“Agreed,” I say with haste.
Leading the way, Andrew rings the doorbell. There’s no response. He pushes the button again, along with a few hard knocks. Still nothing.
“Maybe they’re at work,” I suggest. “It’s still early.”
“Might be.” He tries the handle. It’s locked. He crouches down, lifts up the letterbox flap, and shouts: “Hello. Is there anybody in? It’s Disease Control. We’re here to help.” He listens out but hears no response. “Check the window, Cath.”
Knocking on the window, I push my head close to the glass, but my helmet prevents me from going any nearer. I almost pull the horrid thing off but don’t, to avoid a telling off from Andrew. “Can’t see any movement. Don’t think anyone’s home.”
“Okay, next house,” he says, letting go of the letterbox flap. “There’s no one here. And if there is, then they’re safe enough.”
“What if there’re Necs inside?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we check?”
“No. The place is clear.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because they’d be beating down that door by now. The doorbell would have driven them out.”
“Oh, yeah. Good point.”
“Come on,” Andrew says, “let’s just keep moving. It’ll be dark before we know it.”
The next house is the same. Deserted. And the next. I’m beginning to think that everyone is at work, or the Cleaner has asked us to sweep a street that has already been swept.
Andrew slams the side of his fist hard into the door several times before we hear footsteps racing to answer it. A middle-aged woman opens the door, her face a mask of panic. “Who the hell are you?” she says. “You better be the police. I’ve called them three times.”
“Madam, we’re not the police,” Andrew replies, with conviction in his voice. “This whole area’s been quarantined.”
“Oh my God,” she says, bringing her hand up to her mouth as she gasps. “Why? What’s happened?”
“There’s been an outbreak of Necro-Morbus in Crandale. So we need to check if your home is secure.”
“But what about the police? And what about those people?”
“What people?”
“The people I called the police about. Trying to break down my back door.”
“Is there anyone else in there with you? Husband, kids, friends?”
“No, just me,” she replies, shaking her head. “My husband is still at work. And my son is still in college.”
“Madam, you need to let my colleague and me inside your house to make sure it’s safe. Then we need to deal with your intruders.”
“By all means,” she replies, stepping to one side to clear our path.
I follow Andrew inside and we sweep the house as fast as possible, making sure that every window is closed and locked. More importantly, we make sure she doesn’t have any surprise relatives hiding in any of the rooms.
Luckily she doesn’t.
In the kitchen, my eyes go straight for the back door and the dark shadows that fill its glass panels.
“Is the door locked?” Andrew asks the woman.
“Yes,” she points to the top of the door. “Dead bolted.”
A fitting word.
“How many are out there?” I ask her.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Not sure. Maybe four or five. Hard to tell from here.”
I give Andrew a gentle elbow nudge. “How about we check from the upstairs window. We may be able to take them out from up there.”
“Good thinking, Cath.” He redirects his attention to the woman. “Madam, I’m going to need you to go into one of the upstairs rooms, out of the way. Any room with a good lock. Just in case something happens. Can you do that for us?”
“Yes. Of course,” she replies, trepidation in her tone.
The three of us exit the kitchen, Andrew leading the way, the woman in the middle.
Upstairs, the woman locks herself in one of the bedrooms. Andrew tries the door handle to be sure. We make our way into a second bedroom, and take off our helmets, setting them down on a wooden chest of drawers. Over to the window, which looks directly down onto the garden, Andrew pulls the blind slightly to the side. I do the same at the other end. Peering down I see four—no five Necs, bunched up outside the back door. From here they look pretty fresh, most likely infected a matter of hours ago—which makes doing this job all the more difficult. It’s easy not to think of them as human when they’re looking like rotten monsters. But these?
Poor bastards.
Taking a closer look, I see that the group is made up of an elderly woman, three middle-aged men, and one teenage girl. The elderly woman’s throat has been torn out; dried blood splattered all down her beige blouse and blue cardigan. I can’t quite see where the three men were bitten, but the teenage girl’s injuries are obvious; her left arm is missing from the elbow down, fresh blood still dripping from the wound. Christ, maybe one of those men is her father. And the culprit.
