Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Jenkins, Steven

  So, planning can kiss my ass! And with that, I get up, take in a deep breath, and then dart across Davies Street’s junction as fast as my legs can carry me. I don’t look down at the hordes of Necs. There’s no one to save. Maybe any other day, any other situation, I’d stop and help, maybe drag a Nec off some poor bastard, maybe pull them to safety. But not tonight. Not while Sammy is just past this junction. Not while he’s waiting for his daddy.

  Not while—

  I can’t bear it any longer; I have to turn to see if they’re following me. Halfway down, I glance over my shoulder. Relief washes over me when I see that I’m all alone, running along the pavement.

  I slow down into a fast-walk, all the while fully aware of the looming danger all around me, in my so-called safe and perfect neighbourhood. Every inch of this once beloved place used to be somewhere me and Anna could bring Sammy. Push him up the hill in his pram, towards the school by Crandale Park.

  Bliss.

  Don’t think I can do that again. Not now, after everything. Can’t see me wanting to stay ‘round here after what’s become of it. Not without Anna.

  We’ll probably move. Somewhere away from people. Somewhere without any chance of widespread infection.

  Somewhere safe.

  Almost at the end of Richmond, I spot someone. A man. Well, more of a teenager. About sixteen. I stop for a moment, cautiously squatting down by a parked car. Is he alive? Too hard to tell. Can’t see any blood; any bite marks. Perhaps he needs help. Or maybe he’s seen Sammy.

  Just as I’m about to stand and call for his attention, the teenager turns his head in my direction. I feel a sudden surge of dread when I see that half the boy’s face is missing.

  As he limps across the road, I can’t help but feel sadness. Not terror this time. But a consuming pity for him. After all, he’s a victim in all this chaos, this contamination. He’s not the enemy. It’s the disease that’s the enemy. He’s just a boy who got bitten. Nothing more.

  Still crouched down like a terrified cat, I wait for the disfigured teenager to pass. I see a glimpse of his distorted face through the car’s wing mirror. I hold my breath as his moans of torture pass me by. The sound eventually disappears back towards Davies Street. When I see he’s out of sight, I stand and continue forward. Just a few metres down, the road starts to curve around to the left, leaving me blind to potential dangers that lie ahead.

  Still keeping low, using the parked cars for cover, I creep around the corner. When I see that the coast is clear, I feel my tense body relax a little. Not too much though. Any one of these surrounding houses could have a horde of rampant Necs, just waiting to burst out and devour me.

  I cross my fingers as I make my way around the corner. Just as I see the bottom of Richmond, I spot something that stops me in my tracks. Just a metre before the junction leading onto Marbleview, I see a white van on its side. One of the Cleaner vehicles. I quickly duck down by another car and wait to make sure Necs aren’t ransacking it. After a few minutes, I hear nothing, other than the noise of static coming from the radio inside. I can almost make out muffled voices buried in the crackling sound, but nothing that makes any sense.

  Judging by the damage, it looks like the vehicle has lost control and hit one of the parked cars.

  Any survivors? Must be. The impact doesn’t seem that bad. Of course, any crash would draw attention—and the last thing you’d want to do is draw attention here.

  I move closer to the van, car by car, still keeping low to the ground. Can’t risk being seen by any more Necs when I’m this close to home. But I have to check out the van, make sure that there’s no one still inside, injured.

  Stop!

  What the hell are you doing?

  You don’t have time for this shit! You’ve got to keep moving!

  I peer down the street towards home, and then at the van.

  I’m so close.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter as a flood of guilt and curiosity hits me at once.

  I approach the van from the back entrance, pissed off that I’m too weak-minded to leave well alone. The doors are both closed. When I reach them, I grasp the handles and pull.

  Locked.

  I walk to the front of the van, along the exposed underneath. I take a look through the front shattered windscreen.

  “Jesus Christ!” I foolishly shout when I see the driver still strapped in.

