Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Jenkins, Steven

  Away from me.

  Unable to stand any longer, I fall backwards with the heft of Necs all around me. The back of my head slams onto the floor, but I stay fixated on the horde of creatures, scrambling to take another chunk out of me. But I won’t let them eat. They can infect me; they can even have a taste. But that’s all. I’m nobody’s food.

  If you want this free dinner, you’re gonna have to work for it!

  Using the bed, I pull myself back onto my feet. I push my thumbs into the eye sockets of the first Nec, blinding it. Throwing a hard punch, I demolish the jaw of another. And another. I can no longer hear their roars, their cries of hunger. As I limp and fight through the dead, I catch the odd glimpse of Amelia staring down in horror from the ceiling, screaming something inaudible, with her sobbing brother at her side. I’m out of the bedroom, onto the landing. I have nothing left to throw at them. My arms are numb; my knee has stopped functioning. I don’t feel anything when I collapse, headfirst down the stairs, taking several Necs with me.

  At the bottom, all I can focus on is the attic hatch. Please let them be okay.

  Amelia, never leave your brother’s side. And never change. You don’t deserve any of this.

  Josh, stay innocent. Don’t let this nightmare change you.

  I wish I had time to say goodbye, but I don’t.

  There’s no time for anything. I’ve done everything I can. Help will come for them.

  But not for me.

  My shift is over.

  Epilogue

  I know I’m limping severely, but the pain in my knee has vanished. I don’t remember how I made it outside, but I did. I look down at my foot—it’s bleeding heavily. I pat the side of my neck. More blood. But again—I don’t feel any pain…

  As I drag my leg along the pavement, past the parked cars, I see Necs walking beside me. Women, children, men, almost a perfect blend of humanity, lost to this horrifying disease in the space of a day. Each one has no interest in my flesh…

  I can no longer remember where I’ve been. I still know my name. It’s Catherine. Catherine Woods. And I remember the faces of my friends, my family. But that’s it. I have no idea where I am or what the hell I’m doing here…

  The stench of decay is all around me, getting thicker, as if my sense of smell is getting stronger. The pack of Necs that walk beside is growing with every blackout, with every…

  I see lights up ahead. And people. A wall of people. With guns. The Necs start to sprint towards them. I follow, but without the speed. Shot after shot hits the dead, dropping them to the concrete. Some of them have made it to the people, sinking their teeth into their exposed skin. There’s blood.

  Lots of blood…

  I’m alone. I’ve wandered into a strange garden. Don’t know what happened to the other Necs. Most of them scattered. My thoughts are slipping away by the second. But I still know my name. It’s Catherine. Catherine Woods….

  I’m standing by a large window, trying to see inside a house. Suddenly a little girl looks back at me through the glass. She has long black hair to her shoulders. She’s afraid of me…

  I see a man. Her father perhaps? He’s afraid of me. I no longer see the darkness of the garden. All I see is red. I’m hungry. I chase the man to the back door of the house…

  The little girl—she’s terrified. She’s holding something. A weapon. It looks like a golf putt. I don’t feel the pain as she drives it into my face, splitting my nose open. All I see is flesh. I try to bite down on the man’s arm but he fights back. I’m so close.

  So hungry…

  Something sharp pierces the back of my skull. A bullet? I don’t feel the pain. I barely feel anything. The red has vanished. The night has returned. But not for long. As I crash onto the ground, I stare up at the stars…

  I hear the voice of the little girl. “I know what I want to be when I grow up,” she tells her father…

  My eyes shut and the darkness comes. But I still know my name. It’s…

  BURN THE DEAD: RIOT

  Prologue

  I used to love this time of year.

  Lazy days sitting out with the boys, drinking beer, watching the girls go by. No rain, no shitty cold weather—just the summer sun roasting our Welsh skin. Paradise.

  But not today, though.

  Because today is the day that I die.

  I step out onto the thin ledge, my heart beating hard against my chest. I haven’t been this high up since I was a kid. It takes me back to when I was ten, scaling the multi-storey car park like an idiot. That was the first time I got arrested. Back then it was a badge of honour.

