The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot (4 page)

“I’m so excited, boys,” Ginge says, rubbing his hands together fast like it’s Christmas. “It’s gonna be the one.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him. “But I still think it’s gonna be a tight game. Cardiff won’t screw around today, even with such a big Swansea crowd.”

Jonny pulls out his bag of coke from his pocket, opens it, and scoops out a fat knob of powder with a key, and then sniffs it hard into his nostril. “This stuff is great, boys,” he says, wiping his nose with his wrist. “You should get stuck in.”

“Jon, careful, mate,” Ginge warns him, scanning the surrounding area, “There’re cops everywhere.”

“Don’t be a fucking pussy,” he snaps, taking another hit of coke.

Ginge shakes his head and turns to me for support. I offer none, just a shrug to say:
What can you do?
Jonny does what he wants, anyway. Fuck the consequences. He’s tough to get along with sometimes, especially on match days, but it’s hard not to admire his attitude. If I had half the balls he has, maybe I would have knocked Nathan out years ago.

Hoppy pulls out his bag of coke, and takes a quick look around. The place is so packed with people that it’s hard for anyone to stand out—even someone snorting Class A drugs in a bloody queue. He scoops out a huge lump and sniffs it up his left nostril. He then repeats the action, this time using the right one.

I think I’ll wait until we’re inside; use the toilet cubicle.

The queue starts to move quickly, and within just a few minutes we’re at the entrance. My stomach starts to churn at the thought of getting searched by security. It’s never happened before—but I’ve never had a flick-knife in my pocket, either. Bag of cocaine, dangerous weapon—I’ll be locked up for sure. At least I won’t have to worry about finding a new place to live.

Jonny, Ginge and Nathan are already through the turnstile, and inside the stadium. I hand the ticket over to the guy sitting behind the glass panel; he tears off the small section of the card, and gives it back to me.

“Cheers, pal,” I say with a fake smile as if somehow a deterrent for a pat-down. I turn to Hoppy; he has his ticket in one hand, a bag of coke in the other, his pupils as wide as Frisbees, and a massive grin on his face. Before I can tell him to put it away, two security staff suddenly appear from nowhere, take him by his forearms, and escort him to the side. Hoppy’s smile quickly vanishes as he disappears out of sight.
Oh, shit
—
the stupid prick’s screwed!
I think about going after him, try to talk them ‘round, but then I risk landing myself in shit. And that ain’t bloody happening.

Not on a day like today.

I enter the stadium, instantly met with crowds of chanting fans as they fill the concourse, stepping in from all the turnstiles. I feel sorry for Hoppy, but it’s his own fault. I love the guy, but he’s stupid. If it’s not doing something like this, it’s fighting with the wrong people.

The guys are standing by the entrance to our seated-section: thirty-four. I walk over to them.

“Where’s Hoppy?” Nathan asks.

“They wouldn’t let him inside,” I reply.

“Why?” Jonny asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s why,” I reply. “He had his coke out in front of everyone. Security grabbed him before he even stepped in.”

“
Shit
,” Ginge blurts out, “they’ll find his bloody knife as well. He’ll go down for that.”

Jonny shakes his head. “He’ll be fine. It’s only security guards. What the fuck can they do? The only power they have is stopping him getting inside the stadium. They’re not cops.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it—he’s gonna miss the game of the decade. He really is an unlucky bastard.”

“Oh, well,” Jonny says, shrugging, “it’s his own fault. Let’s just enjoy the game while he’s stuck outside.”

Smiling, I follow them up the concrete steps towards the seats, excitement coursing through me as the deafening roar of fans intensifies.

And I fucking love it!

7

The two-tier stand is filled with chanting people. To the right of us, about thirty metres away, there’s a row of stewards and security, wearing bright orange, high-visibility jackets. They’re standing on every other step of the aisle as a makeshift cordon to keep us separated from the Cardiff supporters. About a third of the stand belongs to our dirty rivals, leaving the rest to us, drowning out their shitty chants with little to no effort. I keep my singing and shouting down to a minimum; I lost my voice on the way to the game once. Over-excitement.

