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

“Shut the fuck up, Nath,” Ginge snaps. “Don’t call him that.”

Jonny throws Ginge a madman glower, wide eyes glazed over with a shitload of cocaine. “Watch your fucking mouth,” Jonny threatens. “My brother’s a little shit—but he’s
my
brother.
You got that?
”

I prod Ginge in his side to stop him speaking. “Don’t argue ‘cause of me, guys,” I say. “I can take a joke. Let’s forget about it, yeah? We’ve got the game coming up.”

The table falls silent for a painful few seconds. I’m used to awkward silences by now. I can’t remember a time when one of us hasn’t upset Jonny. And funny enough, Nathan’s never far away when that happens.

“So boys, what’s the plan then?” Hoppy asks, breaking the tension. “Finish these pints, a quick line in the bogs, and then head off to the stadium, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me,” I say. “Can’t wait to get in there, wipe the grins off those Cardiff wankers.”

“Best get there early,” Ginge suggests. “There’s gonna be twenty-one thousand people down there. First sell out in two years.”

Jonny shakes his head and then glances at the entrance doors. “No rush, lads.”

“If we leave it too late, the buses will fill up,” Hoppy points out. “And it’ll take us at least an hour to walk.”

“I don’t care,” Jonny says. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Who?” Hoppy asks.

“An old friend I caught up with on Facebook.”

“Do we know him?” I ask, trying to work out who the hell’s he talking about. I thought I knew everyone.

“He’s that fucker from Cardiff,” Jonny says. “Always shooting his mouth off online.”

“And he’s coming here?” Ginge asks. “To The Farmers?”

“Yeah,” Jonny replies. “So he says. Doubt if him and his pussy mates have got the balls.” He pulls out his flick-knife, keeping it low. It’s about four inches long with a chrome handle. “But we’ll be ready for them, won’t we, boys?”

“Damn fucking right,” Nathan says, confidently, pulling his knife out and dropping it on the table.

“Hide that, you stupid twat!” Jonny barks, grabbing the knife and stuffing it into his brother’s jeans pocket. “You wanna get run in?”

“Do we really need them?” I ask. “I mean, how much trouble is there gonna be? There’ll be loads of police, and I doubt your Facebook friend will even show up.”

“So my brother was right,” Jonny says, shaking his head in disgust, “you
are
a fucking pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy, Jon. I ain’t scared of anyone. I just don’t think we need them, that’s all.”

“What happens if they pull a knife on you like they did with Hoppy last year?” Jonny asks. “There’s no way I’m letting some Cardiff cocksucker stick me. No fucking chance.” He looks over the table, down at my shorts. “So, where is it then? Show me?”

Anyone else and they’d be making a joke about me showing him my cock—but not with Jonny. And certainly not now when there’s a scent of violence in the air.

I let out a defeated breath, and then quickly show Jonny my knife. “Happy now?” I ask as I nervously slip it back into my pocket.

Jonny grins. “
See
, I knew you weren’t a pussy, Alf.”

I return a forced smile. Anything to keep him sweet.

4

My funds are practically dried up. We’ve drunk way too much already, and we’ve missed any hope of catching the bus to the game. Hopefully, Jonny will pay for a taxi. He’s a dick, but he’s not short of a quid or two. He gets sixty quid a gram, and I know damn-well that he only pays about twenty for each one. And that’s just the coke. God knows what he gets for all the other shit he sells.

The Farmers Arms is getting busy. I can’t seem to get the barman’s attention. I’d shout something to him, tell him to move his fat ass, but I ain’t got any fake I.D.

Roll on, eighteen. I’ll be homeless, but at least I’ll get served everywhere.

To my left there’s a girl, also trying to get served. She’s around my age, but could be a little older. I’ve been watching her since she came in fifteen minutes ago. She’s caught me looking at her a couple of times. I don’t usually go for blondes; I’m more of a brunette kind of guy—but I’m sure I can make an exception. Maybe it’s the four pints of beer, but those white curves are really doing it for me. She’s still slim, but that ass in those tight black jeans; and
tits
—fucking hell.
Pert
. I wouldn’t kick
her
out of bed.

Luckily, none of the guys have spotted her yet. Not that they pose much of a threat to me. All they’re good at is shouting,
Nice ass, love!
or
Get your tits out!
They’re not
classy
like me.

