Burn The Dead: Quarantine: Book One

Chapter 3

3

The smell coming from the room is enough to make anyone puke up their breakfast. But me, I’m used to it. It’s almost like becoming accustomed to the smell of your own baby’s nappies.

It’s amazing what humans will adapt to.

Slipping the apron over my head, I catch a glimpse of Stuart through the metal-gridded window. I put on my elbow-high gloves and watch as he enters the room—that smug look on his face; those eyes too close together, almost becoming one like a Cyclops, and those short, stumpy legs and bald head. Classic Napoleon Complex. He’s followed closely behind by two rather chunky-looking deliverymen.

“Just push them next to the wall,” Stuart says, a tone of arrogance in his voice. “And be careful.”

“Yeah, we know what we’re doing, mate,” one of the deliverymen replies. “We’ve been at this for twelve years.”

Ignoring his comment, Stuart scribbles something down on his clipboard. “There’s another sixteen outside, Robert,” he tells me, not even looking in my direction. “Shouldn’t take you too long. And make sure you sign off all the IL3 Forms. We can’t have any mistakes with the inspection coming up. For both our sakes.”

Forcing a polite smile, I take the clipboard from him and glance at the inventory. “Any details, Stu? I mean, any idea how this happened? Again?”

“Sorry, Robert, you know I know as much as you do. We get the call, and then we deal with it.” He makes his way towards the exit. “Ignorance is bliss, Robert. I’ll see you later. Be careful now. We don’t want another incident like last week. Can’t have everyone taking time off for stress.” He’s a d**k, but I can’t argue with that.

And then he’s gone.

I see the two deliverymen roll their eyes at him as they wheel in the next stretcher.

No ‘thanks’ again for coming in early. Typical. I don't know why I bother. Why can’t I be like the rest of the country and make up some excuse involving my baby? Why don't I go to the b****y doctor and complain about ‘stress’ like everyone else?

Because you’re a grafter, that’s why. You're better than that. Better than those lazy bastards.

I spend the next twenty-five minutes helping the men offload the remaining stretchers from the truck.

Seventeen. Not too bad.

The truck noisily starts up and then pulls off towards the gates.

Returning to the room, I lock the door behind me. I approach the first stretcher, and the yellow tarpaulin bag that’s strapped firmly to the top. I grab a pair of safety-goggles from the shelf and slip them over my eyes, then cover my mouth and nose with a plastic mask. I carefully unzip the bag a few inches down to see its contents.

It’s another child.

My stomach turns as I pull the zip down a little further to confirm.

It is. The third this month. A girl. No more than seven years old. Easily.

Any death is sad—no matter what age. But children? Never children. Children should be out riding their bikes, or playing on their computers, or whatever the hell kids do these days. Not crammed in a body bag!

It’s not right.

I walk up to the control panel, turn the dial to green, and then flip the main switch. There’s a loud rumble as the furnace ignites. Instantly, I can feel the heat radiate from the sides of its heavy door. The noise circulates the room causing the metal stretches to roll and rattle into each other.

Time to get to work.

Before I wheel the body over to the furnace, I stop to take another look. One last look before someone’s child is reduced to nothing more than cinders. I can’t help but think of Sammy back at home. I try not to. God knows I try. But how could I not think of him? I’m a dad. That’s what dads do: we worry. That’s what we’re best at. It’s not providing for them; it’s not even protecting them—it’s worrying about them every second of every b****y day.

And that’s just sad. It really is.

Opening the furnace door, a gust of eyebrow-singeing heat hits me in the face. Despite the goggles, I close my eyes and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. I pull out the steel platform from inside, unclip the two straps that hold the body bag in place, and then roll her onto it. When I slide the platform back in, it feels light. Too light. I slam the door shut and lock it. Shoving away any lasting attachment to the nameless child, I press the large red button, and the furnace comes alive with fire, burning the body bag and its contents in a matter of seconds.

One down. Sixteen to go.

The next body bag seems a lot more filled-out, which gives me a quiet relief. I unzip the bag and see the face of a middle-aged man, with blond, slightly receding hair. I’m not supposed to open the bags. It’s not my job to know—or care for that matter. But something in me always tells me to. I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it’s out of respect. Or maybe just honest-to-God nosiness. Regardless, I have to look. Anna thinks I’m mad. She says that my job would be a lot easier if I just treated the inventory like inventory—and not human beings.

Maybe she’s right. She usually is.

I stare at the man’s pale complexion, his red, swollen eyelids, and wonder what he did for a living—when he was…living. Was he a doctor? No, he doesn’t seem the type; his bright yellow shirt is too loud and way too scruffy. Maybe a vet? Possibly. Or perhaps he was just a bum like the other twenty percent of the country.

Suddenly his eyes spring open.

I flinch. And then swiftly zip up the bag.

I wheel the stretcher over to the furnace, ignoring the muffled cries through the thick plastic. The intense heat hits me again as I open the door. I slide his body inside and lock it. Pushing the large red button once again, I hear the muffled cries become a crackling sound as the body bag ignites.

