Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Jenkins, Steven

  Shit! What the fuck do I do? Why did I have to say her name? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? She might have turned and just stayed in the room. Peaceful.

  I should never have come here in the first place. It was stupid. Should have stayed in my living room. Drinking beer. Should have never answered that bloody phone. At least Peter would have stayed put. He wasn’t going anywhere until I showed up.

  Time to go.

  There’s nothing more I can do for her. She’s dead. The last thing she’d want me to do is stay and risk an attack from her.

  And as I see a large split form at the centre of the door, I quickly make my way down the stairs.

  Sorry, Edith.

  I’m sorry I had to leave you.

  I hope you find peace.

  The garden is still dark, even though the sky is purple. Can’t be much longer before the sun is up. Thank God. Although, it might make it a lot harder to get around in broad daylight.

  I poke my head over Edith’s wall and nervously peer into my garden. I can’t see the Nec; the lighting is still too poor. Have to get the light-sensor back on. I wave my arm over the wall. Nothing happens.

  Shit.

  I listen carefully for any sounds. Can’t seem to hear any movement.

  Maybe it’s died.

  Outside Edith’s backdoor is a bag of rubbish. I pick it up, and then launch it over the wall. The light comes on, instantly lifting the darkness from the garden.

  The Nec has gone.

  A shudder of panic washes over me, and I’m suddenly conscious of my surroundings, turning my head back and forth, scanning for the dead woman.

  And then I notice something at the bottom of my garden. The Nec has somehow managed to drag herself blindly along, leaving behind a thick trail of blood. At first I wince at the sight. But then I almost feel pity—pity for an innocent woman whose body is being subjected to such hideous abuse. A woman who most likely started her day fairly normally, and then ended up been stripped of her skin. Stripped of her life, her family.

  Of everything she held dear.

  Fucking disease.

  And what’s driving the body? It’s certainly isn’t sight. She’s got nothing left of her face. Can’t be that. So what the fuck is it? The experts don’t seem to know anything. It’s all theories and bullshit. No real evidence. They say it’s just muscle memory causing the limbs to move after the brain is dead. They say the virus attacks the entire body. Not just the brain. Every cell in the body is infected with Necro-Morbus—with or without a head.

  How screwed up is that!

  I scale the wall and drop down into my garden, still with an eye firmly on the Nec. Doubt if she can still hear me. Can’t be too careful, though. I’ve been wrong before. I rush into the house through the backdoor, locking it behind me.

  The house is eerily quiet. It’s still dark, but definitely lighter than it was a few hours ago. I walk down the empty hallway towards the living room. In the corner of my eye, I can just about make out a few photos on the wall beside me. Photos of Sammy. And Anna. Thank God it’s still dark. Don’t want to look at them. Not yet anyway.

  It hurts too much.

  Don’t think I…

  I enter the living room and go to the window. Pushing the curtain slightly to the side, I see out into the street. Everything seems quiet. Can’t see any Necs from here.

  Maybe it’s over.

  I go to the other end of the window for a better look. Still clear. A sudden feeling of relief washes over me as I press my face against the window to gain a further perspective.

  “Fuck!” I mutter in fright as the putrid Nec passes the window. I swiftly release the curtain and drop down onto the floor.

  Its shadow looms over me as I sit up against the wall. My muscles clench to bursting point; sweat building up on my brow. Please God, keep walking. Don’t let them in here. Not now. Not in this house.

  Give me that at least.

  As the shadow finally disappears, I feel my body start to loosen up, and I let out a drawn out sigh of relief.

  “Thank God.”

  After about a minute, I get up and sit on the single sofa-chair. Don’t fancy sitting on the couch. Not with my back facing the window.

  Sitting back—exhausted—my eyes stray to the TV. I fight hard not to switch it on. Would love to see the news now. Maybe Crandale will get a mention. Or at least the fuck up. Maybe they won’t specify the area. Surely they’ll have to eventually. Shit, I haven’t heard a single helicopter since I got here. Not even a police siren for that matter. It’s like the world outside no longer exists. Or more likely, Crandale no longer exists.

