What have I done?
I lost myself.
I forgot who I was.
How could I do that to her? She didn’t deserve to see such a vile thing.
But what choice did I have? He was trying to kill his own sister. He would’ve happily killed us both. Without a second thought.
I had to.
Peter was dead even before he walked through that front door. I know it. He knew it. The only person who didn’t know it was Edith.
Exhaling loudly, I feel my pounding heart begin to slow. I turn to face Edith. She’s not crying. Not anymore. She’s just standing there, eyes wide with horror, clutching her right forearm tightly.
I can see the blood seeping out between her thin fingers, running down into her other hand.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it before.
If only I could have seen it on Anna.
17
I’m watching the street below from the living-room window. There are still several Necs loitering like teenagers in doorways and on pavements.
It’s strange. From here they almost seem human. Normal. But they’re not. Far from it. They’re just walking disease. Death with legs.
Monsters.
Edith is still in the kitchen, trying to clean the bite. She won’t let me in. She’s afraid she might infect me. I told her that she doesn’t have to worry—that everything will be fine.
I lied.
I don’t know what to do. I have to search the street for Sammy, but I wouldn’t last five minutes. And what about Edith? I can’t just leave her here. She’s infected. It’s only a matter of time before she turns.
If only I had an antiviral shot. So what if they’re hit or miss? At least she’d have a bloody chance!
How could they let this happen in the first place? How could they let it get so out of hand? This place should have been swept in an hour. Maybe then Sammy would be safe. Not lost somewhere in a Nec-infested street.
They can clear a football stadium in an hour, so why can’t they deal with this? How hard can it be? Gag ‘em ‘n bag ‘em. Simple. Football hooligans are more dangerous than Necs.
At least with Necs they only bite.
I hear the living-room door opening behind me. Turning, I see Edith standing in the doorway, with a bandage wrapped around her forearm. I no longer see the nosy-old-cow from next door, always snooping through the window. Now I just see an elderly woman, broken and bloodied in her own home.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m okay,” she replies.
I give a sympathetic smile. “How’s the arm? Does it hurt?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just a little sore. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry.”
“Of course I’ll worry. The last thing I want is—”
“So how long?” she asked suddenly.
“How long for what?”
“How long do I have before I turn into one of those things?”
I’m shocked that she’s so blunt with her question. But who can blame her? It’s a valid question. But it’s one I thought she might avoid asking. Or at least delay.
I almost tell her that nothing’s going to happen to her; that it’s not deep enough to spread the infection.
But instead I say, “Not long.”
She nods, as if accepting of her fate with just those two words.
“Everyone’s different,” I add. “Some last days before—” I can hardly bring myself to say the words. But I do. “—Before it kills them. Some just hours. It depends on the person; how strong they are. How deep the bite.”
“So I’m guessing a seventy-six-year-old doesn’t stand much of a fight then? What, hours?”
I run my hand through my hair and sigh. “Probably.”
“Okay. I can live with that.”
“What do you mean you can live with that?”
“Exactly what I say. I’ll do what my brother did and lock myself in the bathroom.”
I can’t believe how calm and collected she seems. I know I’d be climbing the walls, probably sawing off my arm with the kitchen knife. Not planning to barricade myself in the bathroom and waiting to die. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea? I mean—”
“Then what’s the alternative? Suicide?” She shakes her head in repulse. “Not a chance in hell. I’d never give in like that. Not without a fight. I don’t believe in suicide. Never have done. And I don’t intend starting tonight.”
“I wasn’t saying suicide. But when the infection reaches your brain, you’ll come back as one of those things. And you might hurt someone. Anyone. Someone you love. And then you’ll have to be put down. But it won’t be something quick like a bullet to the head. Bullets don’t work. They’ll come for you, stick a muzzle over your mouth, stuff you in a body bag, and then some asshole will throw you in a furnace and watch you burn. Yeah, you’ll be long gone. You’d have died long before you could hurt anyone—but is that how you want your body to be treated? Nothing more than walking disease? I mean, Edith, I’m against suicide as well, but sometimes—”
“Sometimes you just wanna go out the way you want to. We don’t always get a choice. But at least I do. And this is my choice.”
I shake my head, unable to comprehend her words. “But it’s not a choice. You’ll end up killing someone. Spreading the virus. Is that what you want? I know I wouldn’t. And I know damn well Anna didn’t want that either. That’s why I did what I did. That’s why I burnt her in the furnace. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat! She would’ve done the same for me.”
Edith sits on the sofa chair as she takes it all in. She seems exhausted, drained of spirit. But it’s no surprise. She’s just lost her brother—and she’s infected.
Jesus Christ, this is a fucked up night.
“What do you mean ‘you burnt her’? What—alive?”
“No. Well, not exactly. She was turned. Long turned. And my job is to burn any Necs. No matter who they are. I work for a company called Romkirk Ltd. We get Necs shipped over to us from across the country. And we burn them in a furnace.”
“Oh, my word. I didn’t know, Robert. I thought you worked in a factory. Somewhere in town. I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t know. It’s not a secret. It’s just easier to keep it from people. Hard to explain. It’s just a job. Like any job. But every day I have to burn the dead.”
