If he could see the great big smile spread across my face like The Joker, he’d know my answer. “Of course I’m in, Roger. I’d love to. More than anything.”
“That’s great, Cath. Seven tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”
“No problem, Roger,” I reply, trying to rein in my exhilaration. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Okay then, Cath. I’ll be leaving you in the safe hands of Andrew. Don’t worry, he may seem like a soft touch, but he’s a tough Cleaner. Been at it even longer than I have. He’ll be running you through the last of the training—gun practise, antiviral shots, muzzles—those sorts of things. If there’re no call outs, I’ll even get him to run you over to Romkirk furnace. You’ll get to see how all this ends. Okay with you?”
“Sounds awesome, Roger. Looking forward to it. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Cath. Enjoy the rest of your evening and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay, Roger. And thanks again.”
“Bye.”
I end the call and then sit on the edge of the bed. Need a moment to absorb the crazy, unprecedented news. It’s like Christmas, Easter, my birthday, and quitting my shitty job at the restaurant, all rolled into one.
Leaping up from the bed, I grab my phone, unplug the charger and slip it into my handbag. I just want to scream the news from the landing, down to Mum and Dad like a kid excited about a brand new toy. But I don’t even know how they’d take the news. They want me to be happy—that much I’m certain of. But actually getting to be a Cleaner—full-time? Who knows?
But more importantly—who cares?
I’m going to be a Cleaner!
Me!
The girl Suzy May used to pick on!
I ain’t such a pushover now!
The dead had better stay dead, because Catherine Woods is coming for blood!
7
I’ve been in the staff room since 6:45 a.m., and the only person I’ve seen so far is Darren, coming off a nightshift—looking extremely tired and pissed off. I gave him a polite smile, and in fairness he did return one, but it definitely looked strained. No sign of Andrew though. Roger let me in earlier. He gave me an ID badge, told me to wear it on my chest with pride, and for me not to lose it. I look a little shell-shocked in the photo—but who the hell cares?
I’m a Cleaner!
It’s almost eight by the time Andrew walks through the door, wearing just his grey joggers and a T-shirt, and carrying a metal briefcase. “Hi, Cath,” he says, seeming all flustered and rushed, like someone just dragged him out of bed. “Sorry I’m late. We got a late call last night. False alarm though. Just some crazy tramp fucked up on God-knows-what, trying to bite chunks off another lowlife.”
“Really? Another one. I guess you get a lot then.”
“Yeah. At least four or five a week. It’s the police and nurses, see. They don’t like to chance anything. Once they spot someone suspected of being infected, they report them. They’ve got to. It’s too much of a risk to the public to take chances. That’s why we’ve managed to stop Necro-Morbus becoming an epidemic. It hasn’t been easy, though, I can tell you.”
“I bet.”
Andrew starts to pour himself a coffee from the jug by the projector screen. “Want one?”
“No thanks,” I reply, shaking my head. “Still got one.”
He sits on one of the chairs, just in front of me, takes a long sip of his coffee and then sets it down on the table.
“Any near-misses?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Like bites? Hell yeah.”
“No, I mean near-misses with, you know, the virus spreading into one of the cities. I haven’t heard of any, but I know what the government is like. They only tell you half the story.”
“We’ve had a few. There was the stadium incident a few years back. But that was all over the news.”
“Oh yeah. I think I remember reading about that.”
“Yep, that was a close one. But other than that, we’ve been doing a pretty good job keeping it back.” He takes a gulp of coffee and then lifts up the briefcase and places it on the table.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Antiviral,” he replies, unclipping the catches at the front, and then opening up the case, revealing a blue injection gun and six glass bottles of clear liquid, each roughly the size of a shot-glass. “These have been around for about six years. You seen one before?”
I shake my head. “Only on TV. No one I know has ever had to have one.”
“Count yourself lucky, then.”
“Do they actually work? I read somewhere that unless you take a shot within a few seconds of infection, they’re pretty much useless. Is that true?”
Andrew shrugs. “Maybe. Depends.”
“On what?”
“On the host. For some, they can work for a while after getting bitten, and some, well, they don’t even work within seconds of infection. Everyone’s different, Cath. It’s the same with Necs. Some walk, some stumble, some sprint, and some don’t even wake. It’s hit or miss. All depends on the person.”
“Couldn’t we just take a huge dose before we go into a hot zone, you know, as a precaution?”
“No, that would be a total waste. And they’re bloody expensive. They’re only effective after Necro-Morbus is in the bloodstream.”
“Oh, right. So are these antivirals for the people we help, or are they for us?”
“Both, I suppose. For you, mainly. You have to think of the bigger picture. You’re no good to anyone as a Nec, so you have to stay healthy, stay clean. Otherwise, all those people, all those helpless children, old folks, relying on your skills to get them out, to clear the streets of Necs, are all screwed. And that’s the hard truth, Cath. It’s just us between them and the dead. And we can never fail—no matter how little staff we have, how underfunded we are. We still have to fight. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Totally. So how many of those shots can we carry?”
