“Come on, Cath!” I hear Andrew shout from the start-line. “You’re nearly there.”
I sprint back and grab sack number two. By the third I can barely breathe; I’m exhausted. My knee is aching, my thighs and arms feel like lead, and even with the rain, the sweat is running into my eyes, burning.
Come on, Cath! You can do this! Just two to go.
“How much time left?” I shout to Roger, struggling to get my words out between wheezes.
“Two and a half minutes!” he replies. “You’re doing well! Just keep pushing!”
The fourth one feels heavy. Really heavy. I have to work twice as hard just to get it moving, and I’ve swapped arms six times before I’m even halfway.
“Come on, Cath!” Andrew shouts. “It’s nothing! Just a sack of feathers!”
It’s definitely not a sack of feathers, but I appreciate the encouragement. I pull and pull, changing hands again and again, until my hands are numb from the pain and cold. But I’m nearly there. Nearly home. I try my best to ignore the searing pain in my knee. Please let it hold out. Please let it get me to the end.
I’m eating too much time. I can feel it. I’ll never have enough to do the last one. Not in a million years.
I’ve fucked it up!
I get the fourth sack to the end and dart back for the last sack. “How long left?”
“Forty-five seconds,” Roger says. “It’s gonna be tight.”
I exhale loudly in disbelief and exhaustion. I grip the remaining sack with both hands and pull as hard as humanly possible. Even through the pain, through the tiredness, the sack gets moving straight away.
At the halfway point, I hear Roger screaming that there’s just fifteen seconds left. The panic spurs me on and I slide the sack even faster across the drenched concrete. With both hands on the sack, I’m pulling backwards, blind, no way of knowing how far the line is.
“Come on, Cath!” Andrew shouts again. “Almost there!”
I can feel my hand slipping, I fight desperately to keep my grip but it’s no use—I fly back onto the wet ground.
Without the sack.
Shit!
I scramble to my feet and clutch the top of it again. I’m just inches from the end.
I pull and pull but it just won’t budge.
How much time do I have?
Come on, Cath—pull! You can do it!
It’s moving again, but my hand is slipping.
Come on! So close!
I don’t hear any voices of encouragement, all I hear is Dad telling me not to worry, that it just wasn’t meant to be.
Well screw that! He’s not gonna get the chance!
A last-second burst of adrenaline kicks in, blocking the pain in my knee, tightening my grip on the sack, and erasing Dad’s voice from my head.
I’m close. I can feel it.
Pull!
You’re almost there!
I drop to the floor in a puddle of rain as I pass the finish-line; lungs battling to function, knee throbbing, arms ready to fall off. But I don’t care—I’m through. It’s over.
Did I pass?
Roger kneels down beside me, stopwatch still in his hand. I look up at him, hoping to see a smile on his face. There isn’t one. But what use would a smile be anyway? That could mean I’ve failed. I’m too drained even to ask, and his blank expression is making it impossible to guess.
“Come on, Roger,” Andrew shouts, “stop torturing the girl, and tell her.”
Roger shows me the time on the stopwatch. I can barely see the display through the rain, but it looks to me like four minutes and fifty-two seconds.
I gasp in elation.
Four minutes and fifty-two seconds!
“I passed?”
“By the skin of your teeth,” Roger points out, and then takes my hand and pulls me up.
“Seriously?” I ask, unable to grasp the news, half-expecting him to tell me that it’s all a joke.
Roger starts to walk back to the building. “Get an early night,” he yells back without turning to look at me. “The real training begins nine o’ clock sharp.” He reaches the small side door to the building and then turns to me. “And don’t be late. I hate tardiness.”
“Well done, Cath,” Andrew says. “That was impressive.”
“Thanks. I still can’t believe I actually did it. I thought I’d buggered it up on that last stretch.”
“I think we all did,” he says with a smile. “But you passed and that’s all that matters. Woman or not, you’ve got some balls, Cath. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks…I think?”
“Roger’s right, though. Tomorrow the real training begins. You think you’re ready?”
“I was born ready.” Normally I’d cringe if I said something that cheesy out loud. But not today.
Today I’m another step closer to becoming a fully-fledged Cleaner.
And I couldn’t be happier.
4
I’ve been sitting in the staff room, watching TV for the last hour. Roger told me to sit tight while he waits for Andrew to return from a callout. I don’t mind chilling for a bit. After yesterday’s training, my knee is aching. I had to put ice on it last night—I found it hard to get to sleep. Plus, I was tossing and turning, thinking about today. So far they’ve been pretty vague about most of the training. I mean, the health and safety video was pretty standard, but the sack pulling—bloody hell, that was one for the books. Never realised how hard pulling sacks could be. Still don’t really know the relevance, though—certainly not with weights as heavy as seventy kilos. What am I, a bloody power-lifter?
I still can’t quite believe I passed.
I got a few evil looks walking in this morning from one of the Cleaners. No “Well done, Cath”, or “Good luck today”—just a couple of nods, mixed in with a few expressionless faces.
What the hell did I expect from a bunch of Neanderthals?