I take in a lungful of beer-smelling air, and I go in for the kill.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” I say.
Smooth, Alfie. Really fucking smooth. George Clooney is shitting his pants.

She turns to me; her eyes like blue sapphires, her cheeks puffy.
Really cute.
“Sorry? What did you say?” she asks, leaning in to hear over the background noise.

Awesome—a second stab at a first impression. “I said the service here is terrible. Don’t you think?”

She smiles and nods. “I know. I’ve been waiting here for five minutes. I think the barman is blind.”

“I take it you’re not watching the game then?” I ask, moving a little closer to her.

“Damn right I am,” she replies, her tone filled with excitement.

“Oh, right. I just thought—”

“You just thought that a football stadium is no place for a girl, right?”

Great start, Alf
. I squirm, but then I spot the smirk on her thick red lips. “Hey, I’m all for women watching football. As long as they’re home in time to clean the kitchen.”

She playfully nudges me. “Very funny. So how are you getting to the game?”

“God knows. We’ve missed any hope of catching the bus. And walking’s out of the question.”

“Well, we’ve got a minibus booked,” she says, “but there might be room for one more.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I reply, “but I’m with four other mates.”

“Okay, no problem.”

“I’m Alfie, by the way,” I offer my hand. “Alfie Button.”

“Natalie.” She shakes my hand. Her grip is loose, as if she’s more used to getting a kiss on the cheek. “Cool name, Alfie.”

“Thanks.”

The barman finally comes over and serves her. I almost offer to pay for her drink, but I don’t want to come across too strong. Plus, I can’t afford it. Once he hands her over two vodkas and lemonades, the barman turns to me and takes my order.

“So who’ve you come with?” I ask, as two beers are set down in front of me.

“With my friend, Mari-Emma. My brother, Curtis, and a few of his friends are on their way, too.”

My drink is nearly overflowing with froth, so I sip the top. “Well, maybe we could all meet up after the game or something. Go for a few drinks in Swansea.”

Natalie snorts. “Doubtful.”

“Why?”

She stares at my jersey and smiles. “Because I’m Cardiff all the way, Alfie.”

I laugh. “Cardiff? Okay, fair enough. I won’t hold it against you.”

Jonny might, though.

“I’m sure you won’t.” She picks up her drinks, ready to leave. “Right, well, maybe I’ll see you at the game then.”

If the guys find out I’m willing to sleep with the enemy, they’ll rip me a new asshole.

But what the hell!

“Can I have your number, Natalie?” I ask her, surprised that I didn’t get the words in the wrong order.

She looks at me up and down, as if inspecting the goods, and then puts her drinks on the bar. “Yeah, why not?” She pulls out her mobile phone from her handbag. She pushes a few buttons, and within a couple of seconds I hear a beep coming from my phone. I pull it out and see a Facebook friend request from her.

“That was quick, Natalie.”

“Well, there weren’t exactly a lot of Alfie Buttons to choose from.”

“Thanks. I’ll message you some time; maybe to help you through the painful defeat today.”

“Ha! In your dreams.” She starts to walk away, but stops when she sees a group of about twenty boys enter the pub. “There’s my brother now,” she says, pointing to the blond boy in the front. He’s around my age, dressed in light blue shorts and a Cardiff jersey.

Before I can even open my mouth, I watch Jonny ram his fist into her brother’s jaw. Then Hoppy throws his pint glass in their direction. It misses them completely, smashing onto the door behind them.

“
Shit,
” I mutter.

This is the guy Jonny’s been waiting for.

5

I catch one of them in the chest with a swift kick, propelling him into an empty table. Glasses smash over the floor. I taste blood when a fist from nowhere smacks me in the mouth. Turning, with both hands protecting my jaw, I manage to avoid the second punch with a quick duck, and then I punch him in the gut. I see Ginge pinned to the floor by a guy twice his size. Racing over to them, I slam my right fist into the guy’s temple, knocking him clean out. I yank Ginge up. No time for praise—he can thank me later. I spot Hoppy, kneeling over someone, pounding his giant knuckles into the guy’s face. A bottle of beer comes hurtling towards my head. I lift my arm; it bounces painfully off my wrist and smashes on the hard floor. I get to the culprit in a split second, grabbing him by his Cardiff jersey, and driving my head into his nose. The cracking of cartilage goes through me as he drops to his knees, cupping his face, blood pouring between his fingers. Nathan is on the floor, getting kicked by two boys. Before I can reach him, I’m thrown down to the floor as well, pinned by a lump of a guy. His heavy hands are wrapped around my throat, squeezing. I try to pry them off, trying to wriggle free, but it’s no use. I can’t breathe. The room starts to blur. I think I’m gonna pass out.

