The Zombie Saga (Book 3): Burn The Dead: Riot Read Online Free PDF Page A

at this type of game; there’s just too much adrenaline flowing, too many songs being sung about how rubbish Cardiff are. But they’re not though—far from it. This is the semi-final, and Cardiff deserves to be here.
    I’ll keep that to myself though.
    To the left of me is Ginge. He hasn’t been paying much attention to the game; he’s more interested in shouting at the away fans. To the right of me is Jonny. He hasn’t said much—which is never a good sign with him. I don’t really think he enjoys these big games. I think they stress him out too much. I understand the stress thing, but you have to enjoy the games, otherwise what’s the point?
    Normally, Nathan copies his brother—especially if there’s a war of words between teams. But not today. Today his eyes are locked on the game, blood-soaked tissue paper stuffed up each nostril, screaming every clichéd football chant he can think of.
    No one’s listening to the little shit.
    When Cardiff score the first goal, all eyes in the stand turn to the away fans. The noise is overwhelming; you can smell the passion, and hatred, in the air, wafting around like some chemical bomb. The stewards struggle to hold back both sets of fans. I look at Jonny; he’s sitting down; he’s probably the only one in the entire row.
    “You okay, Jon?” I ask.
    He nods. “I’m fine, Alf,” he replies, his tone way too calm. One nil down in the first ten minutes—he’s far from cool.
    I put my hand on his shoulder. “Early days, mate. Early days. There’s no way we’ll let another one in.”
    “I said I’m fine, Alf,” he snaps, not looking at me. “You deaf or what?”
    Swiftly removing my hand from his shoulder, I step away slightly. “Sorry, Jon,” I say, turning to Ginge instead, hoping to detract from some of the awkwardness. I don’t like being around him when he’s like this. One fight is more than enough for one day. “I’m going to the toilet.”
    “Are you going for a line?” Ginge asks.
    “Yeah. You coming?”
    He shakes his head. “No, not yet. I’m waiting for those Cardiff tossers to push past those stewards. Then we’ll have some fun with them.”
    I pat him on his gut, noticing his torn jersey again; it reminds me of how close I came to stabbing that guy in the pub. The image of blood pouring out from his side sends an icy shiver down my back. I should have never brought the knife. I might just throw the stupid thing in the river after the game. Fuck it! Biting isn’t my style—but it beats killing someone. I shake off the memory and slide towards the aisle, struggling to get through the rowdy fans.
    Jogging down the steps, past the stewards, I arrive back onto the concourse, the sound of screaming fans muffled in the background. There are just a few people scattered around the area and one or two stewards patrolling.
    I walk down a little towards the toilets, passing the bar, the food counter, and the souvenir stall, which sell everything from Swansea jerseys and hoodies, to flyers and hip flasks. There isn’t a queue in sight. There will be come half time, though; this place will be like Piccadilly Circus (not that I’ve ever been there). Maybe I should get a drink now, beat the crowds. No, I’m too skint. And besides, I’ll have to drink it out here, anyway. No drinks out on the stand, and no hope in hell of concealing it.
    Further on, I see another wall of stewards, keeping us separated from Cardiff. We’re not allowed anywhere near them. One incident and you’re banned. No second chances, no excuses, just a lifetime of watching games in The Farmers Arms instead; a fate that’ll probably be coming to Hoppy. That’s if he can escape jail.
    I step into the toilets, itching for a line of coke. Haven’t had one since the pub, and now I’m completely straight. The room is empty apart from one occupied cubicle at the centre of a row of three. I walk into the one on the left, lock the door, and take a piss. It seems to last an