I’ve got to stop thinking of him as Mr Rosemont—especially since we’re on our way to burn him.
According to Andrew, the nearest furnace is Romkirk, situated just outside Bristol. He tells me that there are eight furnaces in the UK: Bristol, North Wales, Birmingham, London, Sheffield, Edinburgh, and Belfast. Swansea used to have a furnace, when the outbreak first started, but the locals protested to having one so near the city centre. So when that finally closed, the Welsh government never got around to building one nearer. They thought Bristol was close enough.
Typical government.
Apart from a brief history lesson on British furnaces, the fifty-five-minute journey into Bristol has been pretty quiet. Not sure if it’s just the effects of the adrenaline wearing off, the dreaded comedown, or something else. Maybe he’s still a little sore from talking about his daughter. Should I ask him what’s up? No, best let him be. For all I know this is how he is after every Nec drop-off.
To hell with it—I’ll ask him. I’m his partner and it’s my job to make sure he’s all right—whether he likes it or not.
Please don’t shout at me.
“Everything all right?” I ask him quietly.
Andrew doesn’t answer right away, his eyes firmly on the road ahead. “I’m fine.”
“You just seem a little quiet all of a sudden. Is there something I’ve done to piss you off?”
Andrew turns to me, frowning hard. “Absolutely not. You’ve been great today. Spot on. The way you took out that Nec, without any hesitation whatsoever. And the way you dealt with Mrs Rosemont—fantastic, Cath. I can’t fault you.”
“What’s up then?”
He lets out a drawn out breath, and then shakes his head. “It’s just me, Cath. I totally fucked up today.”
“How do you work that one out?”
“I let that bloody Nec pin me to the floor. He could have killed me. Both of us.”
“It wasn’t your fault. He caught us off guard.”
“Exactly. I should never have let some stupid dog distract me. I should have been watching the hallway, not ogling some animal.”
“Well we’re alive, aren’t we? We’ve got the Nec safe in the back of the van.” I give him a playful nudge. “And you’ve got me to watch your back. What more can you ask for?”
A small grin starts to form on his lips. “You’re right. Thanks, Cath. You’re gonna do well in this job. I can tell already.” Andrew turns down a country road. “Now let’s burn this fat fucker before the tranq wears off.”
* * *
The sun has long since descended as we reach the gates of Romkirk Limited. It’s smaller than I imagined it would be, no bigger than a school. Plain design—a single sign by the main entrance. Only one storey high, grey walls and a huge chimney at the side. Andrew flashes his ID badge to the security guard, a white barrier slowly lifts, and then we drive down a narrow road to the back; the sides of the van brushing past the bushes and low hanging trees. After about a hundred metres, we come to a stop outside a set of steel doors, with a security keypad on the right side. Being in such a restricted place really brings out the excited child in me—like I’m part of some covert operation or secret society, or I’ve somehow managed to wing a seat at the Prime Minister’s table.
“Okay,” Andrew says, shutting off the engine, and then unclipping his seatbelt, “let’s get this over with. I hate these places. They stink. Literally.”
Unclipping my seatbelt too, I follow him out of the van. Walking up to the door, Andrew pushes a button on the security panel. I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from behind the steel doors. A few seconds later, a voice comes out of the tiny speaker. “Hi, guys. Be with you in just a second.”
“Cheers, Rob.”
The door opens shortly and a man steps out through the doors, wearing a thick brown apron and gloves that go all the way to his elbows, and a set of safety goggles hanging around his neck. “Hey, Andrew. How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks, Rob. How’s the family?”
“Great. You?”
“Not too bad, buddy. Not too bad.”
“Just the one for me this evening then?”
“Yep. Just one.”
“Fantastic. Just the way I like it.”
Rob follows Andrew to the back of the van. “But he’s a big bastard,” Andrew points out, opening the doors.
Can’t help but think that’s a touch insensitive, but who am I to judge? Andrew’s been at this job for years. Of course he’s going to be desensitised. To him, it’s just a slab of gone-off meat—but to me he’s Keith Rosemont: husband, father, farmer, dog-lover.