I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
“Can you climb up on that?” Andrew asks, pointing down at the thin, plastic windowsill, barely wide enough to hold even my foot. “I’m too heavy. I’ll break it.”
“I’ll give it a go.”
Using the wall for support, I step up onto the windowsill. I slowly and quietly open the small window at the top of the glass, and then push my head through the gap.
I can hear the moans of the five Necs below.
“Do you think you can get a good shot from there?” Andrew asks.
“Yeah. I should do, just about.”
Pulling my gun out of the holster, I bring it up high and squeeze my arm through. Thoughts of dropping it down to the garden fill my head. Even though I can’t properly line up the sight, I still try to aim the gun as best I can. I fire off the first shot; it hits a man’s skull. Thank God the tranqs come out silent. Only the sound of the Nec falling onto the paving prompts any reaction, just a few additional moans. I fire another, this time hitting the elderly woman in the temple. Then the two other men. For some reason, I leave the teenage girl until last. God knows why. What difference does it make? Something inside tells me to spare her—if only for a few seconds.
Andrew takes hold of my hand and helps me back down onto the carpet. “Nice work, Cath,” he says, with a big smile on his face. “Great shooting.”
“Glad my measly frame could come in use.”
“Exactly. A fat bastard like me would’ve never got a clean shot through that tiny gap. Not in a million years. None of the guys for that matter.”
“Thanks, Andrew.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Helmets on, we walk back down into the kitchen. Time for the clean up.
Even though all five Necs are sedated, Andrew still opens the back door with caution, gun pointed out in front, ready to take out any hidden Necs. Outside, there’s a small mass of bodies, laid out on the paving and well-kept lawn.
Surprisingly, I somehow managed to strap the muzzle on the elderly woman and one of the men without flinching too much. It’s getting easier. But Andrew securing the teenage girl definitely helped.
We haul the bagged-up bodies through the house and into the back of the van. Andrew makes sure that the house stays locked down, and the woman remains inside.
On to the next house.
We lock down the next six houses. No Necs, apart from three roamers coming up from Richmond. Andrew takes care of them, and we load them into the van.
The street lamps come on in unison as the winter sun starts to set, leaving the sky an orangey brown. It fills me with such dread, such uneasiness, because the night is just around the corner, and the darkness will only make matters worse.
By the forty-seventh house, the van is getting pretty full, with everything from street and garden roamers, to family members bitten, turned and lost in their own living rooms. Such a vile, disturbing thing to witness, to be a part of. I know it’s an important, wor
thwhile job, but it still doesn’t make it any easier. As we climb The Mount, house by house, I forcefully put myself into a numb, protective state. It’s an easier task standing behind Andrew—let him take the full extent of mental torture. Let him be the bars of the cage that shield me from the horror. He’s been here a million times before.
Andrew drives the van a little further up the street; the engine straining from the weight of bodies. Can’t see us filling it much more. There’s got to be at least thirty detained Necs stacked up in the back, with only about half in body bags.
“Another four houses,” Andrew says, stopping the van, “and we’ll head back to the church to drop ‘em off.” He slips his helmet back on. “With a bit of luck the lorry’s already turned up, cleared some of those Necs. Hate to see so many in one place. Looks unprofessional if you ask me—especially without bloody body bags. Typical Bristol-lot; can’t keep their Necs in order.”
“Where the hell is our backup?” I ask. “Shouldn’t the bus be here by now? Help clear these people out?”
Andrew climbs out of the van. “I don’t know, Cath. It may not be ‘til morning, or at least when we clear the church. There’s just too many of them. It’s still too dangerous for them to get in.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I just hate to think of all those families locked up in their homes, terrified, not knowing when help will arrive.”
