“Something must have pissed them off,” Ginge says, trying to see past a hundred heads, blocking his view of the chaos. “It definitely wasn’t the score.”
“Come on, you fucking wankers!” Jonny screams in their direction. “Let’s ‘av it!” I can tell by that manic wide-eyed stare that he’s in his element, that nothing would please him more than to get another pop at the opposition.
Most of the Swansea fans have stopped watching the pitch, as the news of the invasion spreads.
Checking the game, I gasp in shock when I see hundreds of people invade the pitch—a tidal wave of bodies coming from every side of the stand, engulfing the players and the green grass in seconds. “Oh my God,” I say, barely able to get the words out. “What the fuck is going on? Guys, look at the—” Suddenly, I’m shunted to the floor, Ginge’s heavy body on top, crushing the air from my lungs. As I try to roll him off, more bodies come crashing down in a stampede. Terrified, I manage to wriggle along the stone floor like a wounded animal towards the steps. The noise of the uproar is ear-splitting. I’ve never heard anything like it, even louder than after a win. Just a metre from the aisle, I feel someone’s leather boot press down on my head, pushing my face to the floor. I cry out in agony as my nose is crushed on the concrete by yet another foot, stamping on the back of my head. Nose bleeding, I cover my skull with my arms as if a bomb is about to go off. As I wait for a third foot to finish the job, I feel someone grab my collar and yank me up.
It’s Ginge. He’s back on his feet, shoving me forward onto the aisle. Caught in a stream of shrieking fans, we’re steered down the steps. I can barely keep my balance as the force behind me increases. More fans join the charge, Ginge’s body pressed tightly against my back, restricting my breathing.
Just a few steps away from the concourse, I see a suffocating cluster of people frantically trying to open the emergency door. One man beats his fists against it; another shoulder barges it.
What the hell are they waiting for? Open the bloody door!
The turnstile entrances are also sealed off, now covered by huge steel shutters.
Were they closed earlier? I can’t remember.
The human current takes us deep down into the middle of the bodies. I see men and women crushed by one another, children being held up by their fathers, others lying on the floor, trampled, battling to stand. I want to help, but I can’t move, my bleeding face squashed against the man in front, blood staining his Swansea jersey.
The concourse continues to fill to breaking point. I can’t breathe. I start to freak out, the claustrophobia consuming me.
I need to get out of here! Fucking move!
“Open the bloody doors!” a man yells from the left of me, his voice muffled by the screams of panic.
“They’re locked!” another man shouts back, struggling to speak through the weight of bodies. “We’re trapped!”
No, we can’t be. I saw it open. I watched all those people leave the stadium. It must be jammed. “Push harder!” I shout, wiping my bleeding nose with my wrist.
“It’s not budging!” a faint voice shouts back.
I hear a loud cry a few metres to the left of me. It’s a woman.
Then another.
And a loud snarl, almost animal-like.
What the fuck was that?
A massive commotion breaks out behind Jonny. Then a second to the left of me, near the souvenir stall.
A fight?
“She’s infected!” a man screeches in the distance. “Mooooooove!”
Infected? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?
But when I hear the word Nec being bellowed, along with another shrill growl, I start to frantically worm my way through the crowd, away from the fire exit, towards the food counter.
“She’s a fucking zombie!” Jonny cries, elbowing his way behind me, taking with him Ginge and Nathan. “Run!”
A sudden eruption of movement surges in all directions. The man in front of me falls to the ground, pulling a woman with him.
A space.
I don’t consider helping them. There’s no time. All I care about is moving away from the anarchy.
Away from the Nec.
With no room to run, all we can do is barge our way through the crowd. We come to another emergency door and a turnstile entrance. Both are sealed off.
What the fuck is going on?
At the top of another set of steps, leading out to the stand, a gathering of people have collapsed—a heap of bodies squirming to get up.
Oh shit! What the hell is that?
There’s a man, crawling over the pileup, his mouth oozing with blood.
It’s a fucking Nec!
