Burn the Dead

by Steven Jenkins

After a few seconds, I hear the faint sound of Mum crying. The sound is almost too much to endure. “Mum? Are you all right?”

  “No. You’re lying, Robert,” she struggles to say, her voice drowning in desolation and shock. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s true.”

  “How?”

  I brace before I answer, knowing full well how she’s going to react to the truth. But I can’t lie to her. I owe her that much at least. “She got bitten, Mum.”

  “Bitten? By what?”

  I brace again. “Bitten.”

  “Oh, my God. It’s a mistake. Please Robert—it must be. Please. Not that. Not that.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  “Tell me she didn’t turn, Robert.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Tell me she didn’t turn into one of those monsters.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. There was nothing anyone could do.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ…Jesus Christ! What happened? Who bit her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. All I know is that she was sick last night before we went to bed. And that’s it. We thought it was just food poisoning. She seemed fine this morning. That’s why it didn’t even cross my mind for her to go to the doctor’s to get a shot. But then I left for work and…” I can’t tell her the whole truth. I can’t tell her what I did to her. She’d never understand—never look at me in the same way again. It’s too much. This is my burden. My wretched secret. “…early today, I got a phone call, telling me about Anna.”

  I can hear the faint sound of whimpering. And it kills me inside. Hearing Mum in such a state brings me to tears every time. When Dad died, the only time I did finally cry was when I saw Mum break down. There’s something heart-wrenching about seeing a strong person, who never lets anything get to them, crumble right in front of your eyes.

  “So who has Sammy?” she asks.

  A shudder runs through my entire body; crippling me. I almost want to lie to her and say he’s sitting right next to me, smiling happily as if nothing bad could ever happen to him. But I can’t. I couldn’t keep something like this from her even if I tried. And I need her to help me find him.

  Running a tired hand through my hair, I sigh loudly, preparing to answer. “He’s still missing.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Not Sammy.”

  “Look, Mum, try not to panic. I’m sure he’s fine. I’m positive Anna made sure he was safe before—”

  “Before ‘what’, Robert? Before she got infected? Before she turned into one of those monsters?”

  “Mum, don’t say things like that. She didn’t turn into a monster.”

  “Then what else would you call it, Robert?”

  “She was dead before any monster took over her body. If she had even an ounce of humanity left, she would have got Sammy to safety. I just know it.”

  “Oh you do, do you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. In fact, I’m a bloody expert on the subject—seeing as I burn the dead for a living. The disease would’ve made her sick at first, and then she may have had hallucinations, and then it would have killed her. And that could have taken hours, maybe even days. Who knows. Every case is different. Everyone’s body responds differently. But what I do know—what I know with every part of my soul—is that Anna’s priority, even when all hope was lost, would have been to protect Sammy from any danger—and that includes danger from herself. And I’d put my life on it! And so should you, Mum.”

  I wait as Mum quietly processes everything that I’ve told her. I can feel her pain, her suffering, even through the silence.

  “I know that, Robert,” she weeps, “I know she would never intentionally hurt Sammy, but—”

  “‘But’ nothing, Mum. He’s safe. I know he is. And he needs me.”

  “So where the hell is he then? Where do you think she would have left him? With a friend? Or a neighbour? Or maybe a policeman?”

  “I don’t know. Hopefully one of those.”

  “Then what’s the delay? Why don’t you just look for him?”

  “It’s not as easy as that. The whole of Crandale’s been infected. Everywhere from my street all the way up to Richmond. It’s gonna take another two or three days to finish cleaning it. Maybe longer.”

  “So why can’t you just say that you work for Romkirk? Get them to let you in?”

  “It’s no good, Mum. It doesn’t matter where I work. This is the government. Once an area gets infected, they step in. Romkirk is just a contractor. They’re not run by the government. And it’s not the only furnace in Britain. Flashing my security badge won’t mean shit to these people.”

  “Then what are we going to do? Wait? Wait ‘til someone finds him, or worse, finds him and decides to take a bite out of him? No bloody way! You find a way in there, Robert, and you find our Sammy. And you get him out. You get him bloody out. Tonight.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum—that’s exactly what I intend to do. And there’s no barricade on this earth that can stop me getting to him.”

