The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) (3 page)

I
pull up outside HQ, which,
fingers-crossed
, I’ll be calling work in the
next few days.

I sit and wait in the car
for a minute or two. For some reason, I’m more nervous today than I was at the
interview. Can’t think why. Fitness is easily my best subject. I’ve already
done all the hard work. So why the hell do I feel so anxious?

It’s the other
Cleaners, Cath
. You’re worried
that they’re going to laugh in your face when they meet you. You’re worried
that they’re going to tell you that women shouldn’t do this kind of job.

But this is exactly what I
expected. As long as I do a good job and prove them wrong, they’ll have to
respect me. Maybe I’ll get a bit of banter, a few practical jokes, I mean,
they’re
boys
for Christ’s sake—that’s what boys do.

I take a few deep breaths,
check my hair in the rear-view mirror. I need a haircut. Not too short, though,
just a little further up from my shoulders. I part my hairline with my fingers
and notice that some of my roots are showing. I’ll get that sorted next week.
Don’t want them seeing that I’m not a natural blonde. The last thing I need is
them calling me
Ginge
for the next five years. No thank you.

I check my teeth and then
climb out of the car, heading for the gates. I push them open and make my way
towards the entrance. I see someone standing against the wall by the doors,
smoking a cigarette. Haven’t seen him before. He’s a big guy, maybe six foot in
his late forties, early fifties, quite chunky, like a rugby player, and
close-shaved head. Looks like an ex-army type, and most definitely a Cleaner.

“Hi there,” I say as I
reach the doors, trying to seem polite, but casual. “How’s things?”

“Fine,” the man replies,
as he flicks his cigarette onto the ground, then grinds it into the concrete
with his leather boot. “You must be Catherine.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to
meet you.” He shakes my hand—yet another tight, macho grip.
What the hell is
wrong with these people?

“Training day then?” he
asks.

“Yeah.”

“You fit?”

“Yeah, pretty fit. Well,
hopefully,” I stammer, nerves getting the better of me. “I’ve been training.”

The man grabs his slightly
swollen gut. “Well, the good news is, once you pass your fitness test, they’ll
never test you again. You can be as unfit and as fat as you want. Genius, isn’t
it?”

I chuckle. “Really? I
thought we’d be tested every six months.”

“
Hell no
. The last
test I had was nearly fourteen years ago. It’s ridiculous. But, I’m not
complaining. Can’t stand running. Strength training’s fine, but my right knee’s
a little iffy.”

“Yeah, mine too. Left one.
Injured it a few years ago. Had to have surgery. It’s fine now, though.”

“Sounds nasty.” He takes
out another cigarette from his pack and puts it in his mouth. “Well, good luck
in there, Cath. You’re gonna need it.”

“Thanks,” I say with a
thin smile. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Andrew. Andrew
Whitt.”

“Nice to meet you,
Andrew.” I push the doors open.

“Yeah, you too.”

He seems nice. Maybe I’ve
underestimated these Cleaners. Maybe they’re fine.

Walking down the corridor,
I head towards Roger Davies’ office. When I get there, I give the door a gentle
tap and wait. After a few seconds, Roger comes to the door, his large frame
almost filling the doorway.

“You made it then,” he
says. “No last minute change of heart?”

“No chance,” I say with
enthusiasm. “I’m raring to go, Roger.”

“That’s great, Catherine.
How’s that knee of yours? Do you think it’ll give you any trouble on the run?”

I shake my head
confidently. “Absolutely not. It’s stronger than ever.”

“
Excellent
.” He
steps out of his office, pats me hard on my shoulder and starts to walk down
the corridor. “Shall we get started then?” he asks, motioning with his head for
me to follow.

“Sounds good,” I reply,
walking behind—trying to squash every last butterfly that’s fluttering in my
stomach.

* * *

It’s started to rain and
it’s bitterly cold.

I’m hoping Roger will just
pass me for the day with the weather so bad. But with all five Cleaners
standing around Roger, thick jackets on, hoods up, big smiles spread across
their faces (all except Andrew), I’m pretty sure that they prayed for rain to
come, to make this ordeal even more arduous.

Standing in front of a
chalked start-line, I can feel those stupid, annoying little butterflies again.
Back from the dead.