  Those days are gone.

  The wind is strong at this height. It shunts my body, but I manage to keep my balance. At least it’s not raining; at least I won’t slip. The last thing I want is to go off too early. I want to go on my terms.

  I shouldn’t look down—only straight ahead at the night sky. But I can’t resist the temptation. From up here, the ground feels a million miles away. But it’s not; it’s just the haze, and the fear, twisting my insides like a corkscrew.

  Jump, Alfie! Don’t be afraid!

  You can do it.

  You have to. You’re out of options. Time is almost up. You can’t stay here anymore. It’s over!

  Wendy’s face pops into my head. I try not to let it, but it’s the only face I truly know. And she’s the only person that really knows me. If I had any parents—or a real family—I guess I’d see their faces instead. But I don’t, and Wendy is the closest thing I have to a mother. So I can’t shake off the image—my mind won’t allow it.

  I creep forward, the ground now an abyss of darkness, a gateway to Hell.

  No, it’s not a gateway. I’m already there. And I’ve been there all my life. Today is just the last straw.

  And now it’s time.

  That great summer smell has gone, replaced by the stink of rotting bodies and disease.

  And there’s nothing left to do now.

  Only jump…

  Part I

  Drinking With The Enemy

  1

  Where the hell are my trainers?

  Wendy’s put them somewhere; I just know it. I drop to the floor and peek under the bed. All I see are Harry’s toys, scattered across the carpet like a playpen. Cars, Spider-Man figures; he hasn’t played with these in years.

  “Wendy!” I call out as I stand, frowning as if it can’t possibly be my fault. “Where’ve you put my white trainers?”

  She doesn’t answer. Typical.

  I step out of my bedroom. “Wendy!” I shout out to the entire house.

  “Shut the fuck up, Alfie!” Phil shouts from his bedroom, trying to sleep off another afternoon of cider, no doubt. Drunken bald prick! Not the greatest of foster dads, but at least he’s too wasted to hit me. He can try his luck—if he fancies another black eye.

  I hear Wendy walk up the stairs, her footsteps lighter than usual, clearly avoiding pissing off the old man. Why she hasn’t left him already is beyond me. It’s not like he’s flush with cash or anything. He’s just another worthless sponger, happy to collect his payment for being a foster parent. Thank God for Wendy. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.

  “Which trainers?” she asks, her voice a little quieter.

  “The white ones,” I reply as she follows me into my bedroom.

  She opens the wardrobe doors. “All your trainers are white, Alfie. You’ll have to be more specific. New? Old? Dirty ones?”

  “I’ve already looked in there,” I tell her, quickly closing the doors after her. That’s the last place I want her snooping through. She’s quicker than a sniffer dog at finding my hidden shit. “I’ve looked everywhere. Please tell me that jackass hasn’t sold them on eBay.”

  Wendy turns to me, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be silly. Phil wouldn’t do something like that.” I love the way she knows exactly who the jackass is. “They’re here somewhere.”

  �
�Well, I need them. They’re my lucky ones.”

  “Why?” she asks, kneeling down to look under the bed. “Thinking about buying a lottery ticket?”

  “No. It’s because Swansea have won every game when I’ve had them on—and I ain’t risking it today.”

  “That’s ridiculous, boy,” she snorts, scanning the rest of the room. “You’re being superstitious.”

  I slip on my Swansea jersey, and then check out my new haircut in the mirror. It’s a little shorter than I like it, but an Afro just doesn’t go down well in Swansea. “It’s important, Wendy. It’s the League Cup Semi-Final. I can’t afford to fuck it up.”

  Wendy turns to me, a sharp scowl on her brow. “Watch your language, Alfie. This is your home—not some house party with your friends.”

  “Sorry. It just slipped out. I’m just panicking. It won’t happen again.”

  I hate swearing in front of her, but when you live under the same roof as two loudmouth foster sisters, a bratty nine-year-old, and an alcoholic asshole, the words just pop out as easily as breathing.