  Should I watch the TV in the spare room? Don’t think they’d see the light from up there.

  No, I can’t. The room will still glow too much, and then I’ll have a hundred Necs at the door.

  Not worth the risk. Wait ‘til morning.

  A few minutes go by, and I notice that the room is getting lighter. Either that, or my eyes are getting used to the darkness.

  But the brighter it gets, the easier it is to see Sammy’s baby photos on the wall. I fight the urge. With everything I’ve got. But the impulse overpowers me as my wandering eyes keep catching them.

  Have to resist. Can’t break down. Anna may be gone, but Sammy isn’t. He’s out there somewhere, and crying over some photo is hardly productive.

  Have to stay strong. Can’t let them break me. Not tonight.

  As I listen to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, thoughts of Edith fill my head. I see her sweet, innocent face; a woman who had no place in such a nightmarish situation. She should have lived out her life without having to deal with this disease.

  But it found her in the end. It’s only a matter of time before it finds us all. It took Anna, and now it’s trying to take Sammy.

  But I won’t let it!

  I hit the arm of the chair in anger as I stand up. “Fucking Necs!” I clench my fists tightly, and then drive one into the living-room door. The noise echoes around the room. I don’t feel the pain in my knuckles. All I feel is a searing pain of frustration. Frustration because I can’t find a way out of this Hell!

  I pace the room, rambling incoherent thoughts; things I might do to anyone who lays a finger on my boy; things I might say to anyone who tries to stop me. No government official. No useless Cleaners. No fucker’s going to stop me!

  I can feel the rage as it boils the blood in my body. I can’t breathe. I need to do something. Need to act now. Can’t stay here. Can’t stay here waiting for help. Have to get out and find him.

  “Fuck!” I scream as I punch the door again.

  This time I feel the pain in my hand, but I ignore it. Instead, I storm out of the living room and march up to the front door, and then reach for the handle. “I’ve had enough of this shit! You fuckers can deal with me!”

  My body is quivering with blind fury as I start to turn the handle.

  “I’ll kill every last one of you! Dead or not!”

  I pull the door open a few inches.

  “I’ll tear your fucking heads off with my bare hands! I’ll push your fucking eyeballs into your rotten skulls! There’s nothing I—”

  The faint morning light seeps through the quarter-open door, and I rapidly snap out of my furious rant. My stomach curdles at the thought of bursting out into the street and facing a crowd of Necs. Not just from the excruciating, horrifying agony of being eaten alive, but the thought of being unable to find Sammy.

  I close the door quickly, and then silently and cautiously click the lock into place.

  Dropping to the floor, I prop myself up against the door. I gaze at the dimly lit hallway and staircase as the sun slowly enters the house. I watch as the colour changes all around me. How it climbs the stairs, and brings the photos to life, one by one, painting the hallway. I see the picture of Sammy and Anna at the beach. And the one from last winter when it snowed. I can just about make out the furthest one. It’s a wedding picture. Both of us
stood on a bandstand. The happiest day of our lives. I can feel my heart ready to give in to sadness. But I can’t look away. They have a hold over me. I can’t resist. I’m not strong enough. I get up off the floor and walk up to the first photo. The one with Sammy and Anna at the beach. I pull it down from the wall and carry it back to the door. I drop down again, back against the door. My eyes are a blur with tears. They drip down onto the glass frame. I wipe them away from my eyes, and then from the photo. I can barely breathe. The anguish is too much. But I can’t look away. Not anymore, as the grief overwhelms me.

  This is my family.

  There’s no avoiding the pain. It’ll be with me forever.

  I need it. It’s what’ll drive me to find him.

  And I will find him.

  No matter how long it takes…

  19

  My eyelids slowly part. I can feel the bright morning light working its way into my eyes; blinding me. It’s too much to bear so I close them again and try to sleep a little longer.

