“Okay, Cath, as you’ve probably worked out, this is what we wear out in the field. These suits are completely bite-proof so you’ll be pretty safe as long as you keep your helmet, gloves and boots on.” He picks up a uniform, holds it shoulder height to inspect it, and then puts it back down on the bench. He does the same for the next. And the next, until finally handing me one. “Try this.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. “Shall I just slip it on over my clothes?”
“Yeah.” He grabs another suit, checks the label at the top, and then steps into the all-in-one uniform. “Okay, so climb into it like you would an overall—you know, like you were about to paint the walls or something.”
I put the suit on and then zip it up to my chin. It’s a little baggy, but I can live with it.
From one of the hooks, Andrew pulls down, what looks like a black police vest. It has various sized pockets and pouches on the front, and the words: Disease Control written in small white letters along the left side. He hands it to me and I slip it over my chest like a waistcoat. “It should fit,” Andrew says with confidence. “It’s adjustable.” He zips it up at the front and then pulls a thin strap on each side to tighten it. “You’re right-handed, yeah?”
“That’s right. Why?”
He picks up a thick strap from the bench and fastens one end to the bottom of the vest, and secures the other around my right thigh. “Well, this is for your gun holster. Can’t have you reaching for the wrong side.”
“Oh, right. Okay. Good to know,” I say with quiet excitement at the prospect of shooting something.
“What size shoes are you?”
“Three.”
His eyes widen in shock. “Jesus. That small?”
“Yeah. Well, you know what they say about women with small feet.”
“No. What’s that?”
“Small feet. Big brains.”
Andrew smirks and then scans the boots, picking up a few and then putting them back down. He then selects a pair from the end, holds them up, squints, and looks down at my feet. “They’ll have to do for now. We can pick up a pair in town tomorrow.”
“They’ll be fine,” I say, chirpily, taking the boots from him. “I’m not fussy.” Sitting on the bench, I slip the boots on my feet. Just by the fact that I don’t have to undo the laces is proof enough that these are a tad too big. I try to prod my toes and see how far off the end they are, but instead I feel the steel toecap. Never mind.
“Now, Cath, remember, these suits are more than just protection—they’re a status. Police, fire-fighters, paramedics, absolutely anyone who sees us, in the uniforms, steps aside and lets us get on with our job.”
“Really? Even the cops?”
“Yeah. Especially the cops. The last thing some police officer wants is to risk infection—no matter how keen, brave…or stupid. It’s just not worth it. I mean, of course, we work with the police. They help put up barricades when the shit hits the fan, evacuate the public. We couldn’t do our job without their help. But most of the time, they’d rather leave it to us—the canaries.”
“Canaries?”
“It’s just an expression, Cath. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Well, if you must know, it refers to the old coal mines. Miners used to carry them down.”
“A bird? Why?”
“Well, if the bird died of a toxic gas, like methane, then the miners knew it wasn’t safe.”
“Oh, right. I see. Learn something new every day.”
“But, it is our job. Fire-fighters have to run into burning buildings. Politicians run the country. And we do… this.”
“I suppose it can’t be easy for anyone to risk something like that—especially if you don’t have the right gear, the right training.”
“And the right back up. The last thing you want is to get separated during an outbreak. I tell you, Cath, it sucks. It sucks ass big time. Don’t let it happen to you.”
“I won’t.”
Andrew nods. “Good.” He picks up a pair of gloves and throws them to me. I catch one but drop the other. As I scoop up the one from the floor, I can almost hear his thoughts: Typical girl—can’t catch for shit!
After we both slip our gloves on, he hands me a white helmet. It looks exactly like the ones riot police wear; motorbike-helmet fit, large transparent hard plastic visor, chinstrap. I put it on and Andrew tightens the strap. “Can you hear me?” I ask him, my words echoing inside the helmet.
