Burn the Dead

by Steven Jenkins

  The colours all around me are bleeding into one.

  All I see are swirling colours. A vortex of light and colours.

  Am I dead?

  Am I one of them?

  Is this what it feels like to be…

  21

  I can hear the rumbling sound of the furnace as it fires up. I feel the heat on my skin. For some reason, it feels good. Good to be back at work. Back to earning some cash. Vegas is just around the corner. Can’t set foot in those casinos without a decent amount of money to blow. It wouldn’t be right. But the greatest thing about being in Romkirk again is the routine, the normalcy of it all. Although, to most people, normalcy might be some way off from burning reanimated corpses in a furnace—especially for a living.

  Not me, though.

  This is where I belong, where I was always going to end up. A career.

  It’s not exactly glamorous, or dignified, but neither is cutting someone up with a scalpel then sticking them back together, or shooting someone down in some shithole country in the middle of nowhere.

  Yeah, this is where I belong.

  This is me.

  Wheeling the stretcher over to the furnace, I can’t help but notice how still the body bag seems. Not even a flicker. Even the most heavily sedated Necs twitch after this long in transit. I’m a slave to curiosity once again as I slowly unzip the yellow bag. I open it about halfway down, and then grab each end of the opening, and spread them apart. Just to see. See for myself who the poor bastard is this time. See which innocent bystander has been taken by this putrid, soul-sucking disease.

  I drop to my knees in anguish, almost choking on my own turmoil.

  Sammy.

  Is this some kind of a prank? A sick joke?

  Is this really my son, stuffed into a body bag, seconds from being burned?

  I get back up onto my feet, holding onto the sides of the stretcher to stop my legs from buckling. I take another look down. It is him. It is my son. My precious, innocent little boy, lying down; his skin pale and lifeless like a China doll.

  I won’t burn him in the furnace. Not now. Not ever. I’d rather die than let him burn.

  Suddenly his eyes open and he springs upright, screaming as if waking from a nightmare.

  From fright, I stumble backwards, crashing into another stretcher. I fall to the floor, my back pressed up against one of its metal legs. I watch in horror as Sammy starts to slither out of the body bag like a snake, his jaw snapping and snarling at me.

  “Sammy, it’s me,” I say, “It’s Daddy. There’s nothing to worry about. No one’s gonna harm you. Please. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Daddy.”

  A shadow slowly looms over me from behind, and then I feel something cold grab the back of my neck. I turn my head and look up. I see Anna; her decaying face peering down from the stretcher; her arm, grey with decomposition, reaching down at me. I scurry across the floor on my hands and knees, pushing myself up onto my feet, over to the open furnace. I can feel and hear the blistering heat burn the hairs on the back of my head. Both Anna and Sammy are now off the stretchers and are limping slowly towards me, their mouths dripping with saliva and rage. Edging ever closer to the fire behind me, I feel the flames biting at my exposed skin. Suddenly, Anna bolts at me, driving both her palms into my chest. I fly back into the heart of the furnace. I scream out to them to help me, but my words are melting by the inferno.

  Along with my skin.

  The last thing I see before my eyes burst is Sammy, as he pushes the large red button.

  The giant flames have turned into flashes of light.

  I can no longer hear the rumbling sound of the furnace. All I can hear are echoes of muffled voices. Like voices from a busy swimming pool. Like the sounds of…

  Am I dead?

  Am I one of them?

  Is this what it feels like to be…

  *

  “Can you hear me?”

  Who said that?

  I try to focus but can’t. All I can see are blurred images.

  I see something move.

  Is there someone there?

  Please help me I—

  “You need to open your eyes. My name is Sandra. Can you hear me?”

  Is that a voice? Sandra?

  Who the hell is Sandra?

  “Wake up. Can you hear me? You need to wake up.”

  The silhouette of a person slowly forms. The flames are long gone.

  It’s a woman. It’s…

  “…Anna?”

  “No, it’s not Anna,” I hear a female voice say. “It’s Sandra. My name is Sandra Ross. I’m one of your neighbours.”

  My blurred vision starts to dwindle as my eyes begin to focus. I’m in a dark room, with a faint light coming from the top of a staircase to the right of me. Sitting to my left, her thin body leaning over to face me, is a woman. Mid-forties, maybe fifty, wearing trousers or jeans. And a thick, reddish jumper. Light-brown hair. Although it could be blonde. Too hard to make out in such poor lighting. “Where am I?” I ask the woman. But before she can even answer, I remember exactly where I am.

  Janet Webber’s basement.

  “How’s the head?” she softy asks me, her voice weak and croaky.

  Suddenly recalling my plummet down the stairs, I start to feel a dull ache at the side of my head. I reach up to touch it only to find a sharp pain in my left shoulder, and my wrists tied together with thin rope. I tug on them hard and hear the sound of metal rasping. I see a thicker rope attached to my wrists leading to a large pipe behind me. I pull on it, but the pipe is fixed securely to the wall. I look down at my ankles; they’re also bound together by rope.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I snap, a jolt of panic hitting me as my clarity returns. I thrash desperately at my restraints, trying to pry my hands and legs free to no avail.