  Suddenly my eyes burst open in fright, realising that I’ve fallen asleep.

  Paranoia consumes me as I spring up onto my feet. Have the dead managed to get in while I was sleeping? Have I been bitten during the night?

  I frantically pat myself down, looking for any obvious tears in my clothes, and blood stains.

  I can’t find any.

  Thank God!

  I try the front-door handle. Still locked. I creep into the living room; for all I know, an army of Necs could’ve smashed the window while I was sleeping. Stormed the house.

  And leave me sleeping on the floor?

  Not bloody likely.

  Calm down, now. You’re being ridiculous.

  What if they thought I was dead? Left me alone?

  Then they would have still tried to eat me. Necs are not exactly thoughtful creatures. They’re not gonna just leave a perfectly good meal and look for the next.

  It’s just paranoia. Nothing else.

  Nevertheless, I make my way through the kitchen, into the utility room, to make sure the backdoor is still locked.

  It is.

  Sighing loudly in relief, I leave the utility room, and then sit on a dining chair. Scanning the kitchen, I notice how different everything seems in the light of day; like waking from a nightmare. The gleam off the chrome microwave never looked so bright and polished. The hidden crumbs across the black kitchen worktop somehow more obvious. And the dusty footprints on the grey floor tiles, almost glowing in the morning light. I try to make out Anna’s footprints, or Sammy’s tiny ones—but all I see are my size tens, overlapping each other neatly like a necklace. As I hear the buzzing sound of the freezer, and the humming of the central heating, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m awake. And morning is finally here.

  But the nightmare is far from over. Hordes of Necs are most likely still clustered across Crandale. And Sammy’s still out there. Somewhere.

  I can feel the frustration build again. The same, consuming feeling that caused me to punch the door. I glance at my scuffed, bruised knuckles. I open and close my hand; clutching up in pain as I do.

  I ain’t punching any more walls. Not today. The only punching I’m gonna be doing is through the brain of some bastard Nec!

  Plan.

  I need a plan. Something solid.

  Can’t exactly burst out the front door and go on a killing spree. It’s not a bloody film. I’d get overpowered in seconds. Have to think of a better plan of action. Could go out the back; try my luck through the back lanes. But then I risk getting blocked in. But then I’m blocked in if I opt to go out the front. Although at least out the front I’d have space to run ‘round any Necs; even use the cars for cover. The back lanes, the only escape would be to climb onto one of the walls, and then drop down into a garden. That’s if I could climb a wall. Some of those walls are high. Maybe eight or nine feet. I might be able to. If I had a run up.

  I feel as if my body is in a vice, tightening with every second that passes. I try to shake it off but can’t. Every possible action involves me, most likely, getting eaten alive, and no closer to Sammy. Because even if I did manage to go on a killing spree with a Samurai sword, taking off the heads of a hundred Necs—what good would it do? I have absolutely no clue where he is. For all I know, he’s not even in Crandale. Just because he wasn’t on the list. Maybe the list was wrong. If the Cleaners can’t even sort out this place, then maybe they got the names mixed up. Disease Control might have him.

  I stamp my fist hard on the table. “Shit!”

  Staring down at the table, I notice a small, hardened stain on one of the tablemats. From its position, I assume that it’s from Sammy. It’s orange in colour, most likely from one of his yogurts. I smile at first, but then I feel a lump in my throat. I try to swallow it, but it’s too jagged.

  “Where are you, Sammy?” I mutter. “Please. Someone help me.”

  I gawk at the stain for maybe five minutes. I can’t seem to move. I’m waiting to spring into action, but for some reason I don’t.

  Why not?

  What the hell’s wrong with me?

  Am I scared?

  Of course I’m scared. There’s a shitload of Necs outside. Who wouldn’t be scared? But nothing scares me more than losing him. I’d face a lifetime of them if it meant him being safe. I’d walk through—

  Shit! The church!

  I should have checked the bloody church!