“You’ll always have one injection gun strapped to your vest and one antiviral bottle, sealed in a protective case. We always keep spares in the back of the van. Just in case. You can inject one of these into almost any muscle. Doesn’t have to be near the bite. They’re pretty straightforward to use.” He slurps the last of his coffee, gets up and pours himself another. He then turns to me, leaning up against the table. “Okay, Cath,” he digs into his pocket and pulls out a handful of long plastic strips, about twelve inches in length, and a black muzzle. Not the kind you’d strap onto a dangerous dog, more like the ones you’d find in some nasty sex dungeon—but without the Pulp Fiction snooker ball to bite down on. It’s just a thick piece of leather-looking fabric, which wraps around the mouth and chin.
I see an image of those decomposing Necs from yesterday, coming at me; their mouths covered with the same muzzle.
Gross.
He holds up the plastic strips. “I take it you’ve seen these before.”
“Yeah. They look like cable ties.”
“Gold star. You’re right; they are cable ties. No different from those used at home. They’re very strong and they go around the wrist and ankle of a sedated Nec. Make sure you pull them as tight as you can, until the plastic really digs into the skin.”
A vision of rotten flesh painfully shifting off wrist-bone fills my mind. Like tearing fried chicken apart with oily fingers.
“Do you think they feel it?” I ask.
Andrew smirks. “What—pain? Of course they don’t.”
“How would anyone know that for sure?”
“Because they’re dead—that’s why. They don’t feel anything. How could they? They don’t breathe, blood doesn’t pump around their bodies, and they don’t feel or care about anything. They’re just walking, biting, viruses. Nothing more. Nothing less. Never forget that or this job will seriously fuck up that head of yours. Trust me. I know. I’ve been there.”
“No, I know that. It’s just—”
“It’s just that every so often you read some bullshit in the newspaper about Necs not actually being dead. Am I right?”
“Well, I suppose so.”
“Please tell me you don’t believe that, Cath. If you feel that way, I suggest you call it a day right now—before you walk into a houseful of Necs feeding on a bunch of kids.”
“No, it’s not what I’m saying. I know they’re dead. And I know that it’s just a virus that’s taken over a dead host. I know all that, I promise. But no one really knows what it feels like to be dead. How could they?”
“Nothing dead feels anything. It’s over. There’s no emotion. No love. No anger. Just some leftover instinct to eat. That’s it.”
Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut? I can tell that I’m pissing the guy off. I’ve only just got here and already I’m giving my opinions to a man who clearly isn’t interested.
Shut the fuck up, Cath!
“Okay, the muzzle,” Andrew begins, clearly desperate to change the subject. “This little piece of leather is probably the most important thing a Cleaner can have on him—after the tranq gun, of course. But a tranq will only last so long. Get this thing around a Nec’s mouth, and the smelly bastard ain’t tucking into anyone, that’s for damn sure. It’s very simple. You take the strap. Place the leather pouch directly over the Nec’s mouth—preferably when it’s comatose—and then fasten one strap over the top of his head, and the other around the sides.” He shows me the two buckles at the end of each strap. “Just tighten these at the back of the head like you would a belt. Easy.”
“Can we reuse them?”
Andrew shakes his head. “Once these are strapped onto a Nec, then that’s it. They’re shipped over to Romkirk for burning. It’s too dangerous to open the body bags and remove the muzzles. A lot of the times, the sedation has worn off by the time they get there. It’s only the cable ties, body bags,” he lifts the muzzle up and jiggles it, “and these babies, keeping the Necs from chewing down on some poor Burner’s throat.” He hands me the muzzle and smiles. “You wanna try it out?”
I frown with puzzlement. “What? On me?”
Andrew sniggers. “No. Not on you. A bloody Nec, of course.”
“Oh, right,” I reply, relieved.
He makes his way towards the door, motioning with his head for me to follow. “Right, Cath, let’s get to the training room. We’ve got lots more to get through today.” He turns to me, and grins. “You ready to shoot some zombies?”
I smile back. “Damn right.”
8
Sunday the 22nd of February 2015. 2:16 p.m.—a day that will be remembered for many years to come.
The day of my very first call-out.
Nerves have slowly got the better of me. I’m trying my utmost to swallow them down, but it’s hard. I’d like to think that it’s just pure excitement, a surge of adrenaline—but I know it’s not. Andrew’s a little worried, too; I can see it in his eyes.
But I won’t let him down.
I can’t.
“So how far’s this farm house?” I ask, holding onto the sides of my seat as he speeds down one of the narrowest country lanes I’ve ever seen.
“It’s not that far. Maybe another fifteen miles or so. It’s just outside Port Talbot. I had a feeling we’d be back up this neck of the woods.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some teacher got infected nearby. She said she’d caught it off her grandfather over in some nursing house in Newport. We did our usual clean up, took down the infected, bagged them up. But I had one of those feelings that something wasn’t right. It was just…too easy.”
“So what happened with the nursing home?”