Despite padded seats, hardly anyone sits down at this type of game; there’s just too much adrenaline flowing, too many songs being sung about how rubbish Cardiff are. But they’re not though—far from it. This is the semi-final, and Cardiff deserves to be here.

I’ll keep that to myself though.

To the left of me is Ginge. He hasn’t been paying much attention to the game; he’s more interested in shouting at the away fans. To the right of me is Jonny. He hasn’t said much—which is never a good sign with him. I don’t really think he enjoys these big games. I think they stress him out too much. I understand the stress thing, but you have to enjoy the games, otherwise what’s the point?

Normally, Nathan copies his brother—especially if there’s a war of words between teams. But not today. Today his eyes are locked on the game, blood-soaked tissue paper stuffed up each nostril, screaming every clichéd football chant he can think of.

No one’s listening to the little shit.

When Cardiff score the first goal, all eyes in the stand turn to the away fans. The noise is overwhelming; you can smell the passion, and hatred, in the air, wafting around like some chemical bomb. The stewards struggle to hold back both sets of fans. I look at Jonny; he’s sitting down; he’s probably the only one in the entire row.

“You okay, Jon?” I ask.

He nods. “I’m fine, Alf,” he replies, his tone way too calm. One nil down in the first ten minutes—he’s far from cool.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Early days, mate. Early days. There’s no way we’ll let another one in.”

“I said I’m fine, Alf,” he snaps, not looking at me. “You deaf or what?”

Swiftly removing my hand from his shoulder, I step away slightly. “Sorry, Jon,” I say, turning to Ginge instead, hoping to detract from some of the awkwardness. I don’t like being around him when he’s like this. One fight is more than enough for one day. “I’m going to the toilet.”

“Are you going for a line?” Ginge asks.

“Yeah. You coming?”

He shakes his head. “No, not yet. I’m waiting for those Cardiff tossers to push past those stewards.
Then
we’ll have some fun with them.”

I pat him on his gut, noticing his torn jersey again; it reminds me of how close I came to stabbing that guy in the pub. The image of blood pouring out from his side sends an icy shiver down my back. I should have never brought the knife. I might just throw the stupid thing in the river after the game. Fuck it! Biting isn’t my style—but it beats killing someone. I shake off the memory and slide towards the aisle, struggling to get through the rowdy fans.

Jogging down the steps, past the stewards, I arrive back onto the concourse, the sound of screaming fans muffled in the background. There are just a few people scattered around the area and one or two stewards patrolling.

I walk down a little towards the toilets, passing the bar, the food counter, and the souvenir stall, which sell everything from Swansea jerseys and hoodies, to flyers and hip flasks. There isn’t a queue in sight. There will be come half time, though; this place will be like Piccadilly Circus (not that I’ve ever been there). Maybe I should get a drink now, beat the crowds. No, I’m too skint. And besides, I’ll have to drink it out here, anyway. No drinks out on the stand, and no hope in hell of concealing it.

Further on, I see another wall of stewards, keeping us separated from Cardiff. We’re not allowed anywhere near them. One incident and you’re banned. No second chances, no excuses, just a lifetime of watching games in The Farmers Arms instead; a fate that’ll probably be coming to Hoppy. That’s if he can escape jail.

I step into the toilets, itching for a line of coke. Haven’t had one since the pub, and now I’m completely straight. The room is empty apart from one occupied cubicle at the centre of a row of three. I walk into the one on the left, lock the door, and take a piss. It seems to last an eternity, first one in a couple of hours. Normally, I’m like a tap once I’ve had a few pints. Finishing up, I notice that there’re no flat surfaces to make a line of coke. There’s no basin, the toilet-roll holder is circular, and even the toilet seat is missing. It’s almost as if they don’t
want me
to snort my cocaine.
Boring bastards
. I hate using my door key, but I’m out of options. I pull out the key and shovel a mound of coke on the end. Just before I snort the powder, I hear a faint groan coming from the other occupied cubicle. Either someone’s getting his dick sucked, or they’re having the biggest shit of their lives. Both options put a smile on my face as I snort the powder up my nostril. Once I’ve wiped away any excess coke from my nose, I unlock the door and step out. On my way to the sinks, I hear another soft moan. Ignoring it, I give my hands a quick rinse and then hold them under the dryer. The effects of the coke kick in as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are glazed over, but I look okay—I just about pass for human. I’ve had better stuff, but this’ll do nicely for now.