Scanning the small room, I notice some of the posters on the walls. Typical boys club: Pulp Fiction on one wall, Megan Fox on the other, and a nude calendar hanging on the back of the door. Can’t complain, though. I’m sure that if this place had just women, there’d be a few Twilight posters, and some nude fire-fighter calendar hung up somewhere.
The door opens and I turn to see two Cleaners, dressed in ordinary clothes; jeans, t-shirt, trainers. One with short blond hair, muscular frame, the other with dark hair, slightly overweight. Both in their late-thirties.
“You still here?” the blond one says, smirking. “Thought you’d quit.”
“No, not yet,” I say with a grin, trying to appear naïve to his obvious dig. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The dark-haired Cleaner opens the fridge. He takes out a packet of ham, sniffs it, and then puts it back in. “You’ll be gone after today,” he says, smugly, taking out a carton of milk and swigging a mouthful. “And no offence, Blondie, but it’s probably for the best.”
“Oh, yeah?” I reply, still trying not to take the bait. “Why’s that, then?”
“Because this is no place for a woman. And before you get on your high horse about sexism in the workplace, blah, blah, blah, I’m only stating a fact.”
“Oh that’s a fact, is it?” I say, unable to curb my sarcastic tone. “How do you work that one out?”
“Because it’s not bloody fair that one of us will have to be lumbered with you. It’s too dangerous. And I can tell you now, it won’t be me, that’s for sure.”
“Or me,” the blond one says, shaking his head. “No fucking chance.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat, “but no one’s going to be lumbered with me. I’ll be just as valuable to the team as anyone.”
The blond one snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, love.”
“You think I give a shit what you two think? What anyone thinks? I’ve got just as much right to be here as you.”
“No, you bloody don’t!” the dark-hair on
e snaps, causing my entire body to tense up. “Look, I’m all for equal rights, but we’re talking about risking the lives of men I’ve worked with for years—men with families, kids. And all because some little girl woke up one morning and decided to be a Cleaner? Well not on my watch. I’ve been here too long to let—”
Relief washes over me when the door opens, cutting his onslaught short.
“Everything all right in here?” Andrew asks as he enters the room, wearing most of his Cleaner gear—thick white overall up to his chin, leather boots, and gloves.
“Fine, Andy,” the dark-haired prick replies. “We were just chatting with the newbie here.”
“Yeah? Whatever they told you about me,” Andrew says, turning in my direction, “it’s a bloody lie.”
I force a smile.
“Well, I’ll see you both later,” the blond tosser says. “Good luck today, sweetheart.”
I don’t retort as I watch the grinning bastards leave. Glancing down at my hand, I see it tremble slightly. I take a few deep breaths, and smile at Andrew. “How was the job?” I ask him, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
“False alarm,” Andrew replies, unzipping his suit from the top of his chest. “Right, I won’t be long, Cath. Just give me five minutes to change and freshen up.”
“Okay, Andrew,” I say. “Do you need me to wait outside?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll change in the toilet cubicle.”
“Sorry about that. I bet you’re used to changing in here.”
Andrew smiles. “Well, yeah, but a change is always refreshing.” He pulls the zip all the way down to his waist, revealing a white, sweaty vest. He cups his slightly flabby belly. “No one wants to see this—not even the guys.”
I chuckle, and then watch as he disappears through a door to the side of me, praying that those two pricks have fucked off home.
* * *
After almost two days, I’ve finally managed to get my bearings on the place. Apart from Roger’s office and the tiny staff room, the main attraction is the centre of the building: the training room. It’s just a little bigger than a tennis court, with a large garage door at the far end. To the right of it are three metal containers, shaped like telephone boxes; there is a steel door with a large padlock at the front of each one. To the left of the garage door are six rubber dummies. And in the middle of the room is a thick white line, which stretches across the entire width of the floor.
In spite of a few nerves this morning, I’ve been looking forward to training today. I love this sort of thing. Learning how to assemble weapons, shooting targets. That was the best part of the Territorial Army. It wasn’t quite frontline, but it was bloody good fun.
Andrew is standing next to me, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. “Right then, Cath,” he says, “follow me. Let’s get you suited up.”
“Great,” I say, trying to hide my enthusiasm. He leads me over to the uniform section. I can see about a dozen helmets hanging on the wall, and below each hook is a bench with an assortment of white Cleaner suits piled up.
“Okay, Cath, as you’ve probably worked out, this is what we wear out in the field. These suits are completely bite-proof so you’ll be pretty safe as long as you keep your helmet, gloves and boots on.” He picks up a uniform, holds it shoulder height to inspect it, and then puts it back down on the bench. He does the same for the next. And the next, until finally handing me one. “Try this.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. “Shall I just slip it on over my clothes?”
“Yeah.” He grabs another suit, checks the label at the top, and then steps into the all-in-one uniform. “Okay, so climb into it like you would an overall—you know, like you were about to paint the walls or something.”
I put the suit on and then zip it up to my chin. It’s a little baggy, but I can live with it.