“You ready, Catherine?”
Roger asks, standing next to me, holding a stopwatch, his thumb grazing the
start button.

“
Yep
,” I say as the
rain hammers against my head, running down my face like ice-cold sweat. “I’m
ready.”

He points at the five
tarpaulin sacks to the left of me, each with a thick rope tied at the top.
“Five sacks, weighing seventy kilos apiece. Five minutes to get them over to
the other line,” he points ahead. “It’s twenty metres, so it’s gonna be tough.
It’s not too late to back out now. No one would blame you.”

Prick.

I glare down at the five
sacks with determined eyes.
You can do this!

I throw Roger a nod. “I’m
ready. Let’s get this over with.”

“Good girl.” He stands
aside. “Grab the tied end of the first sack.” I do as he says and hold the rope
as tightly as possible, hands soaking, my grip slippery. “Ready?
On your
mark. Get set… GO!
”

And I’m away.

The sack weighs a ton, but
it’s moving.
Thank God for that
. I’m halfway to the end and already my
fingers are slipping. I swap hands and pull as hard as I can. Within seconds,
I’m at the twenty-metre mark.

“Come on, Cath!” I hear
Andrew shout from the start-line. “You’re nearly there.”

I sprint back and grab
sack number two. By the third I can barely breathe; I’m exhausted. My knee is
aching, my thighs and arms feel like lead, and even with the rain, the sweat is
running into my eyes, burning.

Come on, Cath! You can
do this! Just two to go.

“How much time left?” I
shout to Roger, struggling to get my words out between wheezes.

“Two and a half minutes!”
he replies. “You’re doing well! Just keep pushing!”

The fourth one feels
heavy.
Really
heavy. I have to work twice as hard just to get it moving,
and I’ve swapped arms six times before I’m even halfway.

“Come on, Cath!” Andrew
shouts. “It’s nothing! Just a sack of feathers!”

It’s definitely not a sack
of feathers, but I appreciate the encouragement. I pull and pull, changing
hands again and again, until my hands are numb from the pain and cold.
But
I’m nearly there. Nearly home
. I try my best to ignore the searing pain in
my knee.
Please let it hold out. Please let it get me to the end.

I’m eating too much time.
I can feel it. I’ll never have enough to do the last one. Not in a million
years.

I’ve fucked it up!

I get the fourth sack to
the end and dart back for the last sack. “How long left?”

“Forty-five seconds,”
Roger says. “It’s gonna be tight.”

I exhale loudly in
disbelief and exhaustion. I grip the remaining sack with both hands and pull as
hard as humanly possible. Even through the pain, through the tiredness, the
sack gets moving straight away.

At the halfway point, I
hear Roger screaming that there’s just fifteen seconds left. The panic spurs me
on and I slide the sack even faster across the drenched concrete. With both
hands on the sack, I’m pulling backwards, blind, no way of knowing how far the
line is.

“Come on, Cath!” Andrew
shouts again. “Almost there!”

I can feel my hand
slipping, I fight desperately to keep my grip but it’s no use—I fly back onto
the wet ground.

Without the sack.

Shit!

I scramble to my feet and
clutch the top of it again. I’m just inches from the end.

I pull and pull but it
just won’t budge.

How much time do I have?

Come on, Cath—pull! You
can do it!

It’s moving again, but my
hand is slipping.

Come on! So close!

I don’t hear any voices of
encouragement, all I hear is Dad telling me not to worry, that it just wasn’t
meant to be.

Well screw that! He’s
not gonna get the chance!

A last-second burst of
adrenaline kicks in, blocking the pain in my knee, tightening my grip on the
sack, and erasing Dad’s voice from my head.

I’m close. I can feel it.

Pull!

You’re almost there!

I drop to the floor in a
puddle of rain as I pass the finish-line; lungs battling to function, knee
throbbing, arms ready to fall off. But I don’t care—I’m through. It’s over.

Did I pass?

Roger kneels down beside
me, stopwatch still in his hand. I look up at him, hoping to see a smile on his
face. There isn’t one. But what use would a smile be anyway? That could mean
I’ve failed. I’m too drained even to ask, and his blank expression is making it
impossible to guess.