Andrew climbs up onto the van, his weight bouncing the rear a little. “Sorry, Rob, I forgot to introduce my new partner: Catherine. She just started today. First Nec capture of many. And it was a hell of a catch.”
“Nice to meet you, Cath,” Rob says, removing his glove and shaking my hand. “This big guy looking after you, I hope?”
Andrew snorts. “More like the other way around, Rob. This bloody Nec had me pinned to the living-room floor, nearly crushed me to death. Lucky for me, Cath’s a crack shot. Right in the back of his head.”
Rob’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Well done. It’s more than I could cope with.”
“Just luck really. Right place, right time.”
Andrew starts to slide the collapsed stretcher out of the van. “She’s just being modest, Rob. Don’t let the blonde hair and pretty face fool you—she’s a hard-ass this one.”
Blushing, I take the end of the stretcher and we pull it out of the van, the steel legs extending automatically.
I hear the faint sound of movement coming from inside the body bag. “Do you hear something?”
Rob puts his ear to it. “Sounds like he’s waking up.”
“Jesus? Already?”
“Well, he was a big fella,” Andrew says. “I’m surprised he didn’t wake sooner.”
We start to push the stretcher towards the building, Rob and I at the back, Andrew pulling from the front. “Fucking hell,” Rob blurts out, “you weren’t kidding when you said he was heavy.”
“And there’s a dog in there too,” Andrew points out.
“A dog? What’s a dog doing in there?”
“The guy tore it to shreds. Thought it was easier just to burn him with the Nec.”
Rob rolls his eyes and chuckles. “It better be dead, Andrew.”
“Of course he’s dead,” Andrew says, pushing the doors steel doors open with his ass. “I think.”
Rob shakes his head. “Very funny.”
The furnace room is exactly as I imagined it would be: hot, grubby, dark grey walls—with a smell of burned meat and that rancid stench of death. It reminds me of my first dog when I was seven, when Dad found him dead in the garden. That smell is etched in my memory for life. Lined up neatly in a row are about fifteen or so empty stretchers. There’s a small stool, a couple of spare aprons hanging up on wall hooks, and a shelf with several sets of safety goggles and gloves. But the main attraction to this dark, depressing room is positioned at the far end. The furnace. It’s a massive contraption, about four metres in height and about the same in width. To the left side of the thick, steel furnace door is a dial and a large red button.
“Well, Cath,” Rob says, his arms stretched out wide, as if about to give us the guided tour of his luxury penthouse, “this is the furnace. I spend most of my time in here, burning the dead. The rest of the building is pretty much off limits to us mere Burners. It’s all offices and training rooms, and all that bullshit. But here is where the real magic happens.”
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or if he really does love working in this dump. Personally, I couldn’t think of anything worse. “Enjoy working here, Rob?”
“Well, it has its bad points—long, tedious hours, the smell, which I’m pretty sure you caught a whiff off when you walked in.”
I smile and nod in agreement.
“But these furnaces a
re vital,” Rob continues. “Just like your job. They’re the backbone of keeping everyone safe from infection. Without these furnaces, we’d have no way to dispose of them. Guns certainly don’t work, severing the head doesn’t work. Burning them to nothing more than dust is the only effective way. And I’m glad I’m a part of it.”
So he wasn’t being sarcastic then.
“Thought it might be good if she watched you use the furnace. Give her a little insight into the entire process of disposal. Is that okay, Rob? I know you’re pretty busy.”
“No, it’s fine,” he replies. “Be happy to. Just make sure you both stay back. It gets pretty hot.” He pushes Mr Rosemont over to the furnace doors. “Okay, Cath. The first thing we do here is get suited up.” He lifts his safety goggles up and puts them over his eyes. “Goggles, gloves, and apron. At all times.” Walking over to the furnace, he opens the steel door. He then slides out a large, gridded platform.
