Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6)

by Shaun Whittington

  In the beginning, Pickle always assumed that farms were probably the safest places to be during these times. Obviously not.

  The reason why he never imposed himself on these establishments was for the fear of being shot. Most of these places already had a Trespassers Will Be Shot sign on their gates, and who could blame them? No matter the weaponry a farmer had, the machinery, diesel, animals and other facilities they had at their disposal, made them a target for desperate people willing to kill for what they had.

  As soon as the dead girl was within three metres of Pickle, she raised her arms and made a quick move forward, taking him by surprise. Pickle took a tired swipe at her, the knife plunging into her neck, and both of them fell to the floor. He was lying flat on the ground, while his attacker was on top of him, snarling, gnashing, and snapping at the man.

  With the little strength that he had left, he pushed her head back with both of his hands, keeping the teeth away from his neck. He had no idea why they always went for the neck. He didn't know whether that it was because it was the softest part of the body, or that it was because the neck was flesh that was always on show. It was almost as if they knew that if they ripped away at the carotid artery, their victim would bleed out and die quickly so they could feast on them in peace, without a struggle.

  For a second Pickle thought about it, but then shook his head. They weren't intelligent for that, Pickle thought, and rebuffed the theory. Maybe it was just instinct.

  Did they rip open the neck as a quick passage to the brain?

  Still pushing the face away with the knife still embedded into the neck, he screamed out knowing that he was weakening. His hands then slipped as the thing struggled to get at him, and now his hands were over its eyes. He stuck his thumbs into its sockets for a better grip then he realised what he needed to do. Why didn't he think of this before?

  He pushed his thumbs slowly into the soft eyeballs and winced when his thumbs went straight through. Liquid poured out of both eye sockets, but doubts crept into his mind whether his thumbs would be long enough to penetrate the brain and kill the thing.

  His dead assailant then opened its mouth and released a moan. Thick black liquid poured out of its mouth, and Pickle turned his head. He felt the foul, diseased liquid splashing over his chin and all over his neck. He continued with his gouging and could feel the skull slowly coming away as he pushed upwards. He was almost ripping its head off with his strength, but the thumbs seemed to have done the damage as the creature twitched and then stopped moving altogether.

  He had destroyed it, and removed his thumbs from the sockets and allowed the body to fall on him. He was so exhausted, he remained lying with the dead girl on top of him and decided to give himself a minute before attempting to remove it.

  With his eyes closed and his breath finally getting back to normal, Pickle tried to remove the thing off of him. His first attempt was futile. He opened his eyes and could see the exposed cheek, which was just below his own chin, littered with maggots. "For fuck's sake."

  He almost laughed at his predicament. He had never been in such a mess.

  His torso was covered in guts from his previous kill, blood had been vomited all over his neck, and now he had a corpse on top of him. He reached for the knife and pulled it out of the beast, then gripped the knife and remained lying on the floor, exhausted, looking to the sky.

  Just when he thought that things couldn't get any worse, he saw another two ghouls coming out from the bushes. "Oh, fuck me."

  It looked to be an adult-male in its previous life, and the second was another male, much younger. Maybe it was the father and brother of the girl that was lying on top of him, he thought.

  The two beasts headed in his direction and he estimated that he had a minute to get the dead body off of him and scarper, but he was struggling, and had no idea if it was the weight of the dead girl that was preventing his quick escape, his exhaustion, or both. He guessed that it was both, and his third attempt at removing the girl had failed. He had moved her a little, but most of her body was still on top of him and now the two were a matter of yards away.

  Giving up, he threw his head back and muttered under his breath, "God, save me now. Save me, and let me live and continue to kill this evil."

  As the two things were near him, he went quiet and waited for his fate. He closed his eyes, waiting for the first bite, the first fingernail to penetrate his flesh. His eyes remained closed and he winced, awaiting the hideous pain that he was going to experience, but it never came.

  Instead, he heard the two pairs of feet walk by him. He looked around the area the best he could for an individual lying on his back, and saw the younger male sniff the air, then continued to follow the older one.

  Pickle waited until they were dozens of yards away before attempting to remove the body off of him again. He had managed to remove it and he rolled over onto his front, now staring at the two ghouls who were by the fence and were wondering how to get out.

  What the hell happened?

  He looked down on his shirt that was saturated in blood and guts.