The crowd in front sees him and tries to disperse, leaving just enough space for us to run.
“There’s another one,” I hear Nathan shout from behind. “We’re fucked!”
“Keep moving!” Jonny cries. “Don’t look at them!”
With me leading the way, we follow a tsunami of running fans, heading towards the Cardiff border.
Suddenly I stop dead, causing Ginge to slam into the back of me, nearly knocking me off my feet. A few metres away, the entire section from the stairs to the locked exit is bursting with bodies; a wall of people, lying on the ground, their innards being torn out and eaten by infected Cardiff fans.
This is some sick joke, right? This is just a wind up on a massive scale. It’s got to be.
But when a legion of Necs sees us, their jaws dripping with flesh and blood, I know, without a shadow of doubt, that this is very real.
And we’re all completely screwed!
8
The bulk of people are behind us, absolutely no room to flee. With no choice, I bolt towards the army of Necs, aiming for a small gap to the left. I glance back and see Ginge and the others still following. One of the Necs—a huge chunk of his face missing—has someone pinned to the floor. I whiz past him, nearly tripping over the feet of a dead woman. My brain doesn’t fully register the devastation all around me; it’s too shocking to absorb. All I can do is run and pray to God that there’s another way out, maybe through an open turnstile.
The concourse starts to curve around as we come up to another set of steps, which lead up the stand. I contemplate trying my luck back out there; maybe the pitch entrance gates are still open. But then we’re met with more people, scrambling to get the fire exit open, and yet another swarm of Necs biting their way through the crowds.
We barge through the screaming people as they try to move in all directions. Nothing seems real—a scene from a horror movie. From sheer force, we manage to power through the build-up until we’re able to run again.
Behind me, I see that Ginge is still close, struggling to keep up. But Jonny and Nathan have been swallowed up by the mob. I can’t leave them, so I slow down a little. Then I spot something up ahead. A girl. She has her hands clasped onto the shoulders of a male Nec, trying to pry him off of someone.
Is that Natalie? From the bar?
It is her!
And that’s her brother Curtis on the floor!
Even though I barely know the girl, I’m drawn to help her, running purely on instinct. Rushing over to them, I slam my foot into the Nec’s temple. But it does nothing. I try again, and again until the creature rolls off Curtis. Natalie reaches down and pulls her brother up. The Nec quickly gets back onto his feet, snarling viciously through open jaws.
Out of nowhere, Ginge appears and slams his thick shoulder into the Nec, thrusting the dead man into another one of the creatures.
With no time to process anything, the four of us burst into a sprint. I glimpse back and see Jonny and Nathan are just behind us. They’re okay.
“Alfie!” Jonny bellows. “Through here!”
Turning, I see Nathan and Jonny standing by an open door. I skid to a halt and follow them through, Ginge, Natalie, and Curtis trailing behind me. The door leads into a corridor, most likely the entrance to the conference rooms and VIP suites, no
rmally guarded by stewards.
At the end of the small corridor, there’s another door. With no choice but to try our luck, we bolt towards it, Nathan leading the way by a few metres. He wrenches it open and charges through, disappearing out of sight. Beyond the doorway, I see a red-carpeted staircase. Just as I follow Jonny up, I stop in my tracks. Sprawled out on the steps, with a male Nec crouched over him is Nathan; the dead man’s teeth locked firmly onto his torn throat.
“You fucking bastard!” Jonny screams as he grabs the Nec by the hair and pulls him down the stairs. I jump out of the way as the rotter tumbles down to the bottom, cracking his skull on the concrete floor. In a rage, Jonny follows it down, leaping the last four steps and lands directly on its face. Its nose splits open; his snarling teeth shatter.
“You rotten fucking bastard!” he screams with every stomp of his foot onto the Nec’s crushed face. “You dirty fucking cunt!”
The growls of more Necs coming from the corridor bounce off the walls. “Come on, Jonny!” I shout. “We have to go! They’re coming! Leave it!”