  I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of going back there. I stamp my fist down again on the table. I picture all those Necs, muzzled up and ready to be shipped over to Romkirk. Yeah, they may be restrained, but it wasn’t exactly a picnic in the graveyard either. And by now, the place could be swarming with them, especially with the doors left open.

  What am I saying? He’s not in the church. He can’t be. If he’s in there, then he’s one of them—and I refuse to believe it. He’s in one of these houses. Somewhere close. I’m certain. Anna probably took him to one of them when she knew she was infected. Maybe next door. Or the family opposite. And she must have asked them to keep him safe. And then Anna was too ill to get home. She probably turned on the way. She probably wondered off up Marbleview, towards Richmond, and then got picked up by one of the Cleaners. And then shipped over to me. The Cleaners never made it down here. He’s probably safe and sound, just a few metres from here.

  I know it. I can feel it.

  I need to get a message to the neighbours.

  I turn my head towards the phone fixed to the wall by the door. I spring up from the chair and pick up the receiver. And then I put it straight back down when I realise that I don’t know anyone’s numbers.

  I should have gone back to the car for my mobile.

  Stupid!

  “Phone numbers,” I mumble, scanning the kitchen for Anna’s phone book. “Where the bloody hell does she keep it?”

  Does she even have one anymore?

  Does anyone?

  I rummage through the kitchen and utility-room drawers, but all I find are loose batteries, receipts, and lots of keys—keys that I have absolutely no idea what they open. I slam the last drawer shut in a temper. “Stupid house! Can’t find anything in this place!”

  Leaving the kitchen, I head towards the living room. Just as I reach the door, I notice something on the floor next to the front door. The photo frame from last night. The one with Anna and Sammy at the beach. I walk over to it and pick it up. The picture sets off the same feelings of anguish that I had last night. I shake them off and take the photo back over to the wall. I hang it up on the hook, making sure it’s straight, and then march quickly into the living room, trying desperately not to fall back into a depression.

  Inside, I make my way over to the phone, hoping to see Anna’s phone book sitting next to it. I don’t. I move over to the large cabinet on the other side of the room. Practically pulling out the contents of each of the three drawers, I still find nothing.

  Realising the odds of me loc
ating one are next to nothing, I give in and sit on the couch. Deflated.

  If she has the numbers, they must be on her mobile. They’ve got to be. Maybe her phone is still here. Need to ring it. I grab the phone, but then put it back down when I realise that I have no idea what her number is.

  Sighing loudly, I rub my forehead with my fingertips.

  Think.

  I’ll have to just look for it.

  Inspecting the mantelpiece, the top of the cabinet, and the couch, I find nothing. I exit the living room, hoping to have better luck searching the rest of the house. In the cupboard under the stairs, I check seven of Anna’s handbags, and all six of her coat pockets—and still I come up empty.

  I head upstairs, into the bathroom, and check the cupboard and the pockets of the dressing gown hanging at the back of the door. Moving into Sammy’s room, I check the bed, the cupboards, and the three shelves. And then I make my way into the last remaining room: our bedroom.

  Knowing full well that this is my last hope of finding it, I practically ransack the room, like a cop on a drug raid. After several minutes of sieving through our belongings, emptying pockets onto the bed, and pulling out every box in the wardrobe, I give in and sit on the edge of the bed.

  It’s not here. She must have had it on her when she left. It’s probably still over in Romkirk, melted to nothing in the furnace.

  No, it’s not. I bet she gave it to Sammy. Or whoever has him.

  Shit! Why don’t I know my own wife’s phone number? What the hell’s wrong with me? I’m a useless husband!

  I bet she knew mine off by heart.

  I’ll have to check the neighbours’ houses one by one. And then I’ll have to cross over the road too.

  It’s not like I have much of a choice.

  I walk over to the window. Standing to the side of the open curtain, I look down into the street. Just opposite, maybe a few doors up, I see that Necs have forced their way into some poor bastard’s house. The front door is just about on its hinges, and the glass of the front window is completely missing. I just hope to God that no one was home.