The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot (14 page)

Was I bitten while I was unconscious?

No, there’s no way they’d be able to get at me from under here. I try to slither forward, but cry out in agony when my hand pushes against the concrete. It’s definitely broken. I’ve sprained it before, but this feels much worse. Using my elbows, I manage to wriggle forward a little, gaining a few inches. The weight above is still pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. Got to stay calm, can’t panic; conserve my air. I keep moving, closer and closer to the breach. When I finally reach it, I see that it’s the space between someone’s hand and another person’s head. I try not to think about all the people that died here today. Now is not the time. The clock is ticking and I ain’t getting blown up.
No fucking way!

As my forehead touches the clammy skin of a dead man, I recoil but push my face through anyway. I manage to twist slowly around, one inch at a time, so I’m able to see any Necs standing over me. There aren’t any; all I see is the orange sky. The sun must be coming up. For the first time ever, it seems so beautiful. Usually, I don’t give a crap about shit like that, but today is different—today it feels
important
. Not sure if it’s because I’m alive and I get to see it again, or that it could well be the last time I see it. I’m almost hypnotised by its magnitude and warmth. I don’t care how weak it—

There’s a dead woman standing in front of me.

Her black leather boots are next to my head. She looks down at me; her face a yellowy green, the sides of her mouth covered in dry blood. I try to push myself back under the pile, but can’t; its weight has already settled, trapping my legs again. I cover my head with my arms and close my eyes tightly.

Body tensed, I wait to feel her teeth sinking deep into my arms.

This is it.

I love you, Wendy.

Thoughts of becoming one of those things, or ending up incinerated, repeat in my head.

Please don’t let it be painful.

Of course it will! Someone tearing chunks of flesh from your arm—
fully conscious
—is bound to be agony. It’ll be like—

Where’s she gone?

Still cautious, I slowly remove my arms from my head to see.

The Nec isn’t there.

Where the hell did she go?

She can’t have seen me. Maybe she thought I was already dead.

I scan my surroundings for any other Necs. It’s clear, apart from a bunch of roamers a few metres ahead, the other side of the aisle. Like vermin, they’re scrounging for leftovers along the seats. From here, all I can see are piles of bodies, motionless; any turned are most likely buried. The rest of the stadium is obscured. I’ll have to keep moving forward, head for the concourse. Who knows, maybe it’s clear by now. Perhaps, get one of the fire exits open.

With what? A battering ram?

Last time you were there, it was locked up tighter than a bank vault.

Dragging my legs out from under the bodies, I stay down, slinking along the floor, as if crawling under a cargo net. The noises all around me, the agonising wails, the distant cries for help—
it’s all too much to handle.
Even if I did have something to get the exit open—
Christ
, even if they were hanging wide open—how the fuck am I supposed to get there in one piece? There are
thousands
of Necs stuck inside; all it takes is one to spot me and I’ve got them
all
on me. I’m screwed no matter what.

Then what have you got to lose?

Everything.

Just as I reach the steps, I freeze when three Necs stagger up from the concourse. Holding my breath, I watch them pass, heading down towards the pitch.

I sigh with relief and attempt the mountainous journey back down onto the concourse. Body crouched down low, I start to examine my surroundings. The entire stand, both sides, is teeming with rotters—thousands. Too many to count.

Any second now and one of these bastards will see me—and then I’m
fucked
.

Descending the steps, I can see the lights of the concourse. Holding onto the railing, petrified beyond belief, I take each step like it’s the edge of a treacherous cliff.

Hopefully, the majority have dispersed, spread out to look for food. Maybe I can slip past a few, hide behind the food counter until the coast is clear.

But when I see the concourse, when I see the hundreds of Necs, congregating, with barely space for another body, I know, without a shadow of doubt that there is no way out.

No hope of escape. And no chance of surviving a bomb drop.

My heart sinks with dejection as I turn back towards the stand, unable to think of another solution.