  It’s too difficult to fully make out the driver because of the spider-web crack in the glass. All I can tell is that the driver is male. I race over to the side of the van and climb onto the door, which is now facing upwards. I tap on the window, hoping to get some kind of response from him. I don’t.

  Dead.

  For now, anyway.

  Pushing my face up to the window, I try to get a better look inside. With his face covered in blood, slumped over a deflated airbag, I hold out little hope.

  Just as I’m about to climb off the van, and back onto the road, the man suddenly comes to life.

  “Shit!”

  I leap off the van, falling backwards as I hit the hard concrete. I’m about to bolt down the street to Marbleview, when I hear a faint, “Wait,” coming from inside the van. Now, I’d be the first to admit that there are a few things I don’t know about Necro-Morbus, but talking Necs is not one of them.

  I go back to the side of the van and climb up onto the door. He’s facing the window, fully awake, wearing his white protective suit; his black hair shaved close to his scalp, most likely ex-army. In spite of a severely bruised face, and a shattered nose, he’s very much alive. Unquestionably not a Nec. Or at least, he hasn’t turned yet.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, still trying to keep my voice low.

  The driver nods.

  “Can you move?” I ask.

  The driver shuffles in his seat. “A little,” I hear him struggle to say, wiping the blood away from his mouth.

  I tug on the door handle, but it’s stuck. “Unlock the door and I’ll pull you out.”

  The driver nods, and then fiddles with the door handle, but nothing happens. “It won’t open,” the driver tells me. “It’s jammed.”

  I give the handle another pull but the door still won’t budge. “Open your window instead and I’ll drag you out.”

  The driver presses a button on the door panel. Once again nothing happens.

  “It won’t open,” he says.

  I check to see if the keys are still in the ignition. They are. “Turn the key to get the battery on.”

  He takes hold of the keys and turns them. Nothing happens. “Dead,” he tells me.

  Poor choice of words.

  “Cover your eyes and face,” I say, “I’m gonna break the glass.”

  The driver follows my instructions and protects his face—as if bracing for an explosion. Using my right elbow, I strike the window as hard as I can, closing my eyes tightly as it hits. The glass remains the same. Not even a scratch. Despite a searing pain shooting up from my elbow, I ready myself for another attempt. This time the window breaks, spitting shards of broken glass all over the driver. He shakes off the sharp pieces like water off a dog, pushes the seatbelt button, and then tries to move. For some reason, he can’t. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “The steering wheel’s buckled and jammed into me. I can’t get out.”

  He struggles to free himself as blood continues to pour from his nostrils.

  “Are you all right? You’re bleeding pretty bad.” I reach in to help free him.

  “I’m fine,” he replies, trying to move his seat back away from the steering wheel. “Just smashed my nose. Nothing serious.”

  “So what happened to you? Did you get attacked?”

  “No, I just had to swerve to avoid some crazy woman standing in the middle of the road.” He gives up on the seat adjustment and continues trying to wriggle free.

  “Was she dead? I mean, well, you know what I mean—was she a Nec?”

  “Fuck knows. Could have been. Hard to t
ell. It happened so fast. Next thing I know I’ve crashed into a parked car and tipped over.”

  “Well, you’re all right now. Did you have someone with you?”

  “No, just me. I was meant to pick up some colleagues when everything went tits up.”

  “What the hell happened here? How did things get so out of control? Normally you guys are in and out in a matter of hours.”

  “Usual story: fucking budget-cuts. Not enough Cleaners to de-tox an area this big. Things just got too much to handle. We haven’t had a breakout this size since the stadium.”

  Finally, the driver manages to free himself from the steering wheel. I start to pull him out of the vehicle. Suddenly, I feel something ice-cold grip onto my exposed calf. I turn to see what it is.

  “Oh fuck!” I shout as I catch sight of the Nec, grasping my leg.

  Wrenching my ankle from his tight grip, I roll onto my back against the side of the van. To my horror, I see six, maybe seven Necs around the van. Looking up the road, I see maybe ten or so, on route to us. Some of them hobbling. Some are sprinting.