Andrew nods. “Yeah. Loud and clear.” He grabs a helmet of his own and then motions with his head for me to follow him. He takes me over to the other side of the room. There is a large metal cupboard against the wall, with a padlock clicked around the door latch. Andrew kneels down, takes hold of the padlock and enters the combination. Once the lock is off, he opens the cupboard. Inside, I see six guns, and several white boxes, most likely filled with tranqs.
Now we’re talking!
“So how many tranquilisers will a gun hold?” I ask, as Andrew pulls out a gun and places it on top of the cupboard.
“Ten rounds.” He takes out a tranq from the box and holds it up to show me. It’s a dark shade of red, no bigger than a marble, with a sharp tip. “They’re more like bullets than darts, so they’ll cut through a Nec’s skull like a peach. Once the tranq makes contact with the brain, it should sedate the rotter straight away. But some are stubborn little fuckers. That’s why we’ve got to have a magazine of tranqs. There’s not always time to reload. You’ve got to shoot fast, or get the fuck out of there.”
“Shit. I didn’t realise. Thought one was enough. How long will the effects last?”
Andrew shrugs. “Good question. Two, maybe three hours. Every Nec is different. Depends on how far gone they are. Some won’t wake at all.” He picks up a small steel box, no bigger than a blackboard eraser. “This is a magazine. Each one is preloaded with tranquilisers. We keep two spare magazines on us at all times, with another ten or so in the van.” He holds up the magazine. “So, it just clips into the top of the gun like this,” he secures it to the weapon, “and you’re done. Locked and loaded.”
I practise inserting the magazine in and out a few times, allowing my memory to absorb every inch of the gun. It reminds me a little of a paintball gun—but I keep the thought to myself.
“Okay,” Andrew says, taking the gun from me, “now this is fully loaded. Ten may seem like a lot, but you’d be surprised how fast you’ll use them up. And trying to clip a magazine on when there’s five of them coming at you is pretty hard. That’s why you always have back up. Going solo is never a good idea. You need one of you reloading, while the other is unloading. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Always stay together.”
“Exactly. Good girl—you’re learning.” He makes his way towards the centre of the room. “Come with me.”
I follow him.
We stop at the white line, facing the six lifelike dummies. They’re about fifteen metres away, with muscular, skin-coloured rubber torsos attached to thick rounded bases. Each one has no arms or legs, just a lot of tiny holes across every inch of its body.
“See this white line?” Andrew asks, pointing down to the floor by our feet. “Never cross it. And I mean never. Always stay behind. The government’s already on our backs about health and safety. None of us wants another inspection. So always stay safe—and stay behind the white line. Understand?”
I nod, like a schoolgirl listening to their teacher. “Yeah, of course. Stay behind the line. Got it.”
“Good. So, Cath, you ever shot a gun before?”
“Yeah. I have. Back in the Territorial Army.”
“Okay, well these shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you then. They’re a little heavier than a handgun, but much lighter than a rifle. They could be a little lighter, but, you know, budget cuts and all that bullshit.” He puts his left foot forward, lifts the gun up to shoulder height. “Okay, so you wanna hold this thi
ng like you would a rifle, keep it close to your shoulder, look down the sight at the top. And then squeeeeeeze the trigger gently. There’s virtually no kickback, so don’t worry about bruising your collarbone.” He puts the gun into position, aims it towards the dummy, and pulls the trigger. I hear a faint thud as the tranq hits the rubber man, just above its nose.
“Nice shot,” I say, excitement in my tone. “Right in the head.”
“Always aim for the brain, Cath. Otherwise the tranq will have no effect.”
“Of course,” I give him a cheeky, excited grin. “So, can I have a shot then?”
Andrew looks down at me, his eyes suggesting that I’m probably the last person he should give a loaded weapon. “You’re keen,” he says.
“Just eager to learn, that’s all.”
He hands me the gun, points at the dummy, and then stands to one side. “Okay, Cath. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
One foot in front of the other, I put the gun up to my shoulder.
“Just line up the sight,” Andrew says, “and then squeeeeeeze the trigger.”