  Before she can tear into me again, she spots something in the corner of the room, by Harry’s bed. “Are those your trainers?”

  I see something white poking out, wedged between the wooden headboard and cream wall.

  My bloody trainers!

  The little shit, I almost say when I yank them out. “He’s hidden them from me.”

  “Don’t be so paranoid. He probably just borrowed them.”

  “He’s a child. They’d never fit him in a million years.”

  “Look, he’s downstairs watching a film with Rosy. Don’t go arguing with him now. I’ve already had to separate them once this morning. I’ll have a quiet word with him after you’ve left for the game. Okay?”

  I sigh loudly, sitting on the bed, slipping on my squashed trainers. “Fine. But make sure you do. He gets away with murder, that kid.”

  “Okay—boss,” Wendy says, rubbing the top of my head, screwing up my hair. “I’ll do it later.”

  “Watch the hair,” I say with a smile, moving my head away from her hand. “I worked hard on that.”

  Walking towards the door, she laughs. “What hair? They barely left any to mess up.”

  Wendy disappears out onto the landing, leaving me to do one more check before Ginge gets here. I stand up and look down at my feet.

  Trainers? Check

  Red board shorts? Check

  Swansea jersey? Check

  I pat my back pocket. Phone? Check.

  Money?

  I push the loose coins from the desk into my hand and pour them into the left pocket. There’s about ten, twelve quid. It’ll have to do.

  Ticket?

  Pulling the drawer open, I take out the ticket. Crazed butterflies fill my stomach when I see the words Swansea vs. Cardiff written across the grey and red card. Last year was a complete washout. But 2009 is our year! I know I say that every year, but this time is different. This time, I can feel it in my bones. “You’re going down, you Cardiff fuckers!” I say, kissing the ticket hard.

  “I heard that,” Wendy says from the landing.

  I go to the doorway and watch her walk down the stairs, carrying a basket of washing. “Sorry,” I say, as she disappears out of sight. I give the landing a quick scan and then close the door.

  Opening the wardrobe doors, I reach up onto the top shelf and pull down the shoebox. I lift the lid off and stare at its contents for a minute.

  Just leave it there, Alfie. You don’t need it.

  Another thirty seconds pass before I take out the small flick-knife, and quickly slip it into my pocket.

  2

  I know it’s Ginge at the door before I’ve even opened it. I know his knock. Not quite a secret knock, just loud enough to wake the neighbours—but mainly to piss off Phil. I think Ginge does it on purpose. He likes to be the centre of attention. But he’s not the one who has to live with the wanker.

  “You took your time, Alf,” Ginge says, leaning against the doorframe as if posing for a modelling shoot. He’s wearing his white flip-flops, red and blue board shorts, and a Swansea jersey—which is way too tight for that bulging belly. “Thought you’d bailed on me.”

  I snort. “What, and miss the most important game of the year? As if. I think that ginger mop is cutting the circulation to your tiny brain, mate.”

  “I would say the same to you, but you’ve chopped off the Afro. Why the fuck would you do that? That was the only reason you had any girls in school. It was the only cool thing about you.” He steps into the house. “Now you’re just some black teenager. How boring is that!”

  I smile. If I didn’t love the guy, then I might just be a little insulted. But it’s hard to stay mad at him. He just has that cheeky way about him. “I know. What can you do?”

  Ginge pulls a scary face at Harry as he passes him in the hallway. He can never resist winding the spoilt little brat up.

  “Fuck off, you fat ginger cunt,” Harry barks as he walks up the stairs.

  “Oi!” I shout. “Don’t speak to him like that! I’ll be telling Wendy about you.”

  The little prick gives me the middle finger and runs up the stairs, laughing.

  “Sorry about him,” I say, as if it’s the first time he’s done it. God knows why I have to apologise for him. He’s not my kid. “He’s just a little shit. Can’t blame him, though, living in this place.”

