“Okay.” Grabbing his ankles, I start to pull him towards the gates. He weighs an absolute ton, but after that awful sack-pulling challenge, one Nec shouldn’t be that much of a problem.
Inside the grounds, I follow Andrew up a narrow path, through an old, clearly disused graveyard. Couldn’t have found a more fitting place to be dragging a corpse. The route up to the church is steep, and the concrete is broken and rough. I have to stop three times before I’m even halfway up. The church is as ancient and neglected as the graves that surround it. There’s no way in the world that anyone still uses this place for worship. It’s a huge building—beautiful, in fact—with stained-glass windows darkened by dust and decay. Most of the natural grey stonework is cracked, either from wear-and-tear or vandalism, and vines climb its walls like blood vessels.
Reaching the top of the path, we come to a corner. I follow Andrew around it and I see the church entrance, and a set of huge wooden doors, once again bruised and battered like the rest the place. I’m never getting married in one of these things. Way too depressing.
And when I drag the man inside, and see the mass of sedated Necs all around me, I find yet another reason never to get married in a church.
Gasping in horror, I drop the Nec’s legs, and go to place a hand over my mouth, only to find my visor instead. I want to scream but can’t; my mouth is too dry. My vocals have seized.
Nearly every inch of the place, every pew, every space on the cold stone floor, is occupied by captured Necs. There must be at least seventy. Maybe more. Half sealed in yellow body bags, while others are loose, limbs tied, mouths muzzled. Scanning in revulsion, I spot a few squirming—sedation clearly worn off. The image is dismaying—disturbing—to see so many, so close. It’s overwhelming.
“Don’t panic, Cath,” Andrew says as if I’ve merely walked through a cobweb. “You’re safe. They ain’t going anywhere.”
When the walls stop closing in on me, when the tunnel vision starts to fade, when my mind begins to process what I’m witnessing, I manage to squeeze a sentence out. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s a morning’s worth of work,” a man says, from the direction of the nave, his voice echoing around the crumbling walls.
As he approaches, I can see that he’s a Cleaner, his helmet under his left arm. Surely the last place it should be in a place like this.
“Where’s the rest of the Cleaners?” I ask him.
“Rounding up more Necs. It’s pretty bad out there. We’ve been at it for hours. We got most of the uninfected out this morning. But that wasn’t easy with bugger all staff.”
“What do you mean? I thought you’d have a massive crew up here. Where are they?”
The man snorts. “Massive crew? Fat chance of that. We don’t have the budget for it. Same as you lot down your neck of the woods.”
“That’s why they called us, Cath,” Andrew cuts in. “None of us can cope alone with an outbreak this big. There just isn’t the staff for it.”
“So why are we bringing them here?” I ask, suddenly aware that the Nec I just dragged in is still by my feet. Andrew sees me flinch and grabs the Nec’s arm and pulls him over to the aisle with the others.
“Safest place for them while we wait for another lorry to pick ‘em up. Lorries can only store thirty at a time, and we can’t exactly spare any Cleaners to take them over to Romkirk. It’s just easier to keep them all in one place until we can ship them out.”
“So where do you want us to start sweeping?” Andrew asks the man.
“Well, I sent your guys down to Marbleview Street about fifteen minutes ago, so if you two can take The Mount.”
“Where’s that?” Andrew asks.
“Just right as you come out of the church. It’s near the primary school.”
“What about the school kids?” I ask, seeing images of children running for their lives, being hunted by a pack of rotten Necs. “Are they still inside?”
The man shakes his head. “No, they’re out. That was our first protocol. But you’re gonna have to go door to door. Take your van, and fill the fucker up with as many Necs as it’ll hold. And get back here ASAP.”
“What about the uninfected?” Andrew asks. “Are we getting them out, too?”
“No. There’s no time. God knows when it’ll be safe for Control to send a bus in here. Just make sure each house is locked down, and concentrate on taking out the Necs.”
“Okay. No worries.”
The man points to a large box by the entrance. “Take one of those with you. You’re bound to run out.”
I walk over to it, pull the cardboard flap open and see that it’s filled to the brim with muzzles and cable-ties. “Bloody hell, there’s a lot in here.”
“Well, you’re gonna need a shit load,” the man replies. “As you can see we ran out of body bags a while ago, so you’ll have to make do with what you’ve got. Just bag up what you can and throw the rest on top.”
Andrew lets out a long breath, clearly pissed off, and makes his way towards the entrance. “Fine.” He then gestures with his head for me to go with him. “Come on, Cath. Let’s get moving.”
I pick up the box, my mind struggling to process what I’ve just witnessed, and what I’m about to do.
But still I find myself leaving the church, behind Andrew, to round up a horde of flesh-hungry Necs.
13
As the name suggests, The Mount is a steep street with a row of terrace houses on each side. It stretches up further than my eyes can register, so I’m guessing that there must be over a hundred in total. We’re gonna need a bigger van. To the left of the junction is a primary school—the gates have been padlocked and there are no obvious signs of life through the windows. Thank God.
Climbing out of the van, gun gripped tightly, helmet on, we make our way to the first house.
“How should we do this?” I ask Andrew. “One side at a time?”
“No. We zigzag. It’s easier.” He points his gun to the first door. “Okay, Cath, we stay methodical—start with number one. But more importantly, we stay together. Don’t make a move unless I say so, or you have no other choice. Agreed?”
“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, worthwhile 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.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 25