The Infected Read Online Free Page A

seen on TV, I was tempted to start swinging with the spade (it seemed so unlike me – I run at the first hint of a fight – but I don’t know if it was the survival instinct or what, but I was ready to kill. But then I remembered Mrs. Myburg. I couldn’t exactly go around trying to decapitate her husband while she was waiting in the lounge on that horrible couch, could I?). So I thought that I would go back to her and explain that we needed to go get help. As I turned around to go tell her though, the spade, which I must have lifted to a striking position when I was contemplating murder, clanged against the most horrid bronze door handle that I have ever seen. That eyesore was the least of my worries though, as Mr. Myburg groaned louder than before and slowly turned his head to face me. And I saw his eyes. The same eyes that had struck me on the TV. I fumbled for the key in the lock – which was on the bedroom side as luck would have it, and quickly slammed the door shut as the former Mr. Myburg started to make his way ungainly off the bed. I locked the door and checked the handle twice, then went back and checked it a third a time. As Mrs. Myburg asked, “Is everything alright?” I heard a thumping on the door.
     
    “Um, yes, it is. We just need to go get some help for Mr. Myburg. A doctor,” I said. “Why, what’s wrong with him?” she asked me, fidgeting with her wedding ring with her right hand. “Why can’t we take him with?” she almost whined. At that point, her husband let out a… roar would probably be the best way to describe it. She didn’t even have to look at me to understand that that was why.
     
    I almost dragged her to my car, let her in and jumped into the front seat. Apart from a Staffordshire bull terrier that was wandering around the undercover parking bays, the complex was deserted – even the security guards had deserted their posts. I pressed the remote that each resident has to enter and exit the complex, and made sure that the gate closed behind me as we drove out. We were now out in the open and I had no idea what to expect.
     
    I asked Mrs. Myburg if there was anywhere I could take her, any family or friends nearby who she could stay with. I think we both knew that a doctor wouldn’t do her husband any good. She said that her sister-in-law lived in Greenstone, a relatively new suburb a short two or three kilometres from my complex (thankfully), so I eased the car onto the street, which was unusually deserted for an afternoon during the week. We turned right on Pallister Road and headed towards Terrace Road, one of the busiest roads in Edenvale, which we had to cross over to head towards Greenstone. But we didn’t get that far. An overturned Honda was blocking the road, but it wasn’t that that was the real problem – it was the gang, maybe ten, maybe more, of those people , dragging a young man out of the upturned car which was more disconcerting.
     
    Now I have always taken pride in my car, a pitch black 1,6 Comfortline Special Edition Volkswagen Polo – I am sure you will recall me mentioning it a couple of times in my blogs – but my love for my car vanished the second I threw it into first and headed for the overturned car. I was within a mere few metres when Mrs. Myburg, who I had actually forgotten was sitting next to me, said in a voice which was barely audible, “It’s too late. Look, he’s dead.” I slammed on brakes and screeched to a standstill as I noticed that the guy who was being yanked from the car was indeed dead, his neck hanging at an unnatural angle as a man in nothing but luminous yellow running shorts tried to pull the dead man’s body out of the exposed and broken windscreen by his arm. Running Shorts man yanked at Dead Man again with all his might, while two others, a lady in a miniskirt which was riding up so high her mother would have had something to say, and another guy with a mullet of some distinction, clambered around the side to try and