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

eternity, first one in a couple of hours. Normally, I’m like a tap once I’ve had a few pints. Finishing up, I notice that there’re no flat surfaces to make a line of coke. There’s no basin, the toilet-roll holder is circular, and even the toilet seat is missing. It’s almost as if they don’t want me to snort my cocaine. Boring bastards . I hate using my door key, but I’m out of options. I pull out the key and shovel a mound of coke on the end. Just before I snort the powder, I hear a faint groan coming from the other occupied cubicle. Either someone’s getting his dick sucked, or they’re having the biggest shit of their lives. Both options put a smile on my face as I snort the powder up my nostril. Once I’ve wiped away any excess coke from my nose, I unlock the door and step out. On my way to the sinks, I hear another soft moan. Ignoring it, I give my hands a quick rinse and then hold them under the dryer. The effects of the coke kick in as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are glazed over, but I look okay—I just about pass for human. I’ve had better stuff, but this’ll do nicely for now.
    Even over the loud whooshing sound of the dryer, I hear a third groan. Moving my hands away, the machine stops dead. I walk over to the cubicle door. I listen for a moment, but the sound has stopped. Maybe it’s an old man, collapsed. “You all right in there, mate?” giving the door a light tap.
    No response.
    I move my head closer to the door. “Do you need to me to call someone?”
    Frowning, I give the door a gentle push to double check that it’s locked.
    Something hard hits the door from inside, followed by a loud wail.
    I jolt back in fright.
    “Fuck you then,” I snap, hand over my thrashing heart. “I was only asking.”
    The door slowly starts to open.
    I clench my fists; half-expecting some idiot to be swinging punches at me.
    Come on, you twat! Take your best shot!
    But when I see the drunken old man, in his seventies, shamble out of the cubicle, my muscle tension dissolves, and I smile. His round head is covered with thin grey hair, his brown trousers just about held up by a belt, and his beer belly hangs low behind his ill-fitting Swansea jersey.
    What a state!
    Barely able to stand, let alone swing a punch, he stumbles past me and out of the toilets, clipping the doorway with his shoulder in the process.
    Should I help him?
    I sniff loudly, wipe my damp hands on my shorts, and leave. Nah, fuck him. He’s someone else’s problem now.
    Back on the concourse, I hear the sound of brawling. It’s hard to tell if it’s a good sign or a bad one. The way Swansea are playing, my best guess: a bad sign.
    Heading back towards the stairs, I glance over my shoulder at the Cardiff border. The stewards have vanished. Not a single orange jacket in sight. Why the hell would they leave their posts? Are they stupid? Anyone could just stroll over and cause holy hell. Then I see about twenty or thirty Cardiff supporters flood down the steps, onto the concourse, and barging through the emergency exit.
    What the hell is going on?
    Just a few metres in front of me, I see another group of people running down the steps from the stand, and then out through the exit.
    Where’s the fire?
    It’s not even halftime yet. What kind of supporter bails on their home teams after just one bloody goal?
    A riot?
    Has Jonny decided to take on the entire stadium?
    I wouldn’t put it past him.
    Picking the pace up, I notice a man and woman by the food counter, the guy has a huge hot dog, and she has a large coffee. They notice me as I pass; the guy gives me a look to suggest that Swansea are struggling out there. I return a tight smile as if to agree, and carry on, my walk nearly turning into a jog. I can’t miss anymore of the action. There’s still plenty of time for us to score.
    As I pass the souvenir stall, another rush of about ten people passes me from behind. One man barges my shoulder in the process,