The low, guttural groan of a Nec comes at me from the left, then the right. With nowhere to run, I’m suddenly faced with four rotters, their football jerseys smeared in blood and gore.

Even as the adrenaline courses through my veins, I know it’s worthless. There’s no getting out of this. But it’s simple really: curl up and die? Or go out fighting?

Easiest answer of my life.

A burst of energy hits me like a dose of Amphetamine. I slam my shoulder into the first Nec, dropping him to the floor. I do the same to the second. Before the other two can even acknowledge me, I slip past them, heading down the steps towards the pitch.

Another Nec stumbles out from an aisle, so I slam my fist into her temple. She collapses on her side, over the seats, and down onto the next row. The stadium is alive and kicking with movement. But I don’t stop to take it all in. I don’t need to see where they’re coming from. I already know—
everywhere!

Reaching a set of railings, I see a Nec stood by the steps to my left. I drive my lucky-white-trainer into his chest and watch him roll down the stairs. I follow him down onto the first tier of the stand. I can’t help but gasp when I see the hundreds of Necs, filling up nearly every inch of the stand. Don’t look at them! I push past the first few easily, but have to detour a little down an empty row to avoid a pack.

I’ve got to get onto the grass. Need an open space to run. Maybe I can get the field gates open.

But they’re bound to be locked as well!

People would have already tried it.

Fuck it! It’s still worth a shot.

I barge my way down, reaching the edge of the pitch, roughly the halfway point. To the left, I see the field gates; they’re closed, and most definitely locked. Got to take my chances. Wrist throbbing, chest tight, I bolt along the grass, dodging Necs like a game of tag. There must be two hundred of the fuckers scattered across, ambling, looking for their next meal.

It won’t be me.

With just a few metres from stepping off the pitch and reaching the gates, I glance back to see how many are in pursuit.

Not one!

How the hell did I manage that?

As I lock eyes on the gates again, I’m met with a storm of Necs. Too late to stop, to sidestep the pack, I slam into the first one’s chest. My body flies backwards onto the grass, head slamming into ground. Before I can even process the setback, I scramble to my feet. There must be at least fifty in front, blocking my path.
Oh, shit! This is not good!
Turning, I consider bolting the other way, maybe taking the long way around the field. But there are too many. I’m completely surrounded. They’re so close. It’s just a matter of time now.

Eaten or blown up?

Neither sounds like a great option.

Out of routes, I try to run through the pack. I manage to shove one of the Necs down onto the grass, but then I’m face to face with another. And another. I try again, but can’t help but wonder how the hell I’m still alive.

Why the fuck haven’t they eaten me yet?

As I scan my surroundings, glaring at their decaying faces, something strange occurs to me.

The Necs aren’t interested in me
.

Frowning with confusion, I take another look, this time deeper into the eyes of these rotting bastards. But there’s nothing there. No anger, no cries of hunger—just wandering bags of pus.

What the fuck is going on?

I see a small gap form in front, so I glide through it. The thought of being so close to them churns my stomach. But once again, the Necs don’t acknowledge me. More and more gaps form, so I push through, rubbing against blood-soaked clothing, enduring a noseful of death-stench. But after less than a minute, I’m off the grass and onto the concrete path that leads to the gates.

What’s happened to them?

Have they just stopped hunting us? Got tired of eating meat?

No way.

Just before the gates, I can see into the concourse. The entire area is jam-packed with Necs, some kneeling over victims, pulling chunks of flesh from them, while others roam, dragging twisted limbs along the concrete.

The thick metal gates are at least twenty feet high and about fifteen feet across. Through the bars, I can see the stadium car park. It’s deserted apart from a few seagulls flapping and squawking. Beneath the centre of the gates lie ten or twelve bodies, all dead, half-eaten or crushed to death. Not sure if any will turn. Maybe it’s a little late now; they’ve probably been here since the beginning.