“It had to be shut down.”
“The whole place?”
“Yep.”
“For how long?”
My entire body flies over towards my door as he burns around another bend.
“Not sure how long,” Andrew replies, his face calm and collected, as if he was leisurely driving down the countryside with his family. “Maybe a few months.”
“So what happened to the old people?”
Andrew shrugs. “Not sure. Probably re-homed temporarily until the place is properly decontaminated. All that shit, piss, blood, needles. Government can’t risk any further infection.”
I snort. “You know, I thought I knew everything about being a Cleaner. I really did. But there’s so much to learn.”
“You’ll get used to it, Cath. Today’s gonna be a breeze. This farmhouse is in the middle of nowhere. Just how I like it. No other people for miles. So there’s very little chance of any hordes of Necs coming at us.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely! If you didn’t get the job, I’d probably have gone on my own.”
“Really? On your own?”
“Yeah. I mean, you’re not supposed to, but Roger’s cool like that. Well, if he knows that it’s only a small thing like a farmhouse.”
“Oh right, I see. So you reckon this’ll be a walk in the park then?”
“Of course, Cath. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine. All I need you to do today is watch and learn. And if you can, cover my ass just in case. That’s all. No one’s expecting you to take down an army of rotters. So try and rein in those nerves, all right?”
I nod and smile, trying to show him convincingly that I’m calm, in control, without the flutter of a single butterfly.
But I’m far from calm.
And I’m positive Andrew knows it.
“Do your parents know you’re on a call-out today?” he asks as he turns another corner, almost clipping a grass bank.
“No. They’ll be stressing out all day. Especially Dad. They think I’m just watching instructional videos.”
Andrew chuckles. “Probably for the best. Last thing you want is family worrying.”
“Yeah—my thoughts exactly.” I close my eyes for a second when we narrowly miss a passing tractor. “So how about your family? Do they still worry about you?”
Andrew doesn’t answer. Can’t tell if he’s just concentrating on the lorry up ahead, or that I’ve said something out of turn.
“It’s just me now,” he finally replies.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, no. It’s fine, Cath. Fran and me have been divorced for about fourteen years now. After we lost Tessa, well…things just weren’t the same.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. It was a long time ago. Fran and me still talk occasionally—not as much as we used to, though. You lose a child; you lose a part of you. I think that was the part that was missing from our marriage.” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just life, I guess. Sometimes it’s great. Other times it’s horse shit.”
“So what happened to your little girl?” I ask, regretting the question the moment it leaves my lips. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it. I’ve repressed it long enough. I’ve learned the hard way that bottling things up is stupid. Tessa was just seven years old, and I’d left the back door open; I’d been in and out of the house all day trying to finish off the garden. That summer had been a washout, so it was the only day I had to mow the lawn. I had no idea there’d been an outbreak in town. I was in the shed when I heard the scream. I ran into the house and found this rotten bastard digging his teeth into Tessa’s leg.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I swallow hard. “That’s awful, Andrew.”
“Yep. Pretty shit. I had to smash its brain to mush, right in front of my little girl. There was nothing anyone could do for her. Back then, there was no antiviral. It was only a matter of time before…”
I’m lost for words. Why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? Why do I always have to keep digging?
Nice one, Cath!
“That’s why I applied for the job,” Andrew continues. “It was the only way I cou
ld process what’d happened. I thought if I could kill as many as possible, then maybe I’d spare some other family the same fate.” He shrugs again. “Something like that.”
I wish I could think of something wonderful and useful to say, but I can’t. I’ve got nothing. Instead, I just sit back, eyes on the road ahead, and promise never to open my big trap again.
* * *
After another few miles of tearing down deserted lanes, I start to feel a little queasy, as if I’ve just spent an hour on a rollercoaster. Got to take my mind off the road. “I never got the chance to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking Roger into letting me keep the job.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a good boss, but that doesn’t stop him acting like a prick sometimes. He just doesn’t see what I see. Not yet anyway.”
“What do you see?”
Andrew glances over at me, then his eyes quickly return to the road. “I see a hard worker—and a fighter.”
“Really?” I ask, blushing.
“Yeah, I do. I’ve never seen anyone pull those sacks the way you did. I mean, yeah, most of the guys who go for this job make short work of them; half of them are ex-military, ex-cops, so they’re used to handling that kind of weight. But you? Well, there’s nothing of you and you still managed it. So, for me, that’s all that matters: determination and guts. Yeah, you froze in the training room—but who cares. Every job is a learning curve. You’re not expected to make a bloody Big Mac on your first day without being shown how. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“There’s no question. And doing this job is not just about being strong; it’s about moving people to safety. Out of their homes. In the middle of the night. Cleaners rely too often on the police to do the talking when it comes to reassuring people why their children are being shipped off. If that were me, if that were my family, I’d much rather some pleasant, calm, woman come to my door and tell me that everything is going to be all right. Not some muscle-bound brute, barking orders like he’s still in the bloody army. You know what I’m saying?”
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 5
