“Yeah, I do. I never thought of it like that. I had it in my mind that I had to be exactly like you guys.”
“To a certain extent you do. You still have to be strong. You still have to be fast. And you still have to shoot straight. But there’s a lot more to being a Cleaner. And you’ll learn that soon enough.”
“Thanks, Andrew. I’m sure you’ll do a great job teaching me. I’m a fast learner.”
“I bet you are.”
The country road comes to a fork. Andrew slams on the brakes and the van comes to an abrupt halt. Leaning forward over the dashboard, he hits a button on the Satnav.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. “We lost?”
Andrew squints at the tiny screen and then shakes his head. “No. Not yet. Just over shot the turning. Wanna make sure. Don’t fancy turning up at the wrong bloody farm.”
“Can I help?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just turn her around.” He swings the van around with one spin of the wheel; the front of the vehicle hits the grass bank in the process, and then speeds off back in the previous direction.
It’s at least another four miles before Andrew slams on the brakes again, and bombs it down a dirt track. Flickers of mud and manure cover the windscreen and bonnet. Thank God it’s winter and my window is up.
Another mile or so later, I can finally see something in the distance. A farmhouse. Andrew slows the van; I watch as he scans the trees and fields around us, as if hunting for something. I can guess what he’s looking for—and my stomach starts to churn at the thought of a Nec ambush.
What Andrew said earlier makes total sense: a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere has probably the lowest risk of an attack from multiple infected. Unless, of course, they’re a bunch of crazed hillbillies, harbouring a family of fifteen Necs, made up of uncles, aunties, kids, grandkids, the lot. But the farmhouse is quite small. Really nice, in fact. Authentic thatched roof, white stone right out of a medieval movie. There’s a small shed at the side of the house, a tractor parked in front of a giant barn, and a mud-soaked Land Rover parked up at the side of a large gas-tank. I inspect the field; can’t see any animals. No cows. No sheep. Maybe it’s too cold for them. They must be in the barn.
“Should we be wearing our helmets when we knock the door?” I ask, picking mine up from between my ankles.
Andrew shakes his head. “Not right away. Keep it with you until the door opens. And keep your gun holstered, too. The last thing we want to do is frighten the life out of these people. Scared people do all sorts of dump things. Let them see a human face first, and then we can put it on.”
“Okay. Got you.”
We pull up outside the house. Andrew motions with his head for me to follow him. Nervously climbing out of the van, stepping out onto the damp gravel, I pat myself down, making sure I’m fully-equipped: gun, spare tranqs, antiviral, suit zipped up to the top, gloves, boots. All there. I follow Andrew to the front door. Before he reaches it, the door opens. Standing in the doorway is a woman, early sixties, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting denim jeans, cream shirt, with a brown cardigan; her grey hair in disarray, like she’s just rolled out of bed.
“Mrs Rosemont?” Andrew asks, his right arm concealing his gun holster.
“Yes, that’s me,” she replies, her voice hoarse and flustered. “Who are you? Where are the paramedics?”
“We’re from Disease Control. I’m Andrew. Andrew Whitt.” He points with his left thumb at me. “And this is my partner, Catherine Woods.”
I give her a very unprofessional, childlike wave—as if she’s a friend I’ve spotted across the street.
“Why on earth would they send you? My husband just needs a doctor.”
“Where’s your husband now, Mrs Rosemont?” Andrew asks, brushing past her comment.
“He’s inside.”
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
“No, just Keith. Oh, and Genie of course.”
“Who’s Genie?”
“Our golden retriever. No one else.”
“Have you been bitten?”
“By who?”
“Your husband. Have you come in contact with any of his blood?”
She shakes her head in protest, seeming disgusted by the very notion. “Absolutely not! He’s fine. He just needs a doctor. I told you.”
“What are his symptoms?”
“Just a bit under the weather. Coughing, high temperature, vomiting. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a bug. Or maybe food poisoning.”
“Had he been anywhere just before? Maybe visiting someone?”
“Yes, to see his father.”
“And where was that?”