With just one hand, I start to drag the bodies away to get to the heavy padlock, which is hanging on the outside of the gates. A sudden rage bubbles up when I picture someone locking us all inside.
Sick bastards!
Pushing my arm through, I grasp the padlock to double check that it’s secure.
There’s no way that thing’s coming off
. I tug on it, praying that I made a mistake, that by a miracle it’s only stiff and not locked.
Of course it’s locked
. Otherwise, these people would have died for nothing.

“
Shit!
”

I look up at the top of the gate, hoping to see a gap. But there’s none. There’s no way through.

I turn to face the stadium, my back pressed firmly against the metal bars. I’ve come so close—and all for nothing. Nathan’s dead. Jonny and Ginge. Natalie, Curtis. All gone! And still I’m stuck in here, still breathing—waiting for some lunatic to drop a bomb on me.

What’s the fucking point?

I’m dying for a cigarette. One last smoke before I’m cremated. Even though I know damn well that I don’t have any, I pat my pockets down anyway. In my shorts, I feel the weight of the flick-knife. I pull it out.
Fat lot of good this was.
I raise it up past my shoulder, ready to launch it.
I hate this fucking thing.
Should never have brought it here. At least I’ll never make the same mistake again. At least today is the last day of Alfie Button fuck-ups.

But then it hits—
I can pick the bloody lock!

I push the button on the handle, and the blade pops out. Sliding my broken wrist through the bars of the gate, I grasp the padlock, biting down on my bottom lip in agony. I haven’t picked a lock since I was thirteen—Phil’s whiskey cabinet. The blade is thin enough to slot into the keyhole. I jiggle it about a little. My face is pressed against the bars, listening out for that all-important
click
. I don’t hear it so I keep prodding aimlessly.

The sun is now completely up; the sky light blue. If I do die here this morning, at least it’s on a sunny day. At least it’s not pissing down.

Shut up, Alfie! You’re not gonna die. You’re almost out.

Through the groans of the dead, I hear a faint rumble outside the stadium. It’s the sound of jets in the distance.

It’s getting closer.

No. Not yet!

I’m almost out!

The panic hits me hard. Palms sweaty, I keep twisting and jabbing at the lock, but it still won’t open.
Come on, Alfie! You can do this!

No, I can’t. It’s impossible!

The knife slips out of my hand and falls outside, bouncing onto the concrete surface.

“Fuck!”

Dropping to my knees, I stretch my arm all the way through, my fingertips just about touching the knife.
That sound
—
it’s getting louder. Nearer.
Forcing my face painfully against the bars, I manage to grab the knife. Leaping to my feet, I stick the blade into the keyhole again.
Alfie Button doesn’t give up without a fight!
With the palm of my hand, I ram the knife deep into the lock and then twist.

I hear a click.

The padlock pops open!

With no time to celebrate, I unhook it, drop it on the ground, and then open the gates. Stomach stirring with excitement, the blazing sun blinding me, I start to run towards the car park.

To freedom!

But then the idiot inside my head forces me to stop.

What if it’s not the jets coming? Maybe there’s still more time. I can’t risk letting all those Necs out.

“Fuck!”

Running back to the gates, I see a crowd of Necs swaying over to the opening.
Others will follow
. I slam the gates shut, the tall, metal structure cracking the ribs of a Nec, flinging his withering body backwards. Quickly returning the padlock onto the latch, I lock it. An array of arms and putrid faces push through the gaps between the bars. They bark and bite, as if in frustration—their chance of escape snatched.

I sprint across the car park, heading for the walkover bridge about two hundred metres ahead. I don’t look back, not even when I hear the jets above me. I keep running. It’s what I do best.
Just run
. Focus on the finish line. The ground shudders when the bombs hit the stadium, but I keep moving—through the pain in my eardrums, through the searing heat, gnawing the back of my neck, burning my hair. The narrow bridge vibrates as I dart over it. I can no longer run as the wooden beams under my feet split like glass. The shockwave thrusts me forward. I land on the other side of the bridge, scraping off the skin of my palms as I slide along the gravel, the pain in my wrist torturous.