I follow him inside. He takes my coat and scarf and directs me to a chair next to a wooden desk. I sit down, my body rigid with anxiety, as he walks around to the other side of the desk and sinks into a leather chair. Leaning back, he looks me straight in the eye; his stare untrusting, like a cop trying to get information out of a suspect. “So, Catherine,” he says, putting both his hands behind his head, “we’ve got five hardworking Cleaners in our branch, so what’s the fascination about becoming our sixth member? I mean, it’s dangerous, underpaid, and quite frankly very unappealing for anyone—let alone a woman. There must be hundreds of jobs out there for a pretty young girl like you.”
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 1