  8

  I spend the next thirty minutes calling ‘round, making sure that Anna hadn’t already got Sammy out of Crandale.

  No such luck.

  And every painful minute that I lose just tears me up inside. I want to scream but I have to keep my head. I want to cry but I’m all cried out. I want to ram my car straight through the barricade but I’d get arrested. And what good would that do? If Sammy’s still alive, then I have to get him out, and fast. Have to keep cool. Can’t do anything stupid.

  I’m parked up near Rose Avenue, staring at the steel wall. There are four police cars parked, and two unmarked white vans, most likely Cleaners, dotted around the area.

  Absolutely no way in.

  Crandale has about four, possibly five ways in: here at Rose Avenue, the turning by the primary school, and one by Richmond, plus several lanes, gardens. And I’ll have to assume that every single one of those ways through will have a barricade. These people aren’t idiots. Crandale doesn’t have any forests or parks, so it should have taken them a matter of minutes to stop anything getting in and out.

  How the fuck am I supposed to get in?

  Think.

  The sewers!

  A sudden wave of enthusiasm hits me—and just as swiftly it vanishes when I realise that these sewers are just a series of pipes. And even if there were sewers big enough to walk through, even crawl through, I doubt that the police would have forgotten to block them off.

  Think.

  Dropping my head back against the seat, I close my eyes. Come on, Rob, you’re not stupid. There’s always a way. Always a solution. It’s not the bloody White House, it’s Crandale. Just a few streets. Of course there’s a way in. If you can’t get through the barricade, and you can’t go down into the sewers, you can go…

  Up.

  Opening my eyes, I see the large new houses in front of me, just on Rose Avenue. The walls are high, but not impossible to scale. Maybe twelve feet. If I can get over without anyone seeing me, then I should be able to garden-hop all the way home. Easy.

  I open the glove compartment and rummage about for a weapon. Anything hard or sharp; a screwdriver, a spanner. No knives. Definitely no knives. Not after the police put out a zero-tolerance order. Once people got wind of Necro-Morbus, everyone started carrying weapons. Knives, baseball bats—even guns. Christ, my own mother had a bloody penknife in her handbag. But like always, people abused it. Mainly the gangs from the shitty neighbourhoods, using any excuse to carry something. So now, anyone caught with so much as a slingshot will get their asses thrown in jail. I climb out of the car and walk ‘round to the boot. Opening it, I see that it’s bare apart from a small wheel-jack and an empty fuel can. The jack is too heavy and awkward to take as a weapon, and the metal bar is fixed on tight. Useless.

  I angrily slam the boot shut and head towards Rose Avenue, staying close to the walls, out of sight. Stopping at a gate, I realise how idioti
c this idea is. I’m rushing. Not thinking methodically. I should at least check out the other barricades. Maybe there’s an easier way in, one that’s not so secure. Extremely doubtful, but still worth checking. Their eyes are on Crandale. No one’s going to be itching to get in. All they care about is keeping the Necs from spreading any further into Bristol. Some stupid Dad on a daredevil mission is hardly going to be at the top of their priorities.

  On foot, I make my way behind Rose Avenue. Maybe one of the back lanes is poorly guarded. But as I try to turn up the hill towards them, I see yet another assortment of flashing blue lights and vans. No steel wall though, but at least fifteen riot police, armed with shields and batons, blocking the narrow lane that leads onto The Mount.

  Shaking my head in frustration, I keep walking until I’m on Crow Street, just off from Rose Avenue. There are no police. Relief washes over me as my walk turns into a jog, heading for Richmond.

  After the half-mile ascent, I reach the quiet street of Stevenage Crescent. It’s a dead-end private road. Sitting down on one of the garden walls, I catch my breath. I scan the deserted street, trying to come up with a better plan of action, instead of running around aimlessly.

  All right, let’s think logically: if I do manage to get in, then what am I likely to come across? What sort of conditions?