From one of the hooks, Andrew pulls down, what looks like a black police vest. It has various sized pockets and pouches on the front, and the words: Disease Control written in small white letters along the left side. He hands it to me and I slip it over my chest like a waistcoat. “It should fit,” Andrew says with confidence. “It’s adjustable.” He zips it up at the front and then pulls a thin strap on each side to tighten it. “You’re right-handed, yeah?”
“That’s right. Why?”
He picks up a thick strap from the bench and fastens one end to the bottom of the vest, and secures the other around my right thigh. “Well, this is for your gun holster. Can’t have you reaching for the wrong side.”
“Oh, right. Okay. Good to know,” I say with quiet excitement at the prospect of shooting something.
“What size shoes are you?”
“Three.”
His eyes widen in shock. “Jesus. That small?”
“Yeah. Well, you know what they say about women with small feet.”
“No. What’s that?”
“Small feet. Big brains.”
Andrew smirks and then scans the boots, picking up a few and then putting them back down. He then selects a pair from the end, holds them up, squints, and looks down at my feet. “They’ll have to do for now. We can pick up a pair in town tomorrow.”
“They’ll be fine,” I say, chirpily, taking the boots from him. “I’m not fussy.” Sitting on the bench, I slip the boots on my feet. Just by the fact that I don’t have to undo the laces is proof enough that these are a tad too big. I try to prod my toes and see how far off the end they are, but instead I feel the steel toecap. Never mind.
“Now, Cath, remember, these suits are more than just protection—they’re a status. Police, fire-fighters, paramedics, absolutely anyone who sees us, in the uniforms, steps aside and lets us get on with our job.”
“Really? Even the cops?”
“Yeah. Especially the cops. The last thing some police officer wants is to risk infection—no matter how keen, brave…or stupid. It’s just not worth it. I mean, of course, we work with the police. They help put up barricades when the shit hits the fan, evacuate the public. We couldn’t do our job without their help. But most of the time, they’d rather leave it to us—the canaries.”
“Canaries?”
“It’s just an expression, Cath. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Well, if you must know, it refers to the old coal mines. Miners used to carry them down.”
“A bird? Why?”
“Well, if the bird died of a toxic gas, like methane, then the miners knew it wasn’t safe.”
“Oh, right. I see. Learn something new every day.”
“But, it is our job. Fire-fighters have to run into burning buildings. Politicians run the country. And we do… this.”
“I suppose it can’t be easy for anyone to risk something like that—especially if you don’t have the right gear, the right training.”
“And the right back up. The last thing you want is to get separated during an outbreak. I tell you, Cath, it sucks. It sucks ass big time. Don’t let it happen to you.”
“I won’t.”
Andrew nods. “Good.” He picks up a pair of gloves and throws them to me. I catch one but drop the other. As I scoop up the one from the floor, I can almost hear his thoughts: Typical girl—can’t catch for shit!
After we both slip our gloves on, he hands me a white helmet. It looks exactly like the ones riot police wear; motorbike-helmet fit, large transparent hard plastic visor, chinstrap. I put it on and Andrew tightens the strap. “Can you hear me?” I ask him, my words echoing inside the helmet.
Andrew nods. “Yeah. Loud and clear.” He grabs a helmet of his own and then motions with his head for me to follow him. He takes me over to the other side of the room. There is a large metal cupboard against the wall, with a padlock clicked around the door latch. Andrew kneels down, takes hold of the padlock and enters the combination. Once the lock is off, he opens the cupboard. Inside, I see six guns, and several white boxes, most likely filled with tranqs
.
Now we’re talking!
“So how many tranquilisers will a gun hold?” I ask, as Andrew pulls out a gun and places it on top of the cupboard.
“Ten rounds.” He takes out a tranq from the box and holds it up to show me. It’s a dark shade of red, no bigger than a marble, with a sharp tip. “They’re more like bullets than darts, so they’ll cut through a Nec’s skull like a peach. Once the tranq makes contact with the brain, it should sedate the rotter straight away. But some are stubborn little fuckers. That’s why we’ve got to have a magazine of tranqs. There’s not always time to reload. You’ve got to shoot fast, or get the fuck out of there.”
“Shit. I didn’t realise. Thought one was enough. How long will the effects last?”
Andrew shrugs. “Good question. Two, maybe three hours. Every Nec is different. Depends on how far gone they are. Some won’t wake at all.” He picks up a small steel box, no bigger than a blackboard eraser. “This is a magazine. Each one is preloaded with tranquilisers. We keep two spare magazines on us at all times, with another ten or so in the van.” He holds up the magazine. “So, it just clips into the top of the gun like this,” he secures it to the weapon, “and you’re done. Locked and loaded.”
I practise inserting the magazine in and out a few times, allowing my memory to absorb every inch of the gun. It reminds me a little of a paintball gun—but I keep the thought to myself.
“Okay,” Andrew says, taking the gun from me, “now this is fully loaded. Ten may seem like a lot, but you’d be surprised how fast you’ll use them up. And trying to clip a magazine on when there’s five of them coming at you is pretty hard. That’s why you always have back up. Going solo is never a good idea. You need one of you reloading, while the other is unloading. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Always stay together.”
“Exactly. Good girl—you’re learning.” He makes his way towards the centre of the room. “Come with me.”
I follow him.
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 3