I can see her eyes begin to well up again. “Oh, Robert—you poor man. I can’t believe they made you burn your own wife. That must have been horrific.”
I don’t answer, just nod, trying to hold off yet another bout of tears. In one hand, it’s painful talking about Anna, but on the other, it feels pretty good to tell someone. Even if it is just a neighbour. A neighbour that I haven’t spoken to in months. Someone that I hardly know, despite living next door to her for three years.
“It was horrific,” I say. “But I didn’t have a choice. Anna was already dead. It may have looked like her, but she was long gone. All I burnt in the furnace was her diseased body. Nothing more. It wasn’t Sammy’s mother,” I point to the street behind me, “it was one of those things outside.”
The room goes still. I can see Edith just staring at the window, stroking her bandaged arm. I feel terrible. I may not have intended to bring up suicide, but I didn’t exactly give her any alternatives.
Edith stands up from the sofa chair, unable to make eye contact with me. “I’m going to get a glass of water. Can I get you something?”
I’m about to speak, but nothing comes out, so I just shake my head.
She exits the living room, and all I’m left with is a deep, overwhelming feeling of guilt, bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. I try to shake it off but can’t. And then Sammy’s face pops up in my head. I see him playing in the garden, riding on his little red trike. And then I see the Nec from the garden. Blood and brains smeared all over his beloved toy.
Edith returning with a glass of water stops an image of an inf
ected Sammy forming.
Thank God. Can’t let myself even contemplate the notion.
Never.
Edith sits back down and takes a slow sip from the glass. I notice the skin above the bandage has blackened. The infection is spreading. I try not to draw attention to it, but she spots me gawking. She looks at her arm, and then tucks it down into her side.
“I’ve made my mind up, Robert,” she says calmly, as if about to tell me what pizza topping she’s chosen. “I want you to lock me in the bathroom. Like Peter. And I want you to leave his body in there with me. It’s suicide, or this—and suicide is simply not an option. Do you think you could do this for me? One last favour before you go? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve got no one else. And I’m afraid that if I do turn, then locking myself in won’t be enough. I’ll need you to secure the door from the outside too.”
“I can’t put you in the bathroom,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I kicked the door in. Remember?”
She nods. “That’s right, you did. I forgot. Okay then, how about my bedroom then? That should be—”
Before she can finish her sentence, she gets up, cupping a hand over her mouth. I spring to my feet as well. “What’s wrong?” I ask her, a tone of panic in my voice. She doesn’t reply. And then she staggers quickly out of the living room. I follow her into the kitchen. Reaching the sink, she vomits loudly into it, without time even to remove a pan full of dishes.
I stand clear. Too afraid of contamination. I want to put a hand on her back for comfort but can’t. Have to be careful. For Sammy.
I’m all he’s got left.
After a few minutes, Edith’s head emerges from the sink; eyes bloodshot; sweat pouring down her face. She wipes her mouth with her arm and groans loudly.
“Are you okay, Edith?” I ask; still standing a few metres away. “Can I get you anything?”
She doesn’t speak, just shakes her head. She then pulls out a chair from under the kitchen table and sits heavily, as if suddenly weighing a ton.
I also pull out a chair and sit. I watch her in silence as she holds her head up with her palm, clearly struggling to shake off the nausea.
It’s spreading. It could be any time now. Can’t see someone her age lasting too long. Have to get her locked up soon. Can’t believe I even brought up suicide to her. Who the hell do I think I am? I wouldn’t do it. So why the hell should she? And even if she did decide to do it: how would she do it? Gun to the head? Doubt if she’s got one of those lying around? Pills? Who knows how long they’d take to kick in. It might be too late. She’ll still turn. And I’m not exactly going to hack her to death with a chainsaw.
She probably doesn’t have one anyway.
Ignoring my reservations, I place a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s time, Edith. I’m sorry.”
She pulls her head away from her palm, looks at me, eyes still red, and nods. “You’re right.” She lets out a long breath and then smiles. “No use putting it off any longer. You’ve got your little boy to find.”
“I didn’t mean that to sound like I was rushing you. I only meant—”
Putting her hand onto mine, she smiles again. “Don’t be silly, Robert. I know what you meant. You think I haven’t got long. Because of the vomit. You think it’s already in my blood.”
I struggle to pluck out a suitable, painless reply. But all I can muster up is a subtle nod.
“Then let’s get it over with,” she says, standing up, focused, almost seeming optimistic. “I can listen to the radio in the bedroom anyway. Not too loud, though. Don’t want them hearing it. Can’t put you in any more danger.” She leaves the kitchen, heading towards the stairs. I follow. “Peter and I used to love listening to the radio in bed. Not the music. Only the stories. We used to have the sound down low, you know, just in case Mum heard us. She’d get so mad with us. Of course Dad never heard us. Always too drunk.”
We make our way up the stairs. I’m aware of how loud her voice is. It’s echoing around the entire house. I’m petrified that someone might hear. But I don’t have the heart to tell her. Not now. Not when she’s about to lock herself inside her bedroom to die. Can’t do that to her.