  Firstly, the Cleaners would’ve probably cleared the uninfected out, house by house, one by one, and then sent them over to Disease Control, during which time they would have started to hunt down the infected before they turned. Any already turned, they would have taken them down with a tranquillizer gun, strapped a muzzle on, and secured their limbs. If that didn’t stop them, they’d have to dismember the body and bag it up—then ship it off for burning.

  Or would they?

  An area this big, they’d probably sedate them, gag them, and then store them somewhere in the infected zone, most likely the primary school. Or perhaps the community centre behind Marbleview. Yeah. Just the right size. And easy to contain.

  Gag ‘em ‘n bag ‘em.

  Turning my head, I notice that all the houses behind me are terraces. No easy access through into the gardens. I scan the rest of the row. The same. And every house is in total darkness—which could mean that this street was evacuated earlier today. But there’s no police blockade. Maybe they just cleared everyone out as a precaution. They must have. Or maybe everyone’s sleeping. No, it’s way too early. What the hell’s the time anyway? Reaching into my pocket, I feel around for my phone to check the clock. Empty. I check the other pocket. “Shit.” I left it in the bloody car!

  Should I go back for it?

  No!

  Forget about the bloody phone! There’s no time!

  The entire row of houses has front porches. Easy enough to scale. Climbing into number thirteen’s front garden, I carefully make my way over to the porch; one eye on the climb ahead, the other on the bay window. Stay dark for Christ’s sake. Reaching the porch, I jump up, trying to grab hold of the ledge. It’s too high. I try again. And again, until I finally pick up one of the large plant pots from the side of the lawn, and place it directly under the ledge. Destroying the plant as I step up onto the pot, I reach out and grasp the wall for balance. I tilt my head back and then leap up; the plant pot tips over as I manage to grip the ledge. My shoulders strain as I pull myself up, using my feet against the wall for a better footing. Standing erect on the porch, I gauge the main roof’s height. I suddenly feel queasy. I quickly crouch down. Can’t remember the last time I was up so high. Forgot how petrifying it is. I take a few deep breaths and try to reach up to the roof guttering. My fingertips are merely inches away, so I take another giant leap up, grasping it with both hands. The hard plastic starts to buckle from my weight, so I pull myself up promptly. I throw my legs over and I’m on the tiled roof. I stay low as I catch my breath, trying desperately not to look down. After gathering myself, I start to crawl to the peak of the roof, heading towards the chimney. I reach it, as quietly as possible, still unsure if anyone is home or not. Feeling a little dizzy again, I grasp the chimney tightly.

  What the hell are you doing, Rob?

  I scan the area. In the distance, I see the flashing blue lights of Richmond’s barricade. Down below, I see a row of gardens. Deserted. None of the gardens have back entrances, only high wooden fences. Directly ahead, I see the back of All Saints church. The old grey building is just a few metres from where the back garden rows end. It’s surrounded by a mountain of overgrown brambles, about twelve-foot-high, making it extremely difficult to gain access.

  But not impossible.

  Maybe a way into Crandale?

  I start to creep tentatively down the other side of the roof, heading for the glass conservatory below. Sweat running down my face, I nervously make my descent, fully conscious that one slip and I’m gone. Reaching the guttering, I carefully lower myself onto the conservatory roof. The surface appears to be extremely slippery, so I place my feet on the plastic frames separating each pane of glass. I squat and take hold of the plastic, and then spider-walk down to the ledge. Gripping the ledge, I lower my body, and then drop into the back garden with a loud thud. I glimpse at the windows in a panic; the house is still in darkness.

  After noticing a light motion sensor above the backdoor, I decide to stay close to the fence, keeping out of the sensor’s range. The garden has a well-maintained lawn with a small stone path running down the centre. At the very bottom of the garden, about twenty-five metres away, I see a small wooden shed. I slink towards it.

  Thank God they don’t have a dog.

  Resting flat on the floor, next to the shed, is a small ladder, no more than seven or eight feet in length. I pick it up and carry it over to the back fence. I rest the ladder up against the fence and start to climb.

  Suddenly the entire garden comes alive with light.