“Come on, Roger,” Andrew
shouts, “stop torturing the girl, and tell her.”

Roger shows me the time on
the stopwatch. I can barely see the display through the rain, but it looks to
me like four minutes and fifty-two seconds.

I gasp in elation.

Four minutes and
fifty-two seconds!

“I passed?”

“By the skin of your
teeth,” Roger points out, and then takes my hand and pulls me up.

“Seriously?” I ask, unable
to grasp the news, half-expecting him to tell me that it’s all a joke.

Roger starts to walk back
to the building. “Get an early night,” he yells back without turning to look at
me. “The real training begins nine o’ clock sharp.” He reaches the small side
door to the building and then turns to me. “And don’t be late. I hate
tardiness.”

“Well done, Cath,” Andrew
says. “That was impressive.”

“Thanks. I still can’t
believe I actually did it. I thought I’d buggered it up on that last stretch.”

“I think we all did,” he
says with a smile. “But you passed and that’s all that matters. Woman or not,
you’ve got some balls, Cath. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks…I think?”

“Roger’s right, though.
Tomorrow the real training begins. You think you’re ready?”

“I was
born
ready.”
Normally I’d cringe if I said something that cheesy out loud. But not today.

Today I’m another step
closer to becoming a fully-fledged Cleaner.

And I couldn’t be happier.

I’ve
been sitting in the staff room, watching TV for the last hour. Roger told me to
sit tight while he waits for Andrew to return from a callout. I don’t mind
chilling for a bit. After yesterday’s training, my knee is aching. I had to put
ice on it last night—I found it hard to get to sleep. Plus, I was tossing and
turning, thinking about today. So far they’ve been pretty vague about most of
the training. I mean, the health and safety video was pretty standard, but the
sack pulling—
bloody hell,
that was one for the books. Never realised how
hard pulling sacks could be. Still don’t really know the relevance,
though—certainly not with weights as heavy as seventy kilos. What am I, a
bloody power-lifter?

I still can’t quite
believe I passed.

I got a few evil looks
walking in this morning from one of the Cleaners. No “
Well done, Cath”,
or “
Good luck today”
—just a couple of nods, mixed in with a few
expressionless faces.

What the hell did I expect
from a bunch of Neanderthals?

Scanning the small room, I
notice some of the posters on the walls. Typical boys club:
Pulp Fiction
on one wall,
Megan Fox
on the other, and a nude calendar hanging on the
back of the door. Can’t complain, though. I’m sure that if this place had just
women, there’d be a few
Twilight
posters, and some nude fire-fighter
calendar hung up somewhere.

The door opens and I turn
to see two Cleaners, dressed in ordinary clothes; jeans, t-shirt, trainers. One
with short blond hair, muscular frame, the other with dark hair, slightly
overweight. Both in their late-thirties.

“You still here?” the
blond one says, smirking. “Thought you’d quit.”

“No, not yet,” I say with
a grin, trying to appear naïve to his obvious dig. “Can’t get rid of me that
easily.”

The dark-haired Cleaner
opens the fridge. He takes out a packet of ham, sniffs it, and then puts it
back in. “You’ll be gone after today,” he says, smugly, taking out a carton of
milk and swigging a mouthful. “And no offence,
Blondie
, but it’s
probably for the best.”

“Oh
, yeah?
” I
reply, still trying not to take the bait. “Why’s that, then?”

“Because this is no place
for a woman. And before you get on your high horse about
sexism in the
workplace, blah, blah, blah
, I’m only stating a fact.”

“Oh that’s a
fact
,
is it?” I say, unable to curb my sarcastic tone. “How do you work that one
out?”

“Because it’s not bloody
fair that one of us will have to be lumbered with you. It’s too dangerous. And
I can tell you now, it won’t be me, that’s for sure.”

“Or me,” the blond one
says, shaking his head. “No fucking chance.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel
that way,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat, “but no one’s going to be
lumbered
with me. I’ll be just as valuable to the team as anyone.”

The blond one snorts. “You
keep telling yourself that, love.”

“You think I give a shit
what you two think? What anyone thinks? I’ve got just as much right to be here
as you.”