  “That woman upstairs is Janet Webber.” She points with her tied wrists to the ceiling. “She’s been my neighbour for twenty years. The twisted bitch drugged you and brought you here.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I say, tugging frantically at the rope, ignoring the ache in my shoulder. “How long have you been down here?”

  “Almost two days. But it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Two days?”

  “We haven’t eaten or drunk anything since we got here.” She motions with her head to my right.

  Turning my throbbing head, I see a mound of white beside me. Leaning in closer, I try to make out what it is.

  It’s a Cleaner. Male.

  He’s passed out in a slump; arms twitching slightly; his breathing erratic.

  “Oh my God,” I blurt out. “What the hell does she want with us?”

  “It’s probably best if I don’t tell you.”

  “What’s the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Sandra sighs, glimpses down to the side of her, and then whispers, “Because I don’t want to scare him.”

  “Scare who?” I ask, impatiently.

  “The little boy.”

  I shudder for a moment as I struggle to see past her.

  Suddenly I’m no longer in a dusty, cluttered old basement, restrained by my wrists and feet, surrounded by a rank, musty smell.

  Suddenly I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  “Sammy?” I delicately call out.

  Please let it be him. Please let it be my little boy.

  Please let it be—

  “Daddy?” I hear a child whisper, his words groggy and broken.

  Huddled up against Sandra, a small boy, four years old, wearing blue pyjamas, slowly pops his head up.

  It’s Sammy.

  Is this a dream? Am I still passed out at the bottom of the stairs?

  Is it really my son?

  Please let it…

  “Daddy?” I hear him say again.

  I start to cry.

  I can’t help it. It feels like the same bout of tears from when he was born. An uncontrollable surge of bottled up emotions; all flooding out the very second I
held him in my arms. “You’re really here,” I tell him, my words drowning in tears. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

  He shakes his head, and then he starts to sob loudly. “Where’ve you been, Daddy? You were gone for so long. Where’s Mammy?”

  Sniffing loudly, I try to compose myself. “Don’t cry, Sammy. I’m sorry. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I couldn’t find you. But I’m here now. You don’t have to worry. Daddy’s found you.”

  “I’m scared, Daddy. There’s a nasty woman upstairs.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  “It’s all right, Sammy,” Sandra says, pulling him close. “We’re just playing a game. Remember? It’s like hide and seek. And the lady upstairs is just pretending to be mean. That’s all. Like a pantomime.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” I say, trying to block out the panic. “Just a silly game. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “We’ve been playing other games too, haven’t we, Sammy?” Sandra says, forcing a smile. “In case we got bored down here.”

  Sammy nods.

  “Oh, that sounds like fun,” I say, struggling to play along. “What games have you played?”

  “‘I spy’,” he tells me, his tears subsiding.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s my favourite game.”

  Sammy huddles up even closer to Sandra; his affection for her obvious. “I like Auntie Sandra.”

  “We’ve been telling stories, too,” Sandra continues. “Funny ones. Haven’t we?”

  He nods again, confusion and worry ingrained on his face.

  “Has she,” is all I can manage as another tear rolls down my cheek.

  Sandra spots it. “He’s all right, Rob,” she says, trying to reassure me.

  But nothing about this situation is all right.

  Far from it.

  “She’s given him a little water to drink,” she continues. “A few hours ago. And a little food. While you were unconscious. He’s the only one who’s had anything.” She shrugs her shoulders. “So that’s something at least.”

  Sighing, I lean back against the wall. “Jesus Christ—what the hell does she want with us? I mean, what possible—”

  Sandra puts her index finger over her mouth to shush me, and then points to the opposite wall. The area is even darker, almost impossible to see anything apart from the outlines of boxes and other piles of junk.

  “What’s there?” I whisper. “I can’t see any—”

  The entire room starts to vibrate as the sound of heavy footsteps fills the air. Sandra shuffles back against the wall like a frightened animal; pulling Sammy with her.

  “You’re awake then,” Janet Webber casually says as she reaches the foot of the stairs. “About time, too. I was beginning to worry.”

  She walks over to the Cleaner and then prods him with her foot. Apart from a slight whimper, he doesn’t respond. “How’s he been?” she asks, kneeling down beside him.

  “How’d you think he’s been, Janet?” Sandra snaps. “He’s bloody dying! You need to get him to a hospital. Now this minute.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that? Fly him out? The whole of Crandale is blocked off. We could be trapped here for weeks. Maybe even months. And it’s only a matter of time before they shut off the power. But us Webbers are always prepared. You won’t see us getting left behind. No bloody way. We’ve got everything we need right here. Food. Water. Even Power.” She glances over to a small generator. It’s resting on top of a washing machine by the stairs. “What else do you need?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Janet,” Sandra continues. “They’re not gonna cut off the power. Why the hell would they? It’s only been a couple of days. You’re talking as if it’s the bloody apocalypse or something. The police are probably outside the blockade, getting ready to put an end to all this mess.”

  “And you’re sure about that are you, Sandra?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m bloody positive.”

  “Then why haven’t we heard any police sirens—or helicopters? How come it took just a matter of hours to infect this place?”