Even over the loud whooshing sound of the dryer, I hear a third groan. Moving my hands away, the machine stops dead. I walk over to the cubicle door. I listen for a moment, but the sound has stopped. Maybe it’s an old man, collapsed. “You all right in there, mate?” giving the door a light tap.

No response.

I move my head closer to the door. “Do you need to me to call someone?”

Frowning, I give the door a gentle push to double check that it’s locked.

Something hard hits the door from inside, followed by a loud wail.

I jolt back in fright.

“Fuck you then,” I snap, hand over my thrashing heart. “I was only asking.”

The door slowly starts to open.

I clench my fists; half-expecting some idiot to be swinging punches at me.

Come on, you twat! Take your best shot!

But when I see the drunken old man, in his seventies, shamble out of the cubicle, my muscle tension dissolves, and I smile. His round head is covered with thin grey hair, his brown trousers just about held up by a belt, and his beer belly hangs low behind his ill-fitting Swansea jersey.

What a state!

Barely able to stand, let alone swing a punch, he stumbles past me and out of the toilets, clipping the doorway with his shoulder in the process.

Should I help him?

I sniff loudly, wipe my damp hands on my shorts, and leave.
Nah, fuck him. He’s someone else’s problem now.

Back on the concourse, I hear the sound of brawling. It’s hard to tell if it’s a good sign or a bad one. The way Swansea are playing, my best guess: a bad sign.

Heading back towards the stairs, I glance over my shoulder at the Cardiff border. The stewards have vanished. Not a single orange jacket in sight. Why the hell would they leave their posts? Are they stupid? Anyone could just stroll over and cause holy hell. Then I see about twenty or thirty Cardiff supporters flood down the steps, onto the concourse, and barging through the emergency exit.

What the hell is going on?

Just a few metres in front of me, I see another group of people running down the steps from the stand, and then out through the exit.

Where’s the fire?

It’s not even halftime yet. What kind of supporter bails on their home teams after just one bloody goal?

A riot?

Has Jonny decided to take on the entire stadium?

I wouldn’t put it past him.

Picking the pace up, I notice a man and woman by the food counter, the guy has a huge hot dog, and she has a large coffee. They notice me as I pass; the guy gives me a look to suggest that Swansea are struggling out there. I return a tight smile as if to agree, and carry on, my walk nearly turning into a jog. I can’t miss anymore of the action. There’s still plenty of time for us to score.

As I pass the souvenir stall, another rush of about ten people passes me from behind. One man barges my shoulder in the process, knocking me almost off my feet. “Watch where you’re going, mate,” I say as I straighten up. But before the man can even respond, he’s through the fire exit, along with the others. I run over to the open door and take a quick look at the people as they dash towards the car park. Where the hell are they going? What’s wrong with these idiots? It can’t be that bad. And where’s the security? Anyone could just walk in. Scanning the outside, I try to see if Hoppy is somehow still lingering. There’s no chance in
hell
of him being out here, but it’s worth a look. If by a miracle he did manage to make a run for it, I’m sure he’s sat in a pub right now, clean off his face, watching the game.

Or fighting someone.

Confused, I close the door and then run over to the stairs. As soon as I’m back out on the stand, into the racket, the blazing sun hits me, blinding me for a second. As the glare fades, I make my way back to my seat. Ginge, Nathan, and Jonny are all bunched up together; their attention fixed on the away fans. “What did I miss?” I ask Ginge

“Nothing on the field,” he replies, pointing over to the Cardiff section, “but it’s all kicking off over there.”

I was right! The rivals have somehow managed to break through the barricade of stewards. There’s a mammoth riot heading towards us. I can barely make out what’s happening through the sheer mass of people. “
Jesus
,” I say, shaking my head in astonishment. “What the fuck is wrong with them? They’re bloody winning the game.”

“I know,” Ginge replies with a giant grin spread across his face. “It’s crazy. They’ve just flipped.”