  “Oh shit!” the driver cries. “There’s too many of them! Get me the fuck out of here! Quick!”

  I reach into the vehicle, grab the driver by his arm, and then yank as hard as I can. He yells out in pain, but I ignore it. I’m too preoccupied with the crowd of Necs, trying desperately to climb up.

  I manage to pull the driver free from the van, and we are now both standing on the side of the vehicle. The other Necs have reached us. The sheer weight of their bodies, scratching at the van, causes it to shake under our feet. I grab hold of the driver to keep balance.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say. “What the fuck do we do now? We’re surrounded.”

  “Don’t panic,” the driver replies. “We’re not surrounded. They haven’t got the intellect for strategy. And they can’t get at us from up here either.”

  I back off from a mass of wrists and fingers, scrabbling against the metal by our feet. “Where’s your gun?”

  “It dropped down somewhere when I crashed.”

  “Then let’s go get it then.”

  “Too risky,” he replies, shaking his head. “We’ll be cornered. We’re safer up high. Only got a few rounds left anyway.”

  “Shit,” I say, as the groans coming from the Necs cut through me like a squealing drill, and the smell is almost unbearable. But the terror of seeing so many, without their wrists and ankles bound, without a muzzle strapped onto their mouths is even more excruciating.

  Home is so close. Just around the corner. Sammy could be there now, waiting—terrified.

  I scan the rest of Richmond; I can’t see any other threat.

  The Necs have clustered just below us, so the other side of the van is clear. “We need to get off this thing, right now,” I say, stamping down on a Nec’s fingers as it reaches for me. “We can make a run for it.”

  The driver examines my escape route and nods in agreement. “Yeah, all right.” He kicks another in the face; blood sprays across the pavement. I cover my mouth in case any gets in. Not worth the risk. Nec blood is still highly contagious for about a minute in the open air.

  The aggression is clearly building in the Necs as they clamour for a better reach of us. I try not to look any of them in the eye. If I do, then I start to see the person, or even the neighbour lost inside. And that makes me think of Anna. And now is not the best time to think of her.

  “You ready?” the driver asks me.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  And with that, we both jump off the clear side of the van. I land clean, hardly losing my balance at all. Just as I start to bolt, I see the driver down on the floor, holding his ankle.

  “Come on!” I scream. But before I can even contemplate going back for him, a storm of Necs are on top of him.

  As I back away, I can no longer see the driver, only the mass of vultures kneeling down, all around him, biting and tearing off chunks of his flesh with their teeth and fingernails.

  I can’t help him. How can I? It’s too late. He’s finished.

  No way for a man to die. Especially when he’s just doing his job.

  This fucking disease.

  I run down the street towards home. I know that there’s nothing I can do for him. If I had a gun then maybe things could’ve been different. It was just bad luck. Wrong place. Wrong time. Nothing more.

  Then why the hell do I feel so guilty?

  Just up ahead, I see the junction to Marbleview. As my street sign comes into sight, I can’t help but feel elation. But then an overwhelming sense of panic devours it. What if I find him dead? Or worse still: turned? What if he’s—

  Shut up, Rob! You’re not helping things.

  Pull yourself together. For Sammy’s sake.

  Reaching the junction, I stop for a moment to see if any Necs are following. Luckily they’re not. Not so lucky for the nameless driver. Poor bastard. Too busy tearing him to pieces to come chasing after me.

  I shake off another dose of guilt as I creep around the corner onto Marbleview. The coast seems clear for now. Although, I still keep low to the floor, using the parked cars for cover again. There’s no reason to think that this street is any safer than the rest of Crandale.

  Car by car, I finally reach my front door. My stomach churns at the sight. Never before have I felt so terrified of entering my own house. Mine and Anna’s first house. Sammy’s first home. Where he took his first steps. Where he…

  Stop it! Stop torturing yourself! Just get inside. Sammy needs you.

