Burn The Dead: Quarantine: Book One

Chapter 4

4

As I finish up the last remaining bodies, I daydream about Vegas. The lights, the booze—that’s about it really. It’s a stag weekend, after all. Can’t see me and the guys visiting the Grand Canyon or sitting through a Celine Dion concert. No b****y chance. There’ll be no time. Maybe next year, if I take Anna there. I can totally see her dragging me to some s**t show, or on a sight-seeing trip. All the boring stuff. Although, I’m not really much of a gambler myself. Never have been. More of a watcher. Gambling’s a little too stressful for me. Oh, I’ll probably have a flutter, just to say I have, but other than that I’d rather hold on to my cash—not that I have much of that these days.

I slide the seventeenth body into the furnace and push the large red button. A sense of satisfaction washes over me as the blaze inside obliterates the old man.

Done. Simple.

The life of a Burner.

I push the empty stretchers against each other neatly, and begin to remove my apron. Just as I’m about to hang it up on the wall-hook, I hear the bleeping sound of the code being entered outside. The door opens and in walks Stuart again. “We’ve got another four for you, Robert,” he tells me. He’s wearing his coat and holding a briefcase, clearly about to leave for the day. All right for some.

“Just four?”

“Yes. It shouldn’t take too long—even for you. Just think yourself lucky you’re not stuck in a stuffy office all day. I know where I’d rather be.”

“You should try it some time, Stuart,” I say through gritted teeth. “You might find it harder than you think.”

“No, it’s all right, Robert, I’ll leave it to the Burners. Someone’s got to hold the fort back there. Romkirk won’t run itself.” He throws me one of his smug grins. “Well, I’m leaving for the day now, so you’re on your own. Call head office if there are any major problems, and don’t forget to finish your paperwork.”

“No worries, Stuart,” I reply, forcing an obedient smile as I watch him leave.

Good riddance, asshole.

Sighing, I look at the time: 4:17 p.m. There goes another early finish.

I can dream, can’t I?

When the four stretchers are safely inside, I lock the door. Slipping my apron back over my head, I think of Vegas again, and start to count the days in my head. I can almost taste the first beer in the hotel lobby. Somehow it tastes better than any other I’ve had. I notice that the first body bag is large. I feel relieved as I unzip it. It’s a woman, no older than twenty-five, and she’s chubby. Probably bullied in school. Battled with various quick-fix diets for most of her short life. Had a string of failed relationships. Classic fatty. She stares deep into my eyes. Her eyes seem sad.

I zip up the bag and burn her in the furnace.

The second body bag is small—not child-small though. This one seems another lively one. I contemplate avoiding the face-check but can’t resist, ignoring my earlier near-miss. I slowly unzip the bag, and then stop to make sure that there’s a muzzle strapped on. There is. Thank God. I continue to pull the zip down to chest height.

It’s another woman.

My heart almost stops as I stumble backwards.

Not you.

Please God, not you, Anna.

Choking on my own breath, I creep forward. Please let it be a mistake. I pull down my mask and throw off the safety-goggles.

It’s not a mistake.

Anna snarls behind the muzzle someone has strapped over her mouth.

I pull the zip down almost all the way.

She squirms and twists, trying to break free from the plastic cable-ties fastened to her limbs.

I can barely stand. My knees almost buckle, but I grab hold of the stretcher. I think of Sammy and wonder where he is—if he’s also in one of these body bags. A frantic burst of energy hits me and I rush over to the other two. I pull the zip down on the first: it’s another woman, mid-forties. Jesus Christ, it’s the woman who lives across from our house. Susan Price. I feel sick. My heart is pounding hard against my chest. I’m sweating profusely. I unzip the last bag. Please, God don’t let it be him. I beg you.

It’s a man, early-fifties.

I thank God for that at least.

Let him be safe. Please.

Anna is now writhing so much that her stretcher has begun to move away from the wall. As I walk over to her, I think of her vomiting last night. How could I have been so stupid—so blind? I should have taken her to the hospital. They could have given her a shot. There might still have been time to save her. Was I too tired to think straight? Was I too preoccupied with a stupid Vegas trip? Jesus Christ. What about Sammy?

I can’t seem to focus anymore. I think I’m gonna pass out. To see her like this is too much. I contemplate zipping her body bag back up. Out of sight, out of mind.

But how could I? I love her. So much. More than anything in the world. And she gave me Sammy: the single greatest achievement of my life.

I lurch over to the stool and sit. My stomach is in knots as I listen to her cries of pain and anger. I can’t look anymore. It hurts too much to see her like that; a shadow of her beautiful self—her tender, placid self.

It’s not you, Anna. It can’t be.

It’s someone else.

Please let it be someone else.

Anyone but you…

Part II

Sleep Like The Dead