“Well, the nursing home used to be over in Newport. Golden Meadows. But the place recently closed down for refurbishments, so they’ve shipped him over to one in Bristol.”
“So that was last night, yes? When he came home?”
“Yes. Around six in the evening. I gave him some soup but he couldn’t keep it down, so I sent him straight to bed.”
“And what happened next? Did he wake all right? Was he aggressive at all to you? Anything unusual? Cursing perhaps?”
“Absolutely not! Keith would never use bad language. Certainly not in the house.”
“How is he this morning?”
“I’m not sure. He’s been asleep all day. That’s why I called for an ambulance. Never seen him like this before. It’s not like him to get sick. He’s as tough as old boots. So I left him in the bedroom.”
Andrew glances over to me, signalling with his eyes that it’s time to enter the house. My heart rate starts to increase. I battle hard not to let it, but the apprehension is overwhelming.
I can’t freeze. I can’t let Andrew down. One Nec or not, it’s still dangerous no matter how many there are.
“Mrs Rosemont,” Andrew says, his tone firm, filled with authority, “for your own safety, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside while we examine your husband.”
“For my own safety? What on earth are you talking about?”
I decide to step in, to show that I’m not just here for the ride, that I can actually contribute. “Mrs Rosemont,” I say, softy, “it’s safer that you stay outside. There’s been a report of Necro-Morbus around here, so just as a precaution, we’re going to take a look at your husband. It’s probably a false alarm, but we need to be sure. We’ll be five minutes, I promise. Is that okay?”
Mrs Rosemont shrugs stubbornly. “Well, I suppose.” She then steps out of her house. “He’s upstairs—last room at the end.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling, ushering her over to the van. “He’s in safe hands. You don’t have to worry.”
Andrew gives me a slight grin, clearly happy with my performance, and puts on his helmet. I return the grin and slip mine on too.
Now my heart is really racing!
Inside the house, Andrew pulls out his gun; he whispers for me to do the same. He then slowly closes the front door, and it quietly clicks shut. I wish he didn’t have to close it, I wish we could leave it hanging wide open. The thought of not having a clear exit fills me with such dread, such claustrophobia. But I understand why. We have to contain him if he’s turned. Can’t have him running out of the house, out of sight. It’s too dangerous.
“I want you to stay behind me—no matter what,” Andrew whispers. “Only shoot if I give the order. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, pointing my gun straight ahead, desperately trying to stop my hand from quaking. Don’t think Andrew’s noticed. Have to keep it together.
Creeping down the hallway, Andrew pokes his head into the living room. The room is filled with old-fashioned, brown, flowery furniture and there’s a large, swivel armchair positioned in front of the TV, which is on, with the volume a little too high. The foot of the low, narrow staircase is just opposite the living-room door. Andrew gestures for me to follow him up. Logic suggests that I stay downstairs, to cover all corners of the house. But I know he won�
��t let me out of his sight. It’s too risky. Certainly not on my first official day.
Each wooden step creaks loudly as we make our way up the stairs. I can feel my muscles tense up. I suppose that’s normal. Even Andrew must feel a little anxious walking up these stairs, about to face a potential Nec. I take a glance at his arms as he points his gun out in front. Steady as a rock.
Then it’s just me then.
At the top, there’s a narrow corridor with two doors along the sides, and one at the far end. The first door is already open—it’s the bathroom. Andrew edges inside. There’s only room for one, so I hang back by the doorway. There’s a bath, sink and toilet. No shower curtain for Mr Rosemont to hide behind. Thank God. I take a step backwards as Andrew exits the bathroom.
The second door is closed. Andrew grasps the handle. “Be ready, Cath.”
I nod, gun pointed firmly at the door, ready to take down any Necs about to burst out.
The door opens, revealing a tiny box room. It’s completely empty apart from a few boxes of junk, an ironing board propped up against the wall, and a chest of drawers with several golf trophies positioned neatly across the top.
“Last room,” Andrew whispers as he slinks towards the third and final door.