He can’t hear me; he’s lost in the moment; lost to the grief.
The barks of the Necs increase. We have to move.
I grab Jonny by the shoulders, try to pull him away from the monster, but he won’t budge. “Let’s go!”
Suddenly he throws an elbow into my mouth.
“Fuck off!” he snaps as he continues to pound down on the Nec.
I cry out in pain as my bottom lip starts to bleed.
Out of options, and the sound of Necs getting closer, I dart up the stairs behind Ginge, Natalie and Curtis, stepping over Nathan’s twitching corpse, soon to be up and walking again.
I hated the guy, but no one deserves that fate—not even a prick like Nathan Ross.
At the top of the staircase, we emerge with caution onto another corridor. It’s deserted in both directions. With no escape route and no plan, our only option is to find a safe place to hide. Along the way, I see a row of red doors: VIP suites. I stop at the first one and try the handle. It’s locked, so I pound my fist on the door. No response. Ginge, Natalie and Curtis do the same for the others as we move along the corridor. All locked and with no reply.
“Open the fucking door!” Ginge shouts as he slams his fist into another door. “We need help!”
We keep trying.
The sound of stomping footsteps roars up from the stairwell. An eerie symphony of moans fills the corridor from all directions.
They’re coming!
With no time to turn back and no Plan B, we’re cornered.
“There’s got to be someone in one of these rooms,” Natalie says as she joins her brother at another VIP door, banging her fists against it. “I can hear movement inside.”
“Someone help us!” Curtis pleads to a potentially empty room. “Open the door!”
The sounds of the dead creep nearer. Curtis starts to shoulder barge the door. I join him; so does Ginge.
They’re getting closer! Just a few metres away!
“Please!” Natalie begs. “Let us in!”
The floor starts to vibrate from the weight of stamping feet.
We’re done for!
Just as I’m about to ready myself for an attack, I hear the lock click. The door quickly opens, and an old woman in a black dress is standing behind it. Before she can even open her mouth, we stampede inside.
The woman slams the door shut and locks it.
9
All my life I’ve longed for a chance to be in here—the VIP suite. To be able to watch the game from so high up, without screaming idiots all around me, to drink a glass of beer without having to watch your back, having to make sure Jonny doesn’t lose it and end up kicking someone’s teeth in. A part of something special. This is where I belong; this is exactly where I thought I’d end up some day. Standing up against the glass with my friends, and looking down at the greatest team that ever played.
But I’m here, much earlier than I anticipated. But instead of celebrating, drinking ice-cold beers, eating smoked salmon appetisers, shouting for Swansea to move their asses, I’m standing against the red door, my shoulder pressed firmly into the thick wood, next to Ginge, making sure that an army of Necs don’t come bursting in, to tear us limb from limb.
This is definitely not how I pictured it.
I clench up tightly when I hear the sound of footsteps approach the door; some clearly running, while others drag their feet against the carpet, as if life after death is one big struggle.
We don’t say a word; none of us do. There are just too many of them out there. Silence is our only protection.
How the hell did this happen?
One minute I’m taking a piss, and the next, the place is crawling with them.
Did it come from the Cardiff section? Seems like it did with all the rioting.
It had to be them, didn’t it?
Dirty fuckers—bringing their disease to us.
I see Natalie standing by her brother; she gasps quietly when we hear faint scratching on the door. I put my finger against my lips to quiet her. Her eyes are streaming with tears. She closes them.
Ginge struggles to silence his heavy breathing; his face is red from exhaustion; sweat pouring down his face; his horrified eyes locked onto mine as the footsteps stop outside the door. I’m terrified that they’ll hear my heart pounding, my heavy breathing. Placing a hand over my mouth and nose, I put more pressure against the door, praying that the hinges don’t creak.
We hold the position for at least five minutes before we’re certain that the Necs have moved on.
My hand shaking with terror, I reach down and twist the door handle, double-checking that it is locked. It is—thank God. I move away from the door. After a few more seconds, Ginge does the same.