  With the mess, and also with the body on top of him, he wondered if all of these things combined had somehow masked the smell of fresh human flesh, his human flesh.

  He made an effort to at least get on his knees, and once he did, he stood to his feet. They felt rubbery, and he hoped that he had the energy to make it to the camp. His only fear was having another run-in with more Snatchers. If that happened, he was sure that he would be as good as dead.

  He looked over to the two ghouls in the distance and saw that one had managed to tumble over the fence, but the younger male was still having problems.

  He staggered across the field, heading for the main road and looked up to the skies. "Thank you, God. Thank you."

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Karen walked over to Jack, holding a folded orange sheet in her hand. She placed the sheet over Jack's face. She gawped in Vince's direction and said, "He could turn any minute now."

  Vince nodded sadly and walked over to Jack, holding the steak knife in his right hand. He slowly sat down so that he was sitting next to Jack's head, then with two fingers from his left hand he felt for one of his eyes.

  Vince stopped what he was doing and looked at Karen. "You're a nurse. What would be the best way? Through the eye or the ear?"

  "Either will work." Karen gave Vince a rare smile, knowing that he was finding this difficult. Although he hadn't been on the camp for long, Karen guessed that Jack and Vince had grown close over the days. "I can do it, if you want. I've done it before."

  Karen stopped talking, realising that it was Vince's own mother, Grace, she had killed. Wolf had asked her and Pickle to kill the infected woman. Karen had done the job by ramming a sharpened handle from a spoon through the eye, whilst Pickle held the head back. It wasn't that long ago, a week maybe, but it felt like an age ago when she did this. She was going to tell Vince, but telling him just before he needed to destroy Jack wasn't the best of timings.

  Seeing that he was full of hesitation, Karen repeated her offer.

  Vince said, "I'll do it. It's my camp."

  He felt for the eye socket again and placed the tip of the knife onto the soft eyelid, and with two hands he pushed it into Jack. He took it out after five seconds, and headed for the door. He tossed the stained knife from afar into the sink, and went past a crying Shaz.

  Karen called after him, "Are you okay?"

  "Never been better," was his response as he reached outside and went to his own caravan.

  He opened the door of his own place and sat down on the dusty settee. He fought back the tears and couldn't believe he was upset over a man he had only known for a week. Tears were never shed for his own father and mother, yet, Jack's death had affected him.

  Why?

  Vince stood up and began pacing the floor, tormenting himself about Jack's demise.

  You shouldn't have let him go out. You could see the state he was in. He
was hardly in any condition to be out with those...things out there.

  Vince then remembered something Karen had said, about Jack being a hero.

  "Maybe she's right."

  He stopped pacing the floor. Vince thought to himself that maybe it was Jack's selflessness and bravado that had got him killed, not his lack of concentration due to the excessive intake of alcohol from the night before.

  Whatever the real reason, whether Vince was partly to blame or not, he had lost his friend, and the guilt ate away at him. His rage boiled over and he punched the nearest wall, above the fireplace. "Fuck it. He's a fucking adult. I'm not his babysitter."

  Vince reflected on Jack's condition before they went out. He was still drunk from the night before, but when he broke down on the bed and sobbed for his son, Vince thought that maybe that should have been the moment when it was obvious that Jack was in no condition to go out. Putting the alcohol to one side, he wasn't mentally fit to go out there. But Vince thought that it would be a simple run-of-the-mill drive to the Ash Tree, pick up the girls, eventually, then back to the camp for tea and biscuits.

  Vince sat back down and inspected his knuckles on his right hand which were marked red. If it had been a proper wall, he would have broken his hand, but because the caravans were basic and the walls were made of interior wallboards, the damage to his hand was just a bit of throbbing and light bruising.

  There was a rap at the door and Vince quickly composed himself in case the person knocking decided to walk straight in. "What is it?"

  "Hey, Vince. It's me," a familiar voice spoke up.

  "What do you want?"

  "Two things," the voice spoke. It was Raymond Parsons; Vince recognised the voice. "The water pump for the well isn't working."

  "Again?" Vince snapped. "What's the other thing?"

  "Some of us have heard that Jack has been bit." He then paused, then added, "They sent me to your caravan as a...kind of...spokesman."