“Sometimes,” she continues, “we used to be under the sheets listening to it. Sometimes the sound was so low we had to hold an ear to each speaker. And Peter used to—” She stops when we reach the landing, and she sees Peter’s legs sticking out of the bathroom. They’re partly covered with the sheet, but his leather shoes are still in view.
Thank God it’s too dark to see the blood over the floor and wall.
When she reaches the bathroom doorway, she looks down at her brother’s covered body. It’s not moving anymore—but the virus is still very much alive. I know that for sure. Racing through his dead cells; somehow hanging onto life even without the brain. Don’t know how long it’ll last before giving up. Days. Weeks. Who knows.
That’s why the dead must be burnt.
It’s the only way.
Staring down at him, she smiles, blows him a kiss, and then mouths the words: I love you, Peter.
She walks across the landing and into the bedroom. I follow behind, avoiding a glance at Peter as I pass him.
Inside, she sits on the bed and reaches over to her alarm clock. She picks it up and starts to turn a knob at the side. Suddenly the sound of loud static fills the room. She quickly adjusts the volume, and the sound lowers. She fiddles with the dial and the static is replaced with the sound of a man’s voice.
Edith looks up at me and smiles. But this time her smile seems genuine. Not the forced smile of loss and hopelessness.
This is a smile of happiness.
She sets the radio back down on the bedside cabinet.
“I’m ready now, Robert,” she says. “You can lock me in.”
18
I could have gone back home. But I couldn’t do it to her. Not yet. Maybe in a few minutes.
I can still hear the faint sound of the radio from behind the door. I’m not sure if she knows I’ve been sitting outside for the past half hour, staring at the wire tied around the banister, leading to the door handle. I think it’ll hold. It should. It’s got to be better than a bloody scarf.
I wonder if the sun’s started to come up yet. It’s got to be about time now.
I wish I knew what the time was. Can’t find a single clock in the house. Not in this light. I almost feel like asking Edith what it says on her clock radio. I can’t though. I promised her that I’d leave as soon as I secured the door. Last thing I want to do is worry her even more.
What the fuck am I gonna do about Sammy? I can’t just sit and wait for him to show up. I have to think of a plan. Something that doesn’t involve a horde of Necs eating me alive. Nothing I’ve done so far has brought me any closer to finding him. Not a single thing. And I can’t exactly search every house on the street. Not with an army of Necs out there.
Maybe I should have just stayed behind the barricade. Waited for the Cleaners to do their Job. I would’ve been no closer to Sammy, but at least I’d be safe. At least I’d be around long enough to see him get out alive. Right now, for all I know, a pack of stinking Necs could be waiting outside, getting ready to storm the house.
Or maybe I should just hide ‘til morning. Ride it out. Hopefully by then the government would have sent out some backup Cleaners.
Shit. What if the Necs have broken through the barricade? What if the whole of Bristol is infected? Maybe that’s why it’s taking them so long to get here. Perhaps it’s not budget cuts. For all I know the entire city is overrun with Necs.
What the hell would we do then?
Stop it, Rob. You’re being stupid. The rest of the world is exactly how it’s always been: full of war, famine, and violence. Nothing’s changed. And besides, Edith already said that the news is reporting usual stuff. No mention of an invasion.
Cover-up?
&n
bsp; Shut up, Rob.
Suddenly I hear the noise of something falling and smashing inside Edith’s room. I spring to my feet, clenching up.
I hear another noise. This time it’s the sound of a cabinet or a chest of drawers crashing to the floor.
I double check the wire tied around the door handle. It seems safe enough. But I’m not exactly an expert on locking people in rooms.
Then the faint voice on the radio disappears with a loud shattering sound of plastic against the wall.
I can feel my heart racing once again as I fix my eyes on the door handle. I almost want to turn the knob to make sure it’s locked from the inside. I know it is. I heard her do it. But I still have to fight the urge.
And then there’s silence.
Dead silence. No radio. No footsteps. Nothing.
All I can hear is my heart pounding against my chest.
Leaning forward, I slowly place an ear to the door to listen.
Still silence.
“Edith?” I whisper.
The sound of fists beating against the door causes me to move away in fright. I can hear her snarls as I back away towards the banister. The door vibrates as she kicks and punches at it; dust dropping from the top of the doorframe. I clench my fists tightly, bracing for her to break through the wood and come at me. The wire is holding—but for how long?
Shit! What the fuck do I do? Why did I have to say her name? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? She might have turned and just stayed in the room. Peaceful.
I should never have come here in the first place. It was stupid. Should have stayed in my living room. Drinking beer. Should have never answered that bloody phone. At least Peter would have stayed put. He wasn’t going anywhere until I showed up.
Time to go.
There’s nothing more I can do for her. She’s dead. The last thing she’d want me to do is stay and risk an attack from her.
And as I see a large split form at the centre of the door, I quickly make my way down the stairs.
Sorry, Edith.
I’m sorry I had to leave you.
Burn the Dead Page 9