The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot by Steven Jenkins Read Free Book Online Page B

room like this would even need a TV, let alone one at least seventy inches wide. But it’s magnificent nonetheless. Next to the sofa is the drinks-bar, stocked with everything from Champagne to whiskey, with three draught pumps, and on the bar surface there’s a tray of sandwiches and various other snacks. The floor has a red carpet that looks brand new even though the stadium was built four years ago, and the walls are a strange mix of blue and grey. But all those bells and whistles don’t mean shit without the main attraction: The giant viewing window. The glass is massive, at least six by four metres, which covers the entire front of the room—giving fans the greatest view of the greatest team. A sight reserved for only the rich. In front of it are two rows of black leather spectator seats, four on each level. The first row is on a low step so that the back row has a clear view of the game.
    I walk down the four steps to the window and press my body against the glass. There’s a small panel at the centre and a latch. I slide it open, and the room suddenly fills with screams—a mix of Necs and terrified fans crying for help. The sound is vile, so I quickly close it.
    At each side of the giant window, there’s another window, much smaller, that leans into the neighbouring VIP suites. I push my face against the glass to look inside. All I can see is the front row of leather seats. No movement and no sound. I try the other side—it’s the same. For some reason, I feel disappointed. I’m not sure why. Seeing another group of survivors next door would offer no help to us. The only way through is via the corridor, and I’m not planning on stepping out any time soon.
    Should I give the glass a knock ? The people could just be congregating by the door.
    What if it’s teeming with Necs? A knock would draw them to us. If there’re enough of them, they might break the glass. It’s best to leave things alone.
    I look down from the centre of the giant window. The vastness takes my breath away. The VIP suites were designed to be up high, away from the stand, almost like a balcony effect. From the window, there’s roughly a five metre drop down to the upper tier of the stand—keeping the riffraff like us separate.
    Peering down at the pitch, my stomach curdles in dismay. Instead of seeing some of the greatest players in the world, running across a stunning green field, I see hundreds of bodies lying face down in the grass, each one being devoured by a pack of Necs. As for the stands, both sides are stacked with more half-eaten people. Some probably crushed during the stampede, while others most likely taken out by Necs.
    We had a sold-out stadium here today, and now I have no idea how many are still alive, hiding somewhere—or how many are dead.
    “So what happened to you, Ted?” Ginge asks, standing by the door, his back pressed firmly against the wood. “How the hell did you manage to get bitten from in here?”
    Ted looks at him with untrusting eyes, but then sits up on the sofa, wincing in pain as he straightens. “When Adriana and I saw the devastation from the window, I just stepped out the door to ask the steward what was going on. But the corridor was deserted. So when I went down the stairs to find someone, that’s when I bumped into him.”
    “Bumped into who?” Ginge asks.
    “The steward; he was lying on the floor, bleeding from his abdomen. I went straight over to him to check his pulse. But it was too late. Before I could even stand, he’d already turned. Took a bite out of my forearm.” Adriana puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are filled with tears, clearly struggling to cope with the situation. “And that’s when I realised he was infected with Necro-Morbus.”
    “Bloody hell,” Ginge mutters. “So what happens now? I mean, how long will it take for you to turn?”
    “Shut up, Ginge!” I snap. “Don’t be so insensitive.”
    “I was only asking.”
    “It’s all