“No, you bloody don’t!”
the dark-hair one snaps, causing my entire body to tense up. “Look, I’m all for
equal rights, but we’re talking about risking the lives of men I’ve worked with
for years—men with families,
kids
. And all because some
little girl
woke up one morning and decided to be a Cleaner? Well not on my watch. I’ve
been here too long to let—”

Relief washes over me when
the door opens, cutting his onslaught short.

“Everything all right in
here?” Andrew asks as he enters the room, wearing most of his Cleaner
gear—thick white overall up to his chin, leather boots, and gloves.

“Fine, Andy,” the
dark-haired
prick
replies. “We were just chatting with the newbie here.”

“Yeah? Whatever they told
you about me,” Andrew says, turning in my direction, “it’s a bloody lie.”

I force a smile.

“Well, I’ll see you both
later,” the blond
tosser
says. “Good luck today,
sweetheart
.”

I don’t retort as I watch
the grinning
bastards
leave. Glancing down at my hand, I see it tremble
slightly. I take a few deep breaths, and smile at Andrew. “How was the job?” I
ask him, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

“False alarm,” Andrew
replies, unzipping his suit from the top of his chest. “Right, I won’t be long,
Cath. Just give me five minutes to change and freshen up.”

“Okay, Andrew,” I say. “Do
you need me to wait outside?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll
change in the toilet cubicle.”

“Sorry about that. I bet
you’re used to changing in here.”

Andrew smiles. “Well,
yeah, but a change is always refreshing.” He pulls the zip all the way down to
his waist, revealing a white, sweaty vest. He cups his slightly flabby belly.
“No one wants to see this—not even the guys.”

I chuckle, and then watch
as he disappears through a door to the side of me, praying that those two
pricks have fucked off home.

* * *

After almost two days,
I’ve finally managed to get my bearings on the place. Apart from Roger’s office
and the tiny staff room, the main attraction is the centre of the building: the
training room. It’s just a little bigger than a tennis court, with a large
garage door at the far end. To the right of it are three metal containers,
shaped like telephone boxes; there is a steel door with a large padlock at the
front of each one. To the left of the garage door are six rubber dummies. And in
the middle of the room is a thick white line, which stretches across the entire
width of the floor.

In spite of a few nerves
this morning, I’ve been looking forward to training today. I love this sort of
thing. Learning how to assemble weapons, shooting targets. That was the best
part of the Territorial Army. It wasn’t quite frontline, but it was bloody good
fun.

Andrew is standing next to
me, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. “Right then, Cath,” he says, “follow me.
Let’s get you suited up.”

“Great,” I say, trying to
hide my enthusiasm. He leads me over to the uniform section. I can see about a
dozen helmets hanging on the wall, and below each hook is a bench with an
assortment of white Cleaner suits piled up.

“Okay, Cath, as you’ve
probably worked out, this is what we wear out in the field. These suits are
completely
bite-proof
so you’ll be pretty safe as long as you keep your
helmet, gloves and boots on.” He picks up a uniform, holds it shoulder height
to inspect it, and then puts it back down on the bench. He does the same for
the next. And the next, until finally handing me one. “Try this.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it
from him. “Shall I just slip it on over my clothes?”

“Yeah.” He grabs another
suit, checks the label at the top, and then steps into the all-in-one uniform.
“Okay, so climb into it like you would an overall—you know, like you were about
to paint the walls or something.”

I put the suit on and then
zip it up to my chin. It’s a little baggy, but I can live with it.

From one of the hooks, Andrew
pulls down, what looks like a black police vest. It has various sized pockets
and pouches on the front, and the words:
Disease Control
written in
small white letters along the left side. He hands it to me and I slip it over
my chest like a waistcoat. “It should fit,” Andrew says with confidence. “It’s
adjustable.” He zips it up at the front and then pulls a thin strap on each
side to tighten it. “You’re right-handed, yeah?”

“That’s right. Why?”

He picks up a thick strap
from the bench and fastens one end to the bottom of the vest, and secures the
other around my right thigh. “Well, this is for your gun holster. Can’t have
you reaching for the wrong side.”

“Oh, right. Okay. Good to
know,” I say with quiet excitement at the prospect of shooting something.

“What size shoes are you?”

“Three.”

His eyes widen in shock. “
Jesus
.
That small?”