I can feel the heat blasting out even from here, causing me to shield my eyes with the palm of my hand. I watch as the body bag jerks up, as if he’s desperate to get out. Rob doesn’t flinch when he sees this. I guess he must be used to it by now.
Is that what’s going to happen to me eventually? Is all this going to be nothing but a job?
“So now we get to the hard part of the job,” Rob says, walking behind the body and placing his hands on it. “Pushing this big fella in.” Struggling at first, he manages to roll Mr Rosemont onto the furnace platform, and then starts to push him into the fire.
“Need some help?” Andrew asks.
“No, it’s fine. Best stay back. I’m used to it.”
Once Mr Rosemont and Genie the dog are both in the furnace, Rob slams the door shut and twists the handle to lock it. “Hardest part is over,” he says. “Now the easy part: burning him.” He twists the dial at the side of the door. “Turn it to green. And then push the red button.”
Once he pushes it, the furnace comes alive with a roar, causing me to stand back even further.
“And that’s how it’s done,” he says, proudly. “It’s not rocket science, just hard graft. Two thousand degrees Fahrenheit and he’s nothing more than dust.” Removing his goggles and his gloves, he takes a seat on the stool and wipes his brow with his sleeve. “It’s a dirty job…but someone’s got to do it.”
* * *
It’s a two-hour drive back to Ammanford. Andrew’s been driving all day so I’ve offered. I don’t mind taking the wheel; it’s kind of nice driving around in a van. Makes me feel big, powerful, like the bully of the road. I can see why there’s such a stigma with white vans: White-Van-Man.
Turning to Andrew, I can see he’s tired; his eyes are half-shut and he’s quiet. Been a long day. Don’t even know if we get paid overtime. Hope so—I was supposed to finish hours ago. Not that it bothers me. Well, not right now anyway. I’m sure I’ll be moaning when the novelty wears off.
“So what did you do before all this?” I ask him. “The army?”
He doesn’t answer. When I turn to him again, I can see that he’s fast asleep; his head against the window, his arms crossed.
Smiling, I focus on the road. It’s a long drive ahead, a lot of things flying through my mind. It’s going to be tough sleeping tonight. I knew today was going to be a real eye-opener, but I never thought I’d experience so much in one day.
I’m sure tomorrow will be a little easier. First days are always the hardest.
* * *
Back home I’m greeted by Beth as soon as I enter the kitchen. She jumps up on me, her sharp claws catching the cotton of my coat. “Down girl,” I whisper, not wanting to wake Mum and Dad. I sit down heavily on the chair. Beth rests her head on my thighs and I stroke it. She closes her eyes, clearly enjoying every moment of it. I smile at how cute she looks, how loyal and grateful she is. But then my smile disappears when I think of Genie and her insides pouring out of her torn stomach. It makes me gag, so I get up from the chair and pour myself a glass of water. I take a sip by the sink and hold onto the worktop, waiting for the nausea to pass. It doesn’t, and I throw up. Beth starts to bark at my loud retching. Please don’t wake Mum and Dad. Don’t want them to worry about me. This is normal. Of course, I’m going to be a little freaked out after seeing something like that. Who wouldn’t be? Doesn’t mean I won’t make a good Cleaner. It just means I’m human.
I swill out the sink, swallow down the rest of the water, and then exit the room.
Unable to look at my beloved dog.
10
Monday mornings still suck even without a weekend attached.
Didn’t sleep a wink last night, apart from maybe an hour of two. Couldn’t get the images of Mr Rosemont out of my head, and his poor wife.
The clock on my bedside table reads: 6:44 a.m. I close my eyes for a moment in disgust at how soon I’ve got to get up, and how completely shattered I am. Please don’t let today be too difficult. Don’t think my body and mind will take anything too tasking.
* * *
Once I’m showered, dressed, I head down to the kitchen for breakfast. Dad is sitting at the table eating cereal. Mum is standing by the worktop, buttering some toast.
“Morning, Angel,” Dad says, chirpily. “How was your first day on the job?”