Two down. Fifteen to go.

I see that the next bag has started moving already. I pause for a moment and contemplate skipping the face-check.

But I can’t resist.

Unzipping the bag, I see the face of another man, this time he’s a lot older, maybe sixty, and he’s completely bald. His grey, deadened eyes are wide open, and I can hear faint growls behind the leather muzzle wrapped around his mouth and chin, buckled tightly around this head and neck. I wonder what he’s thinking. If at all he does think. I’m sure he does. If that’s a positive thing, the jury’s still out, but either way, after all these years I still think of them as people. Or something similar anyway. But they’re Necs. Well, that’s what we call them. They’re not classed as human anymore, so I suppose we have to call them something. Can’t exactly call them just The Dead. That would only confuse them with the actual Dead. And we definitely couldn’t refer to them as b****y zombies. Not only is that extremely insensitive—particularly to the families who might have lost someone to the disease—but how utterly ridiculous it would sound if a newsreader had to say the word zombie live on TV. Not a b****y chance. And Necro-Morbus Sufferer is quite a mouthful to say. So calling them Necs is probably the safest option. Easier on the tongue. And there’s no cure, no vaccine. They’ve come close though, managed to put together an antiviral shot to take after infection. But that only works a fraction of the time—and that’s if you catch it early. But I suppose it’s better than nothing. The government even tried to issue homes with an emergency shot, but there were just too many paranoid people, injecting themselves after any sickness: flu, food poisoning, chickenpox—even after a night on the b****y booze. It just got too expensive, so they scrapped it after about a year. Now you have to get one at the hospital.

I still wonder what’s behind the lifeless eyes. I can’t help it. I know it would make my job a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t. But that’s just me: I’m an optimist. I always have been. Even when the first outbreak happened in Swansea, I believed that these people could somehow be cured; that they were still human underneath all the decay and God-awful stench of rotting flesh.

But they’re dead. I know that now. It’s taken me a while, but I do.

And the dead must be burnt.

It’s a dirty job. But someone’s got to do it.

I reach the twelfth body and look at the time on the wall clock. 2:44 p.m. Not bad. With a bit of luck, I’ll be home in time for dinner. And I’m starving to death. No lunch break again. Typical. It would be nice if once—just once—Stuart would cover me for even ten lousy minutes, just long enough for a quick bite. But no. He’s tucked away in his nice cosy office, far from the trenches, sipping his herbal tea with a dash of cinnamon.

What a dickhead!

This next body bag is definitely not one to open. I’ve made that mistake on more than one occasion, and it’s not something I plan doing any time soon. It’s what we like to call: Moving Meat. The body bag is filled with several small bags, each one with a variety of severed limbs, everything from dismembered arms and legs to heads and torsos. Very disturbing—even for a job like this. But it’s not the sight of such horrors that’s so nauseating…it’s the wriggling. I mean, Jesus, these things are hard to kill—not even a pickaxe to the head can bring one of these bastards down. It’ll probably slow them down, but that’s about it. If they can’t be sedated with a tranquiliser to the head, then they’re cut up into pieces and shipped. And that’s the point where you have to disassociate them from human beings. You have to—otherwise you’re bound to lose it.

The next body is a woman, mid-twenties, slim. Completely n***d. Was she asleep when she was bitten or was she, in fact, a stripper, in the middle of giving some lucky guy a lap dance? I mean, she’s got the body for it—or had the body for it. And if you look past the muzzle, grey eyes, and b****y gouge on her shoulder, she’s not that bad to look at.

Guilt washes over me as I spend a little too long gaping at her slender body. She stares back at me, with eyes that no longer blink. I know she’s dead and it’s wrong, but I am human after all. I mean, can doctors really switch off their basic urges when they have to examine a beautiful, n***d woman? I’m not so sure. And this one seems a lot livelier than the others—which makes her seem all the more alive. I check the buckle on the muzzle; it’s secure. Thank God. As I reach to zip the bag back up, I hear a snap. Suddenly I feel a cold hand grab my wrist firmly. Trying not to panic, I carefully begin to pry her grip from my wrist, one finger at a time. Then another hand reaches for me. I leap back in fright, inadvertently pulling the n***d woman half-out of the body bag. She is slumped out the side of the stretcher, the straps barely holding her. I manage to break free from her grasp, but now she’s trying to wriggle out of the bag. I race to the furnace, open the door, and then bolt back to the woman who is now almost off the stretcher completely. Swiftly unclipping the straps, I run to the back of the stretcher and push it towards the furnace. The blistering heat is sucking out the air in the room as I ram the stretcher into the open door. The force throws half the woman into the fire. I grab the other half and launch it in. Slamming the door shut, I hear the beating of fists on the furnace walls. I push the large red button and the beautiful woman is no more.

What a waste!

I walk over to the stool and sit, exhausted and shaken up.

Stupid! What’s wrong with you? You could have been bitten.

Time for a coffee, I think.