Reaching the bedroom, the grip on my gun stiffens when I see that the door is slightly ajar. Andrew gives it a gentle prod and it slowly swings open, my shallow breathing saturating my helmet. This is it. My first real clean up. I’ve made it. It’s actually happening. I’m actually here.
And I couldn’t be more terrified.
Andrew’s large frame fills the doorway, blocking my view of the room. I try to see past his wide shoulders, but all I can see is a darkened room. Andrew steps inside, unblocking my view. From the doorway, I see that the curtains are still closed but there’s enough light coming in through from the landing to make out most of the room. There’s a small wooden wardrobe to the left, and just under the window, a chest of drawers, identical to the one from the spare the room. At the centre of the room is a double bed. The quilt is ruffled high, with a stack of various-sized pillows piled up by the headboard; at least six. Andrew walks towards the bed, gun still aimed in front. “Mr Rosemont?” he quietly asks. “Are you awake? We’re here to take you to the hospital.”
No response.
“Mr Rosemont?” he repeats, this time a touch louder. “Can you hear me? My name is Andrew Whitt. I’m a paramedic. I’m here with my colleague to take you to the hospital.”
Still no answer.
Using the tip of his gun, Andrew nudges the raised quilt, but the gun pushes the quilt all the way down to the mattress.
The bed is empty.
Shit.
Where the hell is Mr Rosemont?
Andrew whips the quilt completely off the bed to make sure. “We need to search this house fast,” he says, his voice still low, filled with urgency.
He pushes past me, and I follow him down the corridor, back to the stairs. Slowly, we skulk down each step, both guns aimed, ready for a sudden attack. At the bottom, Andrew peeps quickly into the living room, but once again the room is clear. “Stay here,” he orders. “I’m gonna check out the kitchen.” I nod and watch as he makes his way down the hallway. The kitchen door is ajar, so he pushes it open with his shoulder. As soon as it opens I can see that the back door is hanging wide open.
“Shit!” Andrew shouts. “He’s slipped out! You need to go out the front door now and check on the wife.”
“Okay, I’m on it,” I reply, my words broken by dread. Just as I head for the front door, something catches my eye in the living room. The swivel armchair is moving. “Andrew!” I shout over to him as he steps out the back door. He stops in his tracks and turns to me. I wave him over. In an instant he’s next to me, so I point to the armchair. He sees it move. On closer inspection, I see a small pool of blood that’s gathered on the arm and the cream carpet. Silently, we both walk into the living room, with me leading the way slightly. Andrew puts out his hand in front of my chest to stop me going any further.
“Mr Rosemont?” Andrew asks, calmly. “We’re here to help.”
No reply.
At the back of the armchair, we both lean forward to examine the state Mr Rosemont is in. From the rancid smell and the pool of blood, I’m guessing pretty bad.
But instead of seeing a man, riddled with infection, we see a dog, with half its stomach ripped open, blood clotting its cream fur, leaking over the chair. Its body is twitching, eyes half-shut, hanging onto what little life it has left.
As I turn to Andrew, my heart almost stops in horror. I see an obese Mr Rosemont—wearing just blue pyjama bottoms—stumble into the living room, arms outstretched, his mouth open, his teeth dripping with blood.
“Andrew!” I scream at the top of my voice. “Look out!”
Andrew frantically turns, but it’s too late—Mr Rosemont manages to knock him off balance. The two men drop to the floor with the Nec on top of Andrew. The Nec is heavy, his weight pinning Andrew to the carpet. The Nec’s jaws are merely centimetres from Andrew’s throat, snapping and growling like a starving beast. Hand still trembling, knees like jelly, I point my gun, aim it at the back of the Nec’s head.
I squeeze the trigger.
The tranq disappears into the mess of greasy, grey hair at the back of his head. The sedated Nec falls still, and then slumps over Andrew’s body. Racing over to them, I attempt to push him off Andrew. His weight has to be at least eighteen, twenty stone. My hands sink deep into the exposed fat on his back as I push as hard as I can. With the help of a crushed and almost suffocating Andrew, we managed to roll the Nec off, onto the carpet. I grasp Andrew’s gloved hand and yank him up to his feet. He grabs the top of the armchair for support, gasping for air.