“Better than being out here,” he points out as he knocks the door. No one answers, so we cross the road to try the opposite house. “I hate it as much as you, Cath. And I hate being in such a fucked up situation. I’ve never seen such a big outbreak since the stadium incident.” Just as he’s about to pound his fist on the door, he stops.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Door’s ajar.”
My heart beating faster, I follow Andrew into the house, guns at the ready, fully expecting to find the worst. Even though it’s nearly dark, the hallway lights are off, which could mean that no one’s in, or most likely, whatever happened here happened before sundown. There’s just enough light to see, but easier for a pack of Necs to be lurking in the shadows. He switches on the small torch attached to the top of his gun, and a thin beam comes shooting out the front. I do the same, and the light offers just a little more security. Poking his head into the living room, Andrew scans for any Necs. He then stands by the foot of the stairs and pauses for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Listening for movement upstairs,” he whispers back.
I nod, and listen as well. After a few seconds of silence, he leads me back down the hallway towards a door, most likely the kitchen. Just as he’s about to open it, we hear footsteps directly above us. My body clenches up as Andrew pushes past me, heading for the stairs. We slink up each creaky step, praying that we don’t draw any unwanted interest. At the top, we walk over to the first door. Andrew pushes it with the tip of his gun. It squeaks open, and I see that it’s a child’s bedroom, most likely a little boy from the posters of Ninja Turtles on the light-blue painted walls. Andrew steps inside, kneels down and checks under the bed. I open the wardrobe doors, only to find hanging clothes, scattered toys, and a few boxes.
“Clear,” Andrew whispers. “Next room.”
“Okay,” I quietly reply.
I recoil in fright when I see the man standing in the doorway.
There is a little boy by his side.
I nearly fire my gun as the dread creeps over me, painting my skin with goosebumps. Andrew puts a hand out to keep me behind him. I gladly take a step back; gun still pointed at their heads.
“Hello,” Andrew says, calmly. “We’re here to help.”
The boy and the man don’t respond. I try to make out their faces, but the light is too weak.
“Have you been bitten?” he asks; this time his voice is a little firmer.
Still no response.
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
Still nothing.
Not a good sign.
“Can’t we just shoot them in case?” I whisper to Andrew. “In the arm. It’s only a tranq.”
“Yeah, we can. But not the kid.”
“Why not?”
“Tranqs are too strong. It might kill him.”
Andrew fires his weapon, hitting the man in the left shoulder.
The man stays on his feet.
He then lets out a deep, guttural moan, and then drops facedown on the floor when Andrew unloads a tranq into his skull.
Suddenly the little boy bolts towards us, mouth wide, howling like a banshee, arms outstretched. Once he’s in the bedroom, I see his dismal eyes, his grey skin tone, the bite mark on his forearm. Without another thought, I shoot him between the eyes. From sheer momentum, the boy’s sedated body lunges towards me, knocking me backwards onto the bed.
Andrew heaves him quickly off me and throws him down on the floor with a loud thud.
“Are you okay?” Andrew asks, pulling me up onto my feet.
At first I think I am, but when I see the little boy, wearing just a blue T-shirt and a pair of Ninja Turtle pyjamas bottoms, his face buried into the carpet, I suddenly feel lightheaded, unsteady on my feet. I retreat to the bed, struggling to catch my breath.
“Take a sec, Cath” Andrew offers. “Have a little breather.”
“He was so young.”
“I know. But that’s the job, I’m afraid.”
“He was just a bloody kid,” I say, my words turning into a sob, “it’s not right.”
Andrew sits next to me, his arm over my shoulder. He removes my helmet and drops it on the bed behind me. He does the same for his own. “I hate these fucking things,” he says, clearly attempting the impossible task of lightening the mood. “They’re ugly, hot, and I can’t see fuck all.”
“It shouldn’t have happened to him,” I weep, my words barely audible. “Not to a child.”
“I know,” he replies, shushing me like a baby. “It’s horrible sometimes. Especially when there’s kids involved. But you know what? The way I look at it, for every kid we have to take out, we may save five in its place. Now I’m no maths expert, but I say that ratio sounds pretty good to me.”