I sit down. “It was fine. Just going through some training tactics, watched a couple of videos. Nothing special.” Don’t fancy going into the grisly details. Not yet anyway. Especially not after last night’s puking incident. Not only is it embarrassing, but it would raise too many questions. Questions that I’m just not ready, nor in the mood to answer.
“Anything dangerous?” Mum asks, handing me two slices of toast on a small plate. “Did you see any of those Necs?”
“Thanks, Mum,” I say as I take the plate from her. “No, nothing dangerous yet. It’s too soon for all that. Just boring stuff.”
Mum kisses the top of my head and then walks back over to the worktop. “That’s good, love. Can’t rush these things. That’s how accidents happen.”
“So what’s your day like today?” Dad asks as I take a mouthful of toast. “You working?”
I chew my breakfast quickly and then answer. “Back in for ten today.”
“You’re a busy little girl,” Dad says, taking a swig of his coffee. He then gets up off the chair. “Well, I’m off to work. I’ll see you two later. Okay.” He walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek. “You be careful today. Don’t do anything stupid, and listen to that boss of yours.”
“I will, Dad,” I reply. “Don’t worry. I’ll just be shadowing him. Nothing too risky. I promise.”
“Good girl,” he says, and then walks over to Mum and kisses her on the lips. “See you later, love.”
“See you later,” Mum says, buttering another slice of toast.
* * *
The radio is on at full blast as I drive to work, trying to block out thoughts of yesterday. I’m annoyed with myself for feeling like this. On the one hand, I never thought I’d feel anything but pure excitement at the prospect of catching Necs for a living. On the other, I’m mad with myself for not expecting that I’d feel so apprehensive about returning to work. Surely every newbie gets a little shaky after a first day. I wouldn’t be normal if it didn’t have an effect on my mood.
Once HQ is in my sights, I can feel those bloody butterflies again, the same ones that showed up on the day of my interview. But these have teeth—the teeth of a hungry Nec, gnawing at the walls of my stomach, trying to burst out of my abdomen. I try my best to drown them with heavy intakes of air, breathed in through my open window.
I could just turn back, tell them I’m sick—or just quit altogether. No one would blame me. My parents would be over the moon. I could just go back to my old job, spend my days serving rude customers.
I could.
But I won’t.
I didn’t come this far just to throw in the towel now. All those letters just to get an interview. All my research, all my studying just to sh
ow the world that a woman can do this job just as well as a man. If I turn this car ‘round before I’ve even made it two days out in the field, then I’m just a pathetic failure. To all these people I swore I’d help, all those families I vowed I’d keep safe from infection, from the dead. I could never live with myself if I didn’t at least give it my best shot.
These other Cleaners would love to see me hand in my notice, they’d laugh in my face. But it won’t happen. Not while I’ve still got some fight in me.
Catherine Woods is not a quitter!
The moment I pull into the grounds of HQ, I feel sick. Parking the car quickly, I hang my head out of the window, like a dog in need of fresh air. I hold this pose for maybe two or three minutes, taking in as much oxygen as my lungs will carry, until the nausea finally subsides and I once again feel human. Almost. The cold breeze feels nice against my face, almost sending me to sleep. But then the sound of the entrance doors opening with force, and a barrage of heavy boots and loud chatter pulls me out of my daze, and I open my eyes. I see Darren, Andrew, and three other Cleaners coming out of the building, all fully kitted, clearly ready to leave for a job. I quickly park my car and then climb out. “What’s happening, Andrew?” I ask, walking over to them. “Everything all right?”
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Andrew says, sounding flustered and agitated. “We need to get you kitted up right now because we’ve got an urgent job to get to.”
“What, all of us?”
“Yeah. All of us,” Darren shouts over, climbing into a van with another Cleaner. “We need every man and woman, out. Andrew, get her ready and we’ll meet you up there.”
Andrew nods and puts up his thumb as two vans pull off out of the grounds.
We sprint inside to get me changed. Once I’m kitted up, he does a quick check to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.
As long as I’ve got my gun, that’s the main thing.
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 7