The sound of the pub is disappearing. All I can see are two thick arms and a bright red face as he crushes my neck. I reach into my pocket, feeling for the knife. My fingers touch the handle. Pulling it out, I push the button. I hear the clicking sound of the blade extending. If there was ever a reason to use a knife—then
this is it
. Right or wrong, this is self-defence.
Plain and simple
. I position the knife to his side, preparing to drive it into him.

But then I stop myself.

I can’t do it!

I retract the blade, and repeatedly drive just the metal handle into his kidneys. He screams out in agony, loosening his grip on my throat.
I can breathe again
. I lift my head and bite as hard as I can on the side of his hand. Blood starts to pour out. Before he even has time to cry out, I bring my right knee up, into his groin, and then manage to roll away. I scramble to my feet, and scurry away from him, desperately trying to catch my breath. The bar comes into focus. It’s a scene right out of a Western. Swansea versus Cardiff.

I see Natalie; she’s sobbing, trying to pull Jonny off someone. It’s her brother. Just as I’m about to re-join the fight, to kick the shit out of the guy who choked me, I notice that the knife is still in my hand. I slip it back into my pocket, take a huge breath, and lunge towards him as he recovers from his injuries. Before I get to him, one of his friends pulls him up and drags him out the door, followed by the rest of them. Jonny and Hoppy chase after them. I go to Ginge; his lip is bleeding, and his Swansea jersey is ripped a little, but he’s okay. Nathan is on the floor, his nose bleeding. I pull him up. The three of us race out through the doors only to find Hoppy and Jonny screaming as two minibuses speed off. But before we can sing in victory, before we can high-five each other, we’re running as fast as we can, towards the stadium and away from the loud sirens.

6

The sun is sweltering as we bomb it along the roads and lanes. This definitely isn’t the first time we’ve had to run from a pub, and I’m usually a good fifty metres in front of the others. Being fast always comes in handy when there’re cops on your trail. Jonny’s pretty quick too, but the others, especially Hoppy, wouldn’t stand a chance without a good head start.

Dripping with sweat, panting with exhaustion, we reach The Century Stadium in less than twenty minutes. That’s a first for us on foot. But avoiding a night in the cells is always a great motivational tool.

The car park is jam-packed with vehicles and swarms of people walking towards the various numbered entrances of the stadium. I stare up at the eyesore of a structure, with its giant white walls, and high poles at the top, as if held in place by a massive steel spider. There are a few small windows dotted around, most likely used for conferences, and the souvenir shop to the left of the pitch entrance. The stadium’s sheer mass always gives me goosebumps, especially when I see the words:
Swansea Football Club
written in gigantic black letters across the front.

It’s a special feeling.

None of us can quite believe we managed to hold off
twenty
Cardiff cocksuckers. I don’t mention the choking incident. Jonny’s bound to wonder why I didn’t ram my knife into his gut, and I can’t be bothered with the lecture—especially since we’re all in such a good mood. We’ve pretty much laughed the entire way here, even through screaming lungs and burning leg muscles. Nathan is the only one who’s complained—but he’s the only one with a broken nose.

Serves him right, the little shit.

“If I see any of those wankers inside,” Hoppy says as we join the fifty-metre queue to the turnstile, “I’m gonna rip their fucking heads off.
Again!
”

“And how are you supposed to do that?” Jonny asks, frowning hard. “You won’t get a chance; there’ll be stewards blocking the away fans. You’ve got
no
hope.”

Hoppy doesn’t retort. He knows Jonny’s right; security is always tight at big games, especially with rival clubs. Hoppy might be a big, strong lump of a guy, but he’s as dumb as a stump in the brains department. Still, he’s pretty handy in a fight, though. He’s slow, but when you’ve got hands as big as your head, speed is overrated.