  Wendy steps out of the kitchen carrying two bacon rolls on a plate, wearing her favourite apron; the one with the picture of a pink cupcake on the front, a gift from Rosy last Christmas. It still makes me smile. “Thought I heard you, Ginge,” she says, handing us a roll each. “Here, eat these. I know what you boys are like; you’ll end up drinking beer on an empty stomach.”

  “Thanks, Wendy,” Ginge says, instantly taking a huge bite. You can swear he’s never seen one in his life. “You’re a star.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reassure her, “we won’t be drinking much. I’m skint. Plus, the booze is always too expensive in the stadium, anyway. We’ll just have a couple in the pub before we get there.”

  “Who are you meeting in the pub?” she asks.

  “Just the guys,” I reply, waiting for her to give me the lecture on how awful my friends are.

  “It’s not that Jonny and his brother, is it?” she asks—right on cue!

  “Yeah. And Hoppy’ll be there.”

  She shakes her head, pursing her lips. “Watch yourself with those boys, now, Alfie. They’re terrible, especially that Jonny.”

  “I’ll look after him, Wendy,” Ginge says with his usual cheeky grin. “Your boy’s in safe hands.”

  Wendy ignores his comment and pulls me in for a kiss. I put up a small fight but then give in to it. It’s pointless resisting; she always gets me in the end.

  “Right, we’re going,” I tell her. “You’ve driven us away.”

  “Bye, Wendy,” Ginge says as we step out onto the front path. “I’ll get him home in one piece. I promise.”

  “Just be careful,” she says, “you’re only seventeen. You’re not as grown up as you think. And you’re at the petrol station tomorrow. You can’t be late for work again. Jobs don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  I wave her off as we head along the pavement. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t half go on.

  As soon as she’s gone inside, we each light up a cigarette. I haven’t had a smoke since last night. No point even risking it in the garden; Wendy can smell it from a mile off.

  Glancing around the cul-de-sac, I see at least five houses with Swansea banners and towels hanging from the windows. Feels like the whole city will be watching this afternoon. Most probably will be. Maybe not at the stadium. Although, it is a sell-out. Twenty-one thousand tickets gone—in a matter of hours. Some guy at work offered me two hundred for mine. I told him to piss off. Wendy said I should have taken him up on his offer; put the money towards driving lessons.

  No bloody chance!

&n
bsp; “How’s Burger-Land treating you?” I ask. “Still eating half the profits?”

  “Oh, yeah. I never go hungry in that place. There’s fuck all else to do there but eat. It’s dead most evenings.”

  “I know. It was like a ghost town last time I popped in. Where are all the fat bastards when you need them?”

  “I know. They’re thinking about closing it down.”

  “Really?” I ask as we cross Kilroy Street, heading towards the Farmers Arms pub. “What are you supposed to do then? You’ll never afford season tickets in the VIP suite without a job.”

  Ginge laughs. “I wish. We wouldn’t even be able to afford to use the toilet in there. They’d take one look at us and kick us to the curb.”

  “Speak for yourself. Petrol-attendants already get the VIP treatment in those places.”

  “Would be nice, though, an aerial view of the pitch, a private bar and waiter service. Oh well, I’m sure some rich slut will show up at work, turning me into her sex slave for cash.”

  “Yeah, lose the belly first,” I say, flicking the cigarette stub on the pavement, and then pushing the pub door open. “And the hair. No one likes a ginger-nut.”

  “Cheeky bastard.”

  3

  The Farmers Arms pub: your classic old man boozer.

  The smell of stale beer and mould hit my nostrils as soon as I walk in. The place is almost empty—but that’s the way Jonny likes it. He never bothers with the real Swansea football pubs. They’re always too busy and too loud. But more importantly, Cardiff fans would never set foot in one. The Farmers Arms is notoriously a pub for rival teams to drink in before a game. The last five times we’ve drunk here we’ve ended up fighting. That’s probably why it’s not as busy as it used to be. Not that fussed on the agro myself; I’d rather just sit here, get wasted, and then stroll over to the stadium.