Closing one eye, I pull the trigger softly and feel a slight jolt when the tranq leaves the weapon. I lift up the visor to see where it hit.
“Not bad, Cath. Not bad at all.”
“Where did it hit? Couldn’t see.”
“You hit his nose. That’s amazing. Well done. You’ve got a bloody good aim, Cath. And it’s hard first time, even with a little experience under your belt. Most people struggle with the helmet on. So hats off to you, Cath. Good job.”
Beaming, I pull down the visor. “Let’s go again.”
5
After lunch, I meet Andrew back at the training room. This time Roger’s with him, plus another Cleaner, all three in full-gear. Don’t know if I’ve seen this other guy before. Can’t tell with the helmet obscuring his features. Probably have, though. One of the guys from yesterday, sniggering from the side lines.
“Andrew tells me you have a great aim,” Roger says, his tone brimming with cynicism. “Well done. You keep surprising me, Catherine.”
“Thanks. I had a good teacher.”
“I bet you did.”
I scan the room, trying to guess what’s next on the agenda. Can’t see anything obvious, but the fact that Roger’s here at least indicates that it’s something important. Or dangerous.
“This is Darren,” Roger says, pointing his hand in the Cleaner’s direction. “He’s just here to help keep you safe this afternoon.”
“Hi, Darren,” I say, offering my hand for him to shake, “pleased to meet you. Cath.”
He shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Cath. You ready for this now?”
“I don’t know yet. No one’s told me what we’re doing.”
“Well, Cath,” Darren says, “this is where the real training begins. This is what separates the men from the boys—so to speak.”
I nod, my smile completely fake. “So should I get suited up for this part?”
Darren looks at Roger, and they both laugh. “I should think so,” Darren replies, smugly.
Assholes.
Once I’m kitted up—gloves, boots, and helmet, Darren hands me a gun and escorts me over to the white line, this time facing the three metal containers, shaped like telephone boxes.
“Wait by the line,” he instructs me, and then walks over to the first container and starts to unlock the thick, padlocked door.
Frowning in confusion, I turn back to see what Roger and Andrew are doing. Roger is stood between the rubber dummies, gun in hand, aimed directly at the three containers. To my right, I see Andrew, on one knee, his gun aimed in the same direction. Turning back to Darren, I see that the padlock is off the first and second box, and now he’s unlocking the third and final padlock. Once he’s done, he jogs behind me to a small wooden desk. He crouches down next to it, his gun also aimed. He puts up a thumb to both Roger and Andrew (but not me); both men return the gesture and lock their focus back on their targets. Darren pulls out a small piece of plastic, which, from here, looks like a TV remote. He points it at the first container and then a large red light comes on at the top of it. I hear a loud click as the door opens on its own. Hand trembling as I point my gun towards it, I struggle to hold my aim as the sweat runs down my face; my heavy breathing amplified inside my helmet.
I know damn well what’s about to come out of that box!
I wince when I see the male Nec bursting out, a black muzzle around his mouth, muting his vicious snarls; his skin a greenish shade of brown, his dead eyes grey, drained of life, bled of colour. My grip around the handle of the gun is tight and my heart is thrashing hard against my chest. I want to run but my legs are frozen solid. I can hear one of the guys yelling at me to shoot—to shoot the fucker in the head, but all I can do is stare as he stumbles towards me, dragging his withered ankle behind him.
I want to go home.
Back to Mum and Dad.
They were right—this was a terrible idea.
I should never have signed up.
I’m such an idiot.
Such an—
The Nec drops to the floor the instant I let go of the trigger.
Everything seems dreamlike. All the loud words of praise from the others are muffled by my own blurry thoughts. I don’t even remember squeezing the trigger. I’m just about to take my visor off, run to the toilet and puke, when something catches my eye. The red light on top of the second container is glowing. So is the third one. What the fuck? Two more Necs, both male, both just as mouldy as the first, come storming out of their boxes, towards me. I can smell the decay as the first one gets just a few metres from me. I squeeze the trigger. I hit his chest! Shit! The Nec is close. I shoot again, this time missing him completely. Can’t aim, my hands are shaking too much. He’s too near.