  “Shit,” I say through my teeth, clenching up in fright. Turning my head to the garden, I expect to see the homeowner branding a shotgun.

  I don’t.

  Thank God.

  Why the hell would I? This is Bristol for Christ’s sake. It’s not some dumb movie, set in some run down Texas farmyard. I scurry up the remaining few steps, and then jump down onto the overgrown grass on the other side, slipping on my ass as I land. Getting up off the moist grass, I quickly check out the surrounding area for any police or Cleaners. When I see that the area is clear, I reach up and grab the top of the ladder. Tugging hard on the top step, it lifts up, so I drag it over the fence and onto the floor. I pick the ladder up and carry it under my arm, and then make my way towards All Saints Church, my feet getting caught up in the jungle of long grass and spiky weeds.

  I can’t say that I’ve ever set foot in this church. In fact, I’m not even sure if it still is a church. It’s always seemed so overgrown with brambles and weeds, and the graveyard is so broken and neglected, that there can’t possibly be anyone working in there. Either that or the vicar’s a lazy bastard.

  There is a large, rundown fence buried deep in thick brambles and nettles, too vast for anyone to crawl through, and too high for anyone to scale, even with a ladder. At the back of the church there is a tiny window, about fifteen feet up. Probably locked. I inspect the surrounding area for something to smash it with: rock, a piece of metal, anything hard. Walking a few metres along the church, I spot an old, rusty child’s bike—small enough to pick up and throw, and big enough to smash the glass. I carry it back over to the window, take in a couple of preparation breaths, and then launch it up at the window. It hits the wall hard, missing the window completely. It bounces off in my direction, so I jump out of its way.

  “Come on, Rob.”

  I pick up the bike again and take another shot. This time it strikes the window, smashing the glass. I smile in gratification, almost forgetting about what’s happened today, and what horrors I’m probably going to encounter on the other side.

  I position the ladder tight up against the brambles. I push hard so that
the ladder makes contact with the wall. But it’s no use; they’re too thick. I climb up onto the first few steps and my weight manages to move the ladder onto the wall. Just. Climbing the ladder, I feel the thorny stems plucking at my clothes; the horrid nettles brushing past me. Can’t remember the last time I got stung by nettles. Probably aged ten, playing in Granddad’s back garden. The ladder wobbles as I reach the summit. The window is still a few metres up, just shy from grabbing distance. I bend my legs, and then propel myself up. As I take hold of the thin ledge, I hear the sound of the ladder falling away from the wall. Cautiously turning my head, I see that the ladder has plunged deep into the brambles. “Shit!” Using my feet against the wall, I manage to pull myself up onto the ledge. I crawl through the window, avoiding the small, yet razor-sharp shards of glass that are still attached to the window frame.

  Exhausted, I drop into the darkness and onto a hard wooden floor; the noise echoes around the derelict church.

  I can’t believe I’m in. I’m through the barricades.

  Back home. Back in Crandale.

  As I stand in the dusty old room, a sudden wash of dread creeps over me.

  I’ve just broken into a quarantined area where the dead are alive and well, and are probably feeding on some poor bastard as I speak.

  There’s a good reason those barricades are up.

  9

  Damp, dusty and dark.

  That’s probably why I never go to church—that and the fact that I don’t believe in God.

  How could anyone with all the shit that goes on?

  I used to, when I was young. I used to be paranoid about going to Hell, about facing the Devil himself and burning for my sins. Of course, my sins were a little less significant back then. The odd stolen chocolate bar, or a few pounds from Mum’s purse, or the occasional cheating on exams. Not exactly crimes of the century.

  Not like burning people for a living.

  The last time I set foot in a church was when Anna and I tied the knot. No, I tell a lie: it was to pay the bill for the ceremony.

  Nothing’s free in this life. Not even God.

  I didn’t really want to get married in a church. Didn’t see the point. But Anna insisted. She said that it wouldn’t feel like a real wedding until she walked down a real aisle, and said our vows with a real vicar, under a real cross. Of course, it wasn’t worth arguing about it. A wedding’s a wedding. Not that it made a difference when it came to signing that registry book.