I know he’s right. I know it’s the job, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Especially when all I want to do is go home. But I can’t. Not yet. I’m all the backup Andrew has. I could never abandon him. No matter how petrified, how low I get.
Sniffing loudly, I manage a thin smile. Not from happiness, or politeness, but of acceptance. I’ve got a job to do. These people need our help. I’ve gotta dig deep and suck it up.
This is a warzone, and I’m a soldier on the frontline.
“Let me tell you something, Cath,” Andrew says. “Something I’ve never told any of the guys before.”
“What’s that?”
“Dead people—they scare the living shit out of me.”
I let out a short chuckle.
“It’s not funny, Cath,” he says, playfully. “Yeah, after a few years they get a little more bearable. But I still hate the sight of them. They still freak me out. And fuck me do they give me nightmares. Even now.”
“Really?”
“Damn right they do. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in a cold sweat.”
“Well, that’s not exactly making me feel any better. I thought it was supposed to get easier.”
“Yeah, it does. In time. But my point is, it’s normal to be afraid.”
“Who says I’m afraid?”
Andrew snorts. “Cath, even with the visor on I can see how frightened you are.”
I shake my head. “That obvious is it?”
“Yeah, but only to me. Because I know how you’re feeling. But you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t get scared—if you didn’t get upset shooting down a kid.” He nudges me. “And I only like working with humans.”
I return a nudge. “Thanks, Andrew. You’re a good guy.”
“I know,” he gets up off the
bed. “Just don’t tell the guys for fuck’s sake. Or my ex-wife for that matter.”
Getting up, I unclip a muzzle and cable-ties from my belt. “Let’s get these two in the van, and get the hell back to that church.”
“Sounds like a plan. If you want, I’ll secure the little boy.”
“No, it’s all right,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“No, I need to get past this. I’ll be fine.”
Andrew smiles. “Good girl.”
Kneeling down over the boy, I start to turn him around. His eyes are closed, which makes him appear as nothing more than a sleeping child. Peaceful. Somehow it makes it a little more endurable. I think if his eyes were wide open I’d have to pass. I wrap the muzzle around his mouth and chin, and then buckle up the back. Once I’ve fastened his wrists together, I move down to his ankles. Just as I do, I hear a low growl coming from the doorway. Turning, I see Andrew on his back, out on the landing, pinned to the carpet by a woman. I leap to my feet, gun in hand and fire three tranqs into the back of her head. The woman goes limp over Andrew’s body. Racing over to them, I pull the woman off him.
I gasp in horror when I see the blood pouring out of Andrew’s neck.
“Oh my God!” I scream. “What the fuck!” Dropping to my knees next to him, I swiftly place both hands down on the bite, not even sure how much pressure to apply, or even if I’m meant to. But I do it anyway. It’s instinct. Andrew tries to speak but his words are a gurgling mess. I shush him, tell him not to speak, tell him that everything will be okay, that we’re going to get him to a hospital.
He’s not going to die on my watch.
But as the blood begins to seep through the thick fingers of my gloves, pooling under his head, only then does it dawn on me that his helmet is off. Glancing at the bed I see it, next to mine.
Please let him be all right.
Don’t let him die.
Don’t let him die because of me.
14
My vision blurs from the tears, coursing down my cheeks. Andrew’s eyes have started to close. “Stay with me!” Got to get him out of here. Right now. I put my gun back in the holster; Andrew’s weapon is on the carpet, the torch at the top still on. Pushing his limp body into a seated position, I hook my arms under his armpits. “You’re gonna be fine. I promise.” I drag his heavy body backwards, inch by inch, towards the stairs, looking over my shoulder for guidance. Got to get out of this fucking house. Out of Crandale. I make my way down the stairs, struggling to stay balanced with every step. “You’re doing great. Nearly there. I’m gonna get you to a hospital.”
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 9