“Yeah. Well, you know what
they say about women with small feet.”

“No. What’s that?”

“Small feet. Big brains.”

Andrew smirks and then
scans the boots, picking up a few and then putting them back down. He then
selects a pair from the end, holds them up, squints, and looks down at my feet.
“They’ll have to do for now. We can pick up a pair in town tomorrow.”

“They’ll be fine,” I say,
chirpily, taking the boots from him. “I’m not fussy.” Sitting on the bench, I
slip the boots on my feet. Just by the fact that I don’t have to undo the laces
is proof enough that these are a tad too big. I try to prod my toes and see how
far off the end they are, but instead I feel the steel toecap. Never mind.

“Now, Cath, remember,
these suits are more than just protection—they’re a status. Police,
fire-fighters, paramedics, absolutely anyone who sees us, in the uniforms,
steps aside and lets us get on with our job.”

“Really? Even the cops?”

“Yeah.
Especially
the cops. The last thing some police officer wants is to risk infection—no
matter how keen, brave…or stupid. It’s just not worth it. I mean, of course, we
work
with
the police. They help put up barricades when the shit hits the
fan, evacuate the public. We couldn’t do our job without their help. But most
of the time, they’d rather leave it to us—the canaries.”

“Canaries?”

“It’s just an expression,
Cath. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Well, if you must know,
it refers to the old coal mines. Miners used to carry them down.”

“A bird? Why?”

“Well, if the bird died of
a toxic gas, like methane, then the miners knew it wasn’t safe.”

“
Oh, right
. I see.
Learn something new every day.”

“But, it
is
our
job. Fire-fighters have to run into burning buildings. Politicians run the
country. And we do…
this
.”

“I suppose it can’t be
easy for anyone to risk something like that—especially if you don’t have the
right gear, the right training.”

“And the right back up.
The last thing you want is to get separated during an outbreak. I tell you,
Cath, it sucks. It sucks ass
big time
. Don’t let it happen to you.”

“I won’t.”

Andrew nods. “Good.” He
picks up a pair of gloves and throws them to me. I catch one but drop the
other. As I scoop up the one from the floor, I can almost hear his thoughts:
Typical
girl—can’t catch for shit!

After we both slip our
gloves on, he hands me a white helmet. It looks exactly like the ones riot
police wear; motorbike-helmet fit, large transparent hard plastic visor, chinstrap.
I put it on and Andrew tightens the strap. “Can you hear me?” I ask him, my
words echoing inside the helmet.

Andrew nods. “Yeah. Loud
and clear.” He grabs a helmet of his own and then motions with his head for me
to follow him. He takes me over to the other side of the room. There is a large
metal cupboard against the wall, with a padlock clicked around the door latch.
Andrew kneels down, takes hold of the padlock and enters the combination. Once
the lock is off, he opens the cupboard. Inside, I see six guns, and several
white boxes, most likely filled with tranqs.

Now we’re talking!

“So how many tranquilisers
will a gun hold?” I ask, as Andrew pulls out a gun and places it on top of the
cupboard.

“Ten rounds.” He takes out
a tranq from the box and holds it up to show me. It’s a dark shade of red, no
bigger than a marble, with a sharp tip. “They’re more like bullets than darts,
so they’ll cut through a Nec’s skull like a peach. Once the tranq makes contact
with the brain, it should sedate the rotter straight away. But some are
stubborn little fuckers. That’s why we’ve got to have a magazine of tranqs.
There’s not always time to reload. You’ve got to shoot fast, or get the fuck
out of there.”

“Shit. I didn’t realise.
Thought one was enough. How long will the effects last?”

Andrew shrugs. “Good
question. Two, maybe three hours. Every Nec is different. Depends on how far
gone they are. Some won’t wake at all.” He picks up a small steel box, no
bigger than a blackboard eraser. “This is a magazine. Each one is preloaded
with tranquilisers. We keep two spare magazines on us at all times, with
another ten or so in the van.” He holds up the magazine. “So, it just clips
into the top of the gun like this,” he secures it to the weapon, “and you’re
done. Locked and loaded.”

I practise inserting the
magazine in and out a few times, allowing my memory to absorb every inch of the
gun. It reminds me a little of a paintball gun—but I keep the thought to
myself.