  Just a car or two down, I notice Anna’s car still parked. I skulk towards it. I don’t know why. Maybe to find a clue—something to point me in the right direction. Reaching it, I notice that the back passenger door is ajar. The door that Sammy uses. The knot in my stomach twists and tightens. Images of Sammy laying dead in his booster-seat fill my head. I shake them off in disgust as I slowly open the door.

  The car is empty.

  Thank God.

  I take a quick look in the front and back of the car; almost forgetting the imminent threat that’s all around me. Frowning in confusion, I close the door and sprint back to my front door.

  Reaching into my jacket pocket, I feel about for my keys. A split second of dread hits me when I think I’ve lost them. I exhale in relief when I manage to dig them out. I push the key in the lock and turn it.

  The door opens and I walk in.

  11

  The house seems different. Unlived in. At least for some time, anyway. As if someone had died here many years ago and it’s now up for sale.

  But how could it feel so different—so strange? This is my house. I was here just this morning. How could things change so quickly?

  I’m about to reach for the light switch next to the door, when I stop suddenly just inches from it. Think! No lights. Can’t let them know I’m in here. Too risky. Luckily, the light from the street lamp faintly illuminates most of the hallway, just enough to see in front of me.

  I hold off the desperate need to call out to Sammy. I have to be sure the house is Nec-free. For all I know, Sammy could be under one of the beds, hiding, and when he hears my voice he could coming running out—straight into a pack of hungry Necs.

  I listen out for noise. Any sort of noise. Rustling. Whispering. Anything.

  The place is dead silent.

  I need a weapon.

  Scanning the front hall, I see nothing, other than a pile of Anna’s umbrellas rammed into a deep vase. I grab one and pull it out. It’s pink, with a flowered pattern on the handle and fabric. I inspect the tip, hoping that it’s razor sharp. It isn’t. It’s just a scuffed piece of pointy-ish plastic. Useless. It wouldn’t pierce toilet paper, let alone a Nec. Maybe I could use it as a stick.

  Christ! An umbrella as a weapon? Who the hell am I supposed to be? The bloody Penguin?

  I need something better. God, I’d kill for a gun. Any gun. Preferably a machine gun. Not that I’ve ever used a gun.

  I slide
the umbrella back into the vase, annoyed that I’m not better prepared for an attack.

  Cautiously, I enter the living room. Luckily the door is already ajar, so I peep in before I’m inside.

  Too dark to see. Just faint outlines of furniture.

  Need a torch.

  I walk beneath the electrical fuse box positioned by the front door. Reaching up, I manage to open it. Using just my fingertips, I feel about for a torch. I hear it roll back and forth along the wooden ledge, until finally it falls out into my other hand. I push the button. It works. Thank God for that.

  I shine the torch into the living room, corner to corner.

  Clear.

  No sign of a struggle. No obvious blood stains, thank God.

  I walk over to the couch, climb up onto my knees, and take a quick look behind it. Once again, it’s clear. Relief and disappointment wash over me in unison.

  Back in the hallway, I decide to check out the kitchen, leaving upstairs until last. As I enter the kitchen, I swap the torch to my left hand and hold my right fist up, ready for any surprise attacks. The room is clear. Even the dishes are done and put away. No signs of a struggle. No signs of any blood. I wipe a thick layer of sweat from my brow as I start for the back utility room.

  Opening the door slowly, tightening up as I pray that the hinges don’t squeak. Luckily, they don’t. I shine the torch, and then poke my head through the half-open door. The room is deserted. Walking in, still on high alert, I notice that the washing hasn’t been taken out of the machine yet. It was probably the last thing on Anna’s mind before—

  Stop it, Rob. Focus. You can cry later. Right now you’ve got a job to do.

  I feel the tension start to ease when I notice that the backdoor bolt is in the locked position. I double-check the handle just in case.

  I make sure that the windows in all the downstairs rooms are closed and locked.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, I suck in a huge breath of air, readying myself to take the first step. The staircase is just a standard ten to fifteen steps, but for some reason the height seems mountainous—as if reaching the summit would be some kind of great achievement.