Read Online The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) by Steven Jenkins - Free Book Online

to do the talking when it comes to reassuring people why their
children are being shipped off. If that were me, if that were my family ,
I’d much rather some pleasant, calm, woman come to my door and tell me that
everything is going to be all right. Not some muscle-bound brute, barking
orders like he’s still in the bloody army. You know what I’m saying?”
    “Yeah, I do. I never
thought of it like that. I had it in my mind that I had to be exactly like you
guys.”
    “To a certain extent you
do. You still have to be strong. You still have to be fast. And you
still have to shoot straight. But there’s a lot more to being a Cleaner. And
you’ll learn that soon enough.”
    “Thanks, Andrew. I’m sure
you’ll do a great job teaching me. I’m a fast learner.”
    “I bet you are.”
    The country road comes to
a fork. Andrew slams on the brakes and the van comes to an abrupt halt. Leaning
forward over the dashboard, he hits a button on the Satnav.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“We lost?”
    Andrew squints at the tiny
screen and then shakes his head. “No. Not yet. Just over shot the turning.
Wanna make sure. Don’t fancy turning up at the wrong bloody farm.”
    “Can I help?”
    “No, it’s okay. I’ll just
turn her around.” He swings the van around with one spin of the wheel; the
front of the vehicle hits the grass bank in the process, and then speeds off
back in the previous direction.
    It’s at least another four
miles before Andrew slams on the brakes again, and bombs it down a dirt track.
Flickers of mud and manure cover the windscreen and bonnet. Thank God it’s
winter and my window is up.
    Another mile or so later,
I can finally see something in the distance. A farmhouse. Andrew slows the van;
I watch as he scans the trees and fields around us, as if hunting for
something. I can guess what he’s looking for—and my stomach starts to churn at
the thought of a Nec ambush.
    What Andrew said earlier
makes total sense: a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere has probably the lowest
risk of an attack from multiple infected. Unless, of course, they’re a bunch of
crazed hillbillies, harbouring a family of fifteen Necs, made up of uncles,
aunties, kids, grandkids, the lot. But the farmhouse is quite small. Really
nice, in fact. Authentic thatched roof, white stone right out of a medieval
movie. There’s a small shed at the side of the house, a tractor parked in front
of a giant barn, and a mud-soaked Land Rover parked up at the side of a large
gas-tank. I inspect the field; can’t see any animals. No cows. No sheep. Maybe
it’s too cold for them. They must be in the barn.
    “Should we be wearing our
helmets when we knock the door?” I ask, picking mine up from between my ankles.
    Andrew shakes his head.
“Not right away. Keep it with you until the door opens. And keep your gun
holstered, too. The last thing we want to do is frighten the life out of these
people. Scared people do all sorts of dump things. Let them see a human face
first, and then we can put it on.”
    “Okay. Got you.”
    We pull up outside the
house. Andrew motions with his head for me to follow him. Nervously climbing
out of the van, stepping out onto the damp gravel, I pat myself down, making
sure I’m fully-equipped: gun, spare tranqs, antiviral, suit zipped up to the
top, gloves, boots. All there. I follow Andrew to the front door. Before he
reaches it, the door opens. Standing in the doorway is a woman, early sixties,
dressed in a pair of loose-fitting denim jeans, cream shirt, with a brown
cardigan; her grey hair in disarray, like she’s just rolled out of bed.
    “Mrs Rosemont?” Andrew
asks, his right arm concealing his gun holster.
    “Yes, that’s me,” she
replies, her voice hoarse and flustered. “Who are you? Where are the
paramedics?”
    “We’re from Disease
Control. I’m Andrew. Andrew Whitt.” He points with his left thumb at me. “And
this is my partner, Catherine Woods.”
    I give her a