  “I don’t bloody know. All I know is that you’ve kept us all locked up for the past two days, without food or water, and you’ve got a poor man lying on your basement floor, about to die! So tell me, Janet, how the hell is this gonna help your situation? Come on, Janet, because I’d love to know.”

  “There haven’t been any helicopters or police sirens because the whole city’s been infected.”

  “That’s bullshit! And you know it!”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. It takes time to decontaminate a place as big as this.”

  “What do you want with us?” I ask, as warily as I can.

  Janet turns to me, and then looks over at Sammy; her eyes showing flickers of remorse at the sight of him. “The same reason you came here.”

  “What do you mean? I came here looking for my son.”

  “Yeah. Exactly. You came here looking to save your family. And that’s why I’ve kept you here. All of you.”

  “Keep your voice down, Janet,” Sandra warns her. “Don’t tell him in front of his boy. At least give him that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “What possible reason would you have to keep us down here? Especially with things the way they are. We should be helping each other.”

  Janet walks over to the opposite wall, into the darkness. “We are helping each other.” I then hear the sound of a light flicking on. Suddenly I see Janet standing against the wall, next to three more people restrained by their wrists and feet. A bald man, late-forties, a redheaded boy in his late-teens, and a thin redheaded girl, no older than seven. The sight of them causes me to shuffle back and clench up in revulsion.

  All three prisoners are dead.

  “What the hell have you done to them?” I scream, scurrying backwards against the wall in fright. “For Christ’s sake! How could you do—”

  “I haven’t done anything to them,” Janet replies; her tone bitter, as if insulted by the very thought of mistreatment. “This is my family, Robert. This is why I brought you here.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? They’re dead!”

  “No, they’re not dead,” Janet replies. “They may look dead to someone like you—but they’re very much alive.” She peers down at them—beaming with pride—as if their bodies weren’t perished and stinking of rot, as if they were nothing more than an ordinary family sat in front of the TV. “They just need a little help. That’s all. They’re just sick.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you call someone? You could have helped them. You could have got an antiviral shot at the hospital.”

  Janet looks at me in disgust. “What, so someone like you can come along and burn them like vermin? Like you did you own wife? Like you did with your little boy’s mother?”

  I turn to Sammy in horror. He’s still huddled up tight to Sandra, her arms covering his eyes. Please, God don’t let him understand what she said.

  Please…

  “Look, Janet,” I say, “whatever you think you can do to save them, just let us go. We’ve done nothing to you and your family. And I’m sorry for what’s happened to them. I really am. I know what it’s like to lose someone close. But keeping them here is only gonna make things worse. Much worse. They can still spread the disease. Even after they’ve died.”

  “They’re not dead!” Janet screams, causing me to jolt back with fright.

  Janet’s husband slowly begins to stir. He seems far more decomposed than his children; eye sockets deeply sunken; his arms thin and wasted; lips and gums receding. He opens his mouth, and then suddenly the room comes alive with an ear-shattering growl.

  Her two children have woken too, snarling and squirming, trying to free themselves from their tied limbs. Janet moves away from her husband as he tries to bite at her ankle.

  “Look what you’ve done now, you idiot!” Janet snaps. “You’ve woken them up!�
�

  “For God’s sake,” I plead, “You have to get out of this basement. All of us do. It’s too dangerous. The longer you leave them tied down here, the more aggressive they’re gonna get. Please, Janet—listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. They could escape. Infect us all. And what good would that do?”

  “You don’t have to be nervous ‘round them. They won’t escape. I’ve tied ‘em down even tighter than you three. They ain’t going anywhere—and neither are you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? How is keeping us locked down here ever going to help you?”

  “She’s got a plan,” Sandra says, sarcastically. “Haven’t you, Janet? You’ve found the cure. Isn’t that right?”

  “What cure?” I ask. “There’s no cure. They’re dead. It’s just the disease running through their bodies. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “Oh, she’s found a cure, all right,” Sandra continues. “She thinks that giving her family fresh meat will somehow bring them back to life.”

  I gasp in horror, knowing exactly what Sandra means by fresh meat.

  Suddenly I can feel my heart beating hard against my chest. I’m gasping for air. The room is spinning fast, out of control. I try to focus but can’t. The light is getting brighter and brighter. Blinding me.

  Need to get out of here.

  Can’t breathe.

  I’m still dreaming.

  That’s all.

  I’m still asleep…

  But then my eyes start to focus again, and I see the cold, desperate look on Janet’s face, and the pool of dried blood and torn flesh on the floor around her family.

  And I can see all too clearly that I’m awake.

  And this nightmare has only just begun.

  22

  Janet Webber.

  At first, she just seemed little more than a middle-aged tomboy when I saw her shooting Necs from the window. But now, as I watch her hack off the limbs of the Cleaner with a meat cleaver, and pass them down to her rotten husband and two children, I now know different. I now know how twisted and deeply disturbed she is.

  Was it the loss of her family that has sunk her to this level? Or has she always been so…lost?

  Impossible to tell.

  What I do know is that no matter what life throws at me, no matter how hard and unbearable it might be—I would never resort to cold-blooded murder!