I’m fucked!
He’s gonna get me.
Oh shit!
Then all of a sudden the Nec drops, struck from the side of his head. Definitely wasn’t me. Just as I line up the sight towards the third Nec, he’s struck between the eyes, dropping to the floor, motionless.
I watch, in a daze as Roger grabs the feet of a sedated Nec and drags him back into the box. Andrew and Darren do the same for the other two. They slam the doors and click each padlock back on.
I yank off my helmet and drop it onto the floor, taking in the fresh air as if I’ve just been saved from drowning.
“Are you okay, Cath?” Andrew says as he walks over to me, his eyes wide with worry. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I reply, the haze fading. “I think so.”
“You had me worried there for a second. Do you need to sit down?”
I nod. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He takes me over to the bench and sits me down. Exhaling, I run my hands through my sweat-soaked hair. Darren hands me some water in a paper cup. I manage a smile as I take it from him, swallowing its contents in record time.
“What happened?” I ask no one in particular.
“You choked,” Darren answers, bluntly. “That’s what happened. You shot the first square in the face, but the other two? Fuck knows what happened.”
“Lay the hell off her, Da,” Andrew interrupts. “This was her first time. What did you think would happen? She’s not trained in this yet. Everyone chokes.”
“Not me,” he replies. “I didn’t choke.”
“Yeah, but you knew what you were getting yourself into. She didn’t. No one told her what she was doing. She’s barely had enough gun training, and we just threw her into the deep end. It’s not bloody fair.”
“Look, it’s better that way,” Roger says. “It lets us know what kind of a Cleaner she’ll be—one that reacts quickly to danger, or one that falls apart after the first scare. I won’t have her endangering the lives our men. Not while I’m in charge.”
“That’s bullshit, Roger!” Andrew snaps. “And you know it!”
“Watch your mouth, Andrew! Don’t forget who you’re talking to. This is a stan
dard test, and since last year it’s standard practise that anyone training for the job must be able to cope with any type of attack. It’s the rules. I didn’t make them. You know that as well as I do.”
“Look, guys,” Darren steps in, “let’s all just calm down now. She failed the test, and that’s that.” He turns his attention to me. “I’m sorry, Cath. I’m sure you’re a lovely person, but it’s over. This job is too dangerous to have someone who freezes at the first sign of trouble. It’s not only dangerous for you, but for the lives of the other Cleaners.”
My heart sinks. I want to stand up for myself, to fight my corner, but I have nothing. Nothing at all. They’re right. I’m not fit to work here. Passing some fitness test has nothing to do with the job. This is the job. This is the real test. And I failed. Miserably. “It’s all right,” I say, my voice low, deflated. “I understand. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I don’t know why. I thought I could do it, but I just froze. Maybe if I could have a few more tries. You know, just a little more practise.”
Roger shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Cath, that’s it. There’s no second chances. This is elimination training. One strike and you’re out.”
If my nerves weren’t shattered, if my body wasn’t drained of any sort of spark, I might muster up the strength to punch the bald bastard in the nose, tell him where he can stick his stupid job.
But he’s right. And he doesn’t deserve it.
The only person who needs a punch is me.
Roger offers his hand for me to shake it. “Unlucky, Cath. Better luck next time, yeah?”
I pause for a moment, but then reluctantly shake his gloved hand. “Okay, Roger. Thanks for the opportunity.”
“No problem. Pop off your suit and I’ll meet you in the staff room.”
Andrew looks seething, so I smile thinly and give him one of my ‘don’t worry about it’ shrugs. I then start to remove my suit.
The biggest surprise today wasn’t the rancid Necs coming at me, nor was it the fact that I failed—there was always a chance that I wouldn’t make the cut. The biggest shock is the fact that I haven’t broken down in tears. Not one.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 20