  Vince shot up and burst through his door. He walked down the three steps to the grass and went face-to-face with Raymond. He was a rotund man, wore spectacles, and a computer programmer back in the old world, so Vince didn't have any real use for him. He seemed quite lazy and didn't like to get his hands dirty. He was offered a post guarding the barrier, but he said it played havoc with his knees. Vince then gave him the position of emptying the wastage down the nearest drain for his laziness. It was fair to say that Vince didn't like him very much.

  A week ago Vince had cruelly insulted Raymond for feigning sickness to get out of his chores, and told him to get his fat arse in gear, or he'd start to reduce his meals.

  "What's Jack got to do with you?" Vince eventually queried.

  "Well, should you be bringing infected people onto the camp? I mean—"

  "I've had to kill him. He's dead." Vince could feel his rage boiling over.

  "Oh."

  "Satisfied?"

  Raymond pushed his specs back up to the bridge of his nose and stammered, "What shall we do with him? Shall we..?"

  Vince's eyes were demonic and was a matter of inches from Raymond's features. He snarled, "What do you think we should do with him?"

  "Well, we usually burn the Rotters."

  Vince grabbed the man by his throat and slammed him up against the caravan. Raymond screamed out, frightened of what was about to happen to him. Vince was sleight in weight, but his appearance, especially with the scars and scratches over his face, made him look a lot meaner than he actually was to the average man.

  "No! We won't...burn him! He's getting buried on these grounds!" Vince could see three people in the corner of his eye and let go of the man, realising he was gaining an audience. The last thing he needed was rumours flying through the camp that their leader was losing it.

  Vince slowly took a step back and looked apologetic for his behaviour, but an apology never left his lips.

  "Okay," the man looked shocked at Vince's reaction. "I was just suggesting."

  "Well, don't."

  "I'll go then."

  "Forget it ever happened."

  Raymond wandered off and turned right, leaving Vince seething. He hated that man. Vince then looked at the family of three from caravan eleven. "What's the matter? You want a photo?"

  They never responded and went back to their place. Vince then saw Karen and Shaz walk around the corner of one of the caravans. The two girls were arm-in-arm and stopped next to him.

  Karen inspected Vince's face, noticing that he looked angry. He had just lost a friend, but she guessed that it was something even more recent. "You look annoyed about something."

  Vince shook his head. "It's nothing. What have you done with Jack?"

  Karen was the first of the women to react. "He's wrapped up in a sheet."

  Shaz appeared to be in a better condition than she was five minutes ago, and looked to be in more control. She said, "Have you a plot where to put him? I was maybe gonna start digging."

  "Of course." Vince nodded and added, "I'll help. There're shovels in the shed, by the chicken pen. I think I know just the place where to put him."

  *

  After burying Jack, and the three of them mumbling The Lord's Prayer afterwards—the only prayer they knew between them—with little enthusiasm, they stood and stared in silence. It was obvious that neither one of them were believers in the afterlife, but felt a prayer of some kind needed to be said. It seemed right. It was tradition.

  It seemed that Shaz had become caught up with the emotion of it all after saying The Lord's Prayer, and her tears fell, but they weren't just for Jack, they were for her husband and Spencer. God, she missed them so much!

  "If Pickle was here, he'd know what to say." Karen then smiled and said further, "He was kind of an expert with these things." She looked at the grave that the three of them dug. It was shallow, three feet in depth, but it was a better send-off than what most other people had received over the four weeks.

  "That's right," Vince said. "He was a bit of a religious man, wasn't he? He would probably know what to say."

  "He buried a lot of people over the weeks."

  "Who like?" asked Vince.

  Karen tried to think. "You didn't know most of them. He buried a guy called Laz. He was an inmate that had been bit. Then there was a woman called Davina. She was bit, and Pickle's boyfriend, KP, shot her in the back of the head after she asked him to do it." Karen remained silent for a few seconds while she thought of others. "He helped to bury Jack's son and his ex-girlfriend."

  "Wow," said Vince. "That's heavy shit."

  "Oh shit," sniffed Shaz. "I didn't even know that."

  Added Karen, "That was one of the saddest episodes of this whole outbreak. Thomas got blood in his eye from a Snatcher and turned. Kerry, Jack's ex, took a gun off of me and eventually shot Thomas and herself." She then turned to Vince and said, "Pickle also made a grave for your mum...after I had killed her."

  "God, this is really some fucked up shit," Shaz said. "Some of your stories make ours sound like a holiday trip."

  Ignoring Shaz's comment, Vince screwed his face in puzzlement and asked Karen