“You all right?” I ask.
He nods, and then lets out a small chuckle. “Fuck me he was fat. Almost crushed me to death.”
I smile. Can’t believe I’m able to. I can feel the adrenaline, surging through my body. I look down at my shaking hands, still holding onto the gun for dear life. “That was close.”
“Tell me about it. Need a cigarette.” He unclips a muzzle and two cable ties from his belt. “Nice work today. Great shot.”
“Thanks. I was worried I’d freeze again.”
“I wasn’t. I knew you’d come through.” He hands me the muzzle and ties. “You wanna do the honours?”
“No problem,” I reply, with a glimmer of apprehension in my voice, wondering where the hell my enthusiasm went.
“You’ve got to practise, Cath. You might have to do this in a hurry next time. So do it as fast as you can.”
I nod, and then reluctantly walk over to Mr Rosemont and kneel down beside his motionless body. The sour stench of death invades my nostrils, making my eyes water, even with the helmet on. His eyes are closed but his mouth is hanging open. Dried blood is pasted to the sides, down his chin and neck. I can feel the nerves start to build again as I quickly place the muzzle over his mouth and chin. I have a horrifying image of his eyes suddenly springing open and his head lunging forward, and his snarling teeth taking a chunk out of my throat. So I hastily buckle up the back of the muzzle as tight as it can go and let out a long exhale of relief.
“Good girl. Now the limbs. Make sure they’re tight now.”
I pull the cable around his wrists and fasten it tight—so tight that the plastic cuts into his bloated flesh. For a moment, I feel bad for making him bleed. But he’s dead—and from the smell, he has been for quite some time. I secure his ankles and stand up with quiet pride. Last thing anyone wants to see right now is a victory dance.
“So what happens now?”
“First, we call it in.” He pulls up the visor on his helmet, unclips his walkie-talkie from his belt and holds it up to his mouth. “Come in, Control. This is Andrew Whitt, ID number: 2368. Over.”
“Hi, Andrew,” a female voice replies from the speaker. “What’s the situation? Over.”
“We’ve just finished up over here at Rosemont Farm. One Nec, detained. One female in need of testing. Over.”
“Roger that, Andrew. We’ll have someone with you shortly. Over.”
“Much appreciated. Over and out.” He reattaches his walkie-talkie to his belt.
“How long is shortly meant to be?” I asked.
“Not long. They’ll send someone from the nearest hospital. Disease Control has trained most of the paramedics. And the hospital’s only a couple of miles from here.”
“Why call them now? Why not before we got here?”
“Too many false alarms. And it’s a safety issue. Can’t have paramedics under attack.”
“Oh, right. I see.”
“If Mrs Rosemont is clear, she’ll need somewhere to stay. Maybe a relative, or a neighbour. Can you ask her while I secure the area and get this one bagged-up? You’re probably better at that stuff than me.”
“Okay. No problem. But what do we tell her about her husband?”
“We tell her the truth,” he says, sternly. “We’ve got no choice. It’s horrible, I know. But there’s nothing else we can say.”
“And the dog? What should we tell her?”
“The same. And they’ll both need burning.”
“I thought dogs couldn’t get infected.”
“They can’t, but we’ll still have to burn it, just in case.”
I let out a slow sigh. “Poor woman. Lost everything in one sweep.”
“I know. It’s pretty grim. But you’re a Cleaner now, Cath. You have a job to do. You have to put on a brave face and deal with it. No matter what.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just gonna take a little getting used to, that’s all.”
“Yep. But it does get easier. That much I can promise you.” He pulls out a small plastic packet from his vest, around ten or twelve inches in height and width, and tears it open. He then unravels a compressed yellow-coloured, tarpaulin body bag, “Let’s get him packed away then.” He throws it over to me. “Gag ‘em ‘n bag ‘em.”
9
The back of the van is sealed off from the front by a metal wall, so I have no idea if Mr Rosemont is still sedated.
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 6