“Sounds like they’ve gone,” Natalie whispers. “I think we’re safe.”
“How can we be safe with those things out there?” Curtis asks. “We’re finished, Nat—there’s just too many of them.”
“Keep your voice down,” I say as I sit on a stool, my body completely shattered. “You want them to find us?”
Curtis turns to me, scowling. “Why don’t you fucking make me?”
“Is there something wrong with you?” I reply, wiping the sweat away from my eyes. “Do you really think that now is a good time to argue?”
“You were at the bar earlier, weren’t you? At The Farmers Arms. You and your friends attacked us.”
“Yeah, he was,” says Ginge, his voice firm, ready to tear his head off. “And so was I. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”
“Who gives a crap?” Natalie asks, stepping in front of her brother. “None of that matters now.”
“Your friend nearly killed me, you prick,” I snap, standing up from the stool. “He nearly strangled me to death.”
“Yeah, and you nearly bit his hand off,” Curtis retorts. “What the fuck is wrong with you Swansea lot? You’re like a bunch of fucking animals.”
“Hey, you and your mates were the ones who decided to come down in the first place,” I point out. “We were outnumbered—and we still fucked you up.”
“Just sit back down, Alfie,” Natalie says. “This is not the place to bring up all this shit. It’s not important.”
Curtis turns to his sister, his face creased with fury. “And how the fuck do you know this nigger’s name?”
Ginge races over to him, grabbing him by the collar of his Cardiff jersey. “Say that again!” Ginge threatens, slamming him against the door with a loud thud. “Go on, say it again! I fucking dare you!”
Clutching Ginge by his thick, rounded shoulders, Natalie tries to pry him off her brother.
Someone calling me a nigger, any other time—and especially a Cardiff prick—and I’d happily smash their heads against the wall. But right now, in this moment of bedlam, all I can think about is Nathan lying on the stairs, dead. And Jonny? Most likely dead as well.
I shouldn’t have left h
im. I should have made him come with us. Of course he’d want to stay there—the Nec had just ripped his brother’s throat out. I should have dragged him away, kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took. Who cares about an elbow to the mouth!
And now they’re both gone, and we’re barricaded in this room—with a bunch of bloody strangers.
“Stop fighting!” someone shouts from the left of me. Startled, I turn to see a man, mid-sixties, thick mop of white head on his head. Shit! Where the hell did he come from? “You’re scaring my wife.” The man is slouched on the cream-coloured, leather sofa, his huge gut almost popping the buttons off his light blue shirt, which is drenched through with sweat. His skin is pale, and he’s holding a blood-soaked cloth over his right forearm.
Is that a bite mark?
Ginge loosens his grip on Curtis, allowing Natalie to pull him away and step in front of her brother.
“We all need to keep our voices down!” the man says, his tone aggressive. “We can’t have every Tom, Dick, and Harry knowing we’re in here.” He starts to cough loudly, holding the same cloth over his mouth.
The grey-haired woman is sitting next to him. She hands him a bottle of water from the small glass table in front of the sofa, and then takes the cloth from him.
“Your arm’s bleeding,” Ginge says to the man. “What the hell happened to you?”
“That’s none of your business,” the woman snaps, walking over to the plush white drinks-bar to the left of the sofa. Hanging over one of the draught pumps is a blue cloth. She grabs it and then gives it to her husband. “You lot need to get out of here. I should have never opened that door.”
“Have you been bitten?” Ginge asks. “Did one of those Necs attack you?”
“Shut up!” Natalie snaps. “It’s nothing to do with us.”
“Of course it is,” Ginge replies. “If he’s infected then he’ll turn into one of those things.”
“You’d prefer to be outside then, would you?” the man replies. “By all means, no one is stopping you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say to the man, sincerity in my tone. “We’re all just a little freaked out, that’s all. One of our friends was just killed. And the other one is probably dead. We just need a place to hide out until it’s safe to leave. We promise we won’t be any bother.”
The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot Page 4