Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Jenkins, Steven

  Maybe she’s not as frail and helpless as I first thought.

  “How long’s he been in there?” I whisper, shaking my head in bewilderment, staring at the door handle.

  “All day,” Edith replies, switching on a second lamp. “He came home with the shopping this morning. Put most of it away for me, even though he said he felt unwell. I offered to put it away myself, but he insisted. So I let him. He’s a stubborn one. Always has been. I put the kettle on and then he said he felt sick. So I told him to sit down and leave the shopping alone. But, typical Peter, he never listens, he just carried on. And then he was sick. All over the kitchen floor. He then ran past me, straight up the stairs to the bathroom. I followed up after him to make sure he was all right.”

  “Was he bitten?” I ask, eyes still glued to the door handle, subtly listening out for any movement from inside. “Did you see any bite marks on him?”

  “If he was bitten then he kept it hidden from me. That’s Peter all over—too proud to admit when he’s hurt.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Well, he was in there for a while. Vomiting loudly. I offered to call the doctor, but he said he was fine, so I went back downstairs to clean up. I thought he had a bug or something. Or food poisoning. After I cleaned the kitchen and put the rest of the shopping away, I went back up to see if he was feeling any better. When I got there, he was tying the scarf around the door handle. I couldn’t understand what he was doing, but he insisted that I lock him in by tying the other end around the banister. I refused of course. I mean, it seemed ridiculous. Why on earth did he want me to do that? At worst, it might have been a bug, I thought. But then he screamed at me, demanding that I do as he says. Now we’ve had our disagreements in the past—but Peter’s never screamed at me like that before. It was as if he was a different person. He scared me. I mean, really scared me. So I did what he asked and tied the scarf as tight as I could to the banister. He told me under no circumstances am I to open that door. No matter what happens.” Edith shakes her head. “And I haven’t.”

  “Look, let’s go into the bedroom and talk,” I say, my stomach in knots at the thought of Peter bursting through the door. Although I still haven’t heard a sound. Not even a faint rustling. Maybe he’s dead. Real dead. Not everyone comes back. Not everyone’s body can take the change. He could be in there lying in a pool of his own vomit.

  “There’s no need to go into the bedroom,” Edith says. “He can’t hear us. I’ve knocked on that door a dozen times, and I’ve heard nothing. I even called his mobile phone, but it just kept ringing from inside his pocket.”

  I check to make sure that the scarf is still tied tight enough. “You do know what’s happened to your brother, Edith? I mean, you do understand why he asked you to lock him in?”

  “Well, I didn’t at first—but I do now. He’s infected. Or at least he thinks he is. And he was worried that he might turn into one of those things from outside. But I doubt it.”

  “Why do you doubt it?”

  “Because it’s Peter. He’s as strong as an ox. I can’t see one of those things being able to bite him.”

  “Listen, Edith, you may be right, but if he has turned, then that scarf isn’t going to hold him for very long.”

  “Well, it’s kept him in this long. And if anything, he’s more likely to be passed out in there. Surely not everyone who vomits is infected. People can still get sick without it being Necro-Morbus.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But anyone who vomits today and yesterday might be. Including Anna. She was sick last night too. And now she’s dead.”

  Edith puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh no, not Anna. I’m so sorry, Robert. I didn’t realise. How awful.”

  “It’s all right. But we have to secure that door.”

  Walking up to the bathroom door, Edith puts an ear to it. “The thing is, Robert, there’s a reason I called you over here.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I need a favour. I want you to open the door and check on him.”

  I shake my head in protest, nearly laughing at the very notion of such a ludicrous thing. “What? No. Not a chance. For your sake as well as mine.”

  “Please, Robert. You’re the only one who can. I promised him I’d keep the door locked. But I need to see if he’s okay. Or at least know if he’s…”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Edith. I really am. And I get why you need me to do it—but I just can’t. I’d have to be crazy to risk it. It doesn’t matter if we haven’t heard him, he still could be contagious. And aggressive. One bite and—”

  “What if it was Anna in there?” she asks, coldly, unable to even make eye contact with me. “Or Sammy?”

  Leaning against the banister, I sigh loudly, unable to believe that she would say such a thing.

  But she’s right. Of course I’d open the door. Of course I’d check. I’d have to. Even if she was banging on the door. Growling. Even if—

  Shit.

  What a fucking night.

  “Look,” I say, sounding defeated, “even if I did open the door—what good would it do? Whatever we’ll find isn’t going to change anything. And by morning I’m sure there’ll be help coming. Someone with the correct equipment can open the door. Someone with protection. I mean, if he is turned—and I’m only saying ‘if’—but if he is turned then we’d be completely defenceless. We’d have to hit him with something. I mean, really hit him. Hard. Is that something you can handle?”

  Edith begins to sob. It rips my heart out to see it. Especially someone so innocent, so good-hearted. Someone who probably hasn’t hurt so much as a fly in her life.

  But it’s the truth. I would have to smash his brains in. Most likely right in front of her. Not a lot of people could cope with that. I know I couldn’t. But I can’t exactly strap a muzzle on the guy and throw him in the furnace. And no matter what Edith may think about the many possible reasons for his puking up—I’d bet my life on it that he’s infected.

  “I don’t care,” Edith struggles to say as she wipes her eyes with a sleeve. “I have to be sure. He could be passed out on the floor, totally helpless, just waiting for someone to come.”

  “He also could be waiting for someone to tear limb from limb. I know it’s hard to hear, but I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve seen what this disease does to people. Innocent people. Like your brother. It just takes and takes, until there’s nothing left of them. And once that happens, it’s no longer them. It’s no longer the person you love looking back at you. And it’ll never be again. And you can’t think anything less. You just have to deal with it. You just have to accept that they’re gone. For good. And all that’s left is this horrid, relentless illness.”

  Edith walks over to a wooden chest next to the bathroom door, and sits. I notice her shaking hands as she places one hand on her forehead.

  “You all right, Edith?” I softly say.

  She doesn’t reply.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence that lasts for about a minute.

  Until finally Edith lifts her head up to speak.

  “Open the door.”

  16

  I slip on a pair of Edith’s thick, green-coloured gardening gloves, and then tuck my sleeves into them so that there’s no flesh exposed. I do the same for my ankles, pulling my socks up over my trousers. I then wrap one of her pink scarves over my mouth.

  I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the landing mirror and decide I look like a bloody idiot.But who cares. I’m not here to look good.

  Clutching an old, scuffed-up cricket bat Edith found under the stairs, I feel every muscle tighten with dread as I watch her untie the scarf from the banister.

  “You ready?” I whisper.

  She nods to me when the scarf drops to the floor, still attached to the door handle.

  “I need you to wait downstairs,” I tell her. “It’s too dangerous up here.”

  “No. I can’t. I need to see for myself.”

  “Do
n’t be stupid. I’ll soon find out if he’s infected, and then…”

  “And then what? Bash his head in with the bat? Listen, I appreciate this more than you know. And I know you’ve got your own problems, Robert. But I need to see if he’s still alive. And if I’m here and he has turned into one of those things, then I’m not going to stop you doing whatever it takes to protect yourself. But if I’m downstairs then I’d always wonder in the back of my mind if you made the right call.”

  I take a look around the landing. “All right. Fair point. But there’s no room out here. At least get out of harm’s way. Go back to the bedroom, so you can still see.”

  Following my instruction, she walks over to the bedroom and stands in the doorway.

  I lightly tap on the door, stomach churning with nerves, and call out to him. “Peter?”

  I wait for an answer.

  Silence.

  I knock a little harder. “Peter? Are you okay? It’s Robert. I’m a friend of Edith’s.”

  Still nothing.

  I let out a long breath to ready myself, and then reach for the door handle, my hand quivering as I make contact. Delicately, I try to twist the knob. It doesn’t budge.

  “He’s locked it from the inside,” I point out. “I can’t believe I could be so stupid. Of course he did. Why the hell wouldn’t he?

  “What now?”

  Staring at the door, I brace myself to do the only thing I can. And if I don’t do it now, then I’ll never have the balls to do it. So I drive my right foot into the door, causing the wood to splinter. I repeat the action and the door flies open. I leap back, cricket bat held tightly in my grip, ready to take Peter down.

  “Do you see him?” Edith nervously whispers. “Is he all right?”

  Shushing her, I creep forward towards the open bathroom. The room is dark, but the lamps from the landing give off just enough light to see. My heart is pumping fast like a racehorse as I poke my head through the doorway. Peter is nowhere to be seen. But it’s only a matter of time. Inching forward, I see the toilet and sink. Still no sign of him. The anxiety is almost too much for me; beads of sweat dripping from my forehead, in spite of the cold, damp room. Edging around the door, I see the bathtub. Empty. Next to it is the shower cubical. Its frosted-glass doors are closed, and the room is still too dark to see even a silhouette. Taking one hand off the handle of the bat, I reach forward and grasp the rim of the shower door to slide it open.

  “Is he okay?” I hear Edith say from directly behind me, causing me almost to swing the bat at her in fright.

  “Jesus Christ, Edith,” I snap; bat still aimed at her head. “Get the hell out.”

  She goes back out onto the landing.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself, still unable to shake off the shock.

  Deciding against opening the shower door, I give a gentle tap on the glass. I wait for movement. A sound. Anything at all. Something to indicate what sort of a state he might be in. I hold my heavy breathing to listen.

  No movement.

  No sound.

  Dead?

  Well, old-fashioned dead.

  I give another tap to the shower door, only this time a little harder. Still nothing. Putting the cricket bat between my thighs, I slide both glass doors open simultaneously. Once completely open, I secure the bat again; grip tight, ready to brandish it.

  Peter Morgan.

  I’ve never met the guy before. Didn’t even know she had a brother. And here he is, lifeless, slumped up against the tiled shower wall, in his smart black suit; dressed as if about to attend a funeral. How fitting and tragic. Even with the room’s poor lighting, I can see his thick head of hair, too thick for a man clearly just a couple of years younger than Edith. And I see his eyes shut, as if doing nothing more than taking a nap in front of the TV. But from the smell, I’d say he’s been dead for most of the day. Poor bastard.

  Poor Edith.

  “Is he dead?” Edith whispers from the bathroom doorway.

  Shrugging, I move a little closer. “I think so. And I don’t think he’s one of them, either.” I gently prod his chest with the end of the bat to make sure. No response. “I’m sorry, Edith—but he’s gone.”

  I can hear her weep, but I don’t turn to her. I can’t bear it. I know I should, but I can’t. Instead, I just gawk at his dead body, as if seeing one for the very first time. In fact, the very first time that I did see a dead body, it was a reanimated one. I never even got to see Dad’s body. Not that I really wanted to. But I was curious. I mean, who isn’t. Everyone slows down when there’s a car crash, hoping to see something nasty. It’s human nature. Even if it’s someone you love dearly.

  “Are you all right, Edith,” I ask; eyes still fixated on Peter.

  All I can hear are muffled sobs from the bedroom. I’m not even sure if she heard me.

  Poor woman. I think she always knew that whatever we found locked in this room wasn’t going to be good news. But seeing her brother sitting up on the shower floor—dead—is a damn sight better than seeing him as a Nec. Anything is better than that.

  No one should have to see a loved one in such a horrid, unforgiving way.

  I finally manage to turn away from him, and head for the doorway. “You all right, Edith?” I call out quietly, pulling the scarf from my mouth. I lean against the bathroom doorframe, watching her from across the landing as she sits on the side of her bed, weeping. It breaks my heart—but what can I do? I have to leave soon. Have to think of a new plan. Can’t stay here all night. Sammy’s out there somewhere. Most likely alone and afraid. He’s already lost his mother. And for all I know he saw her turn as well. Jesus Christ, don’t let him have seen her in such a state. At least give me that much. At least give me something.

  For fuck’s sake.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” I ask her. “Or something stronger?”

  She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head slowly as if in defeat—as if this was the last thing that life was going to throw at her.

  What now? Do I just leave Peter’s body in the shower? Or do I need to take it somewhere?

  Leave it. What good would it do? And besides, he could still be teaming with infection. Doubtful, but why risk it? Probably need to throw a sheet over him. And then keep this room closed until Crandale is properly cleaned. But fuck knows when that’s gonna be. Shit, they’ll probably drop a bomb on us before they let this get any more out of hand.

  “I’m gonna find a sheet to put over him,” I tell her. “Is that all right?”

  She looks up at me, eyes bloodshot and streaming, and then smiles thinly. “That would be nice, Robert,” she calmly replies. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I had to put you through all this palaver. I know it’s not fair on you; you’ve got your own worries to see to.”

  I return a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let me get you a glass of water, and then I’ll find a sheet. You stay put.”

  Walking back into the bathroom, I can’t resist catching another glimpse of Peter. Poor bastard. At least he still had the sense to lock himself in. Edith doesn’t know how close she came to being bitten. Or worse—ripped to shreds.

  Sometimes death is better.

  I set the cricket bat down against the bathtub, and then grab a glass from the sink. Filling it with cold water, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. This is the first time that I’ve stared at myself since this morning. And for some reason, I look different. Not so much from the stress and the hardship of the night’s events—just different. But who wouldn’t after burning their own wife in a furnace.

  Stop it!

  It wasn’t your fault. You need to get past this.

  I glance again at Peter as I make my way out of the bathroom.

  “There you go, Edith,” I say, as I hand her the water.

  She takes the cup with a smile

  “I’m gonna look for something to cover your brother,” I say. “Do you have anything I can use?”

  She takes a sip of water and then points over to
the spare bedroom across the landing. “In the other bedroom,” she replies. “On the wardrobe shelf. You should find some clean sheets.”

  Clearly putting on a brave face, she takes another sip of water, her hand still trembling. Maybe it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. I mean, it’s a hell of a lot to take in. For anyone. Better get that sheet before she gets a look at him. The last thing she needs to see is her dead brother sitting on a damp shower floor.

  Exiting the bedroom, I head over to the spare room. Once inside, I have to stop myself from flicking the light switch on. The room is dark like the rest of the house, but I can still find my way over to the wardrobe. I try to look inside, but I can’t see a thing. Reaching in, I feel about for a shelf. I can’t find one. Doesn’t seem to be one in here. I keep blindly rummaging for about a minute before realising that there are two wardrobes. I close the doors and open the other wardrobe, positioned right next to the first one. Inside, I feel for a shelf and find one. I locate the sheets straight away and pull them down, dropping various other pieces of clothing in the process. Just as I’m about to close the wardrobe doors, I hear the sound of glass shattering. And then a loud, piercing scream.

  Dropping the sheets, I race out of the bedroom to the landing. Peter has Edith pinned to the floor of her bedroom. I reach them in a heartbeat and grab the back of his shoulders, prying him off her. He falls onto his back and she quickly scurries further into the bedroom, out of the way. Before he can get back onto his feet, I plunge my foot down into his face. Edith screams at the sight, but I have to do it. Can’t let him get back up. Unaffected, apart from a split nose, Peter turns on the floor and grabs my ankle, causing me to lose balance and fall back against the banister. I cry out in agony as my lower back hits the thick wood. Peter snarls; foam dripping from his teeth; eyes almost entirely colourless. I back off slightly, terrified as he follows me towards the spare room, like a cat about to swoop on its prey. As I pass the bathroom doorway, I spot the cricket bat. In a second, I bolt inside the bathroom and grab it. I hear his violent shrieks as he chases me inside. But before he reaches me, I swing the bat recklessly, smashing the mirror above the sink. I close my eyes and flinch as shards of glass spray everywhere. I take another swing, this time catching him on the side of the head, nearly knocking him back out onto the landing. Realising that there’s clearly not enough space in the bathroom, I ram the end of the bat into his face in a stabbing motion. I repeat the action until Peter is back out onto the landing. I follow him until I’m standing over him, pounding his head with the bat; unconcerned about the splashes of blood flying all over everything, including my face. I continue to swing the bat down onto his head, wave after wave, as if chopping down on a thick log with an axe; splitting his skull like firewood. I forget where I am. I forget who this is. All I feel is an uncontrollable urge to destroy him. To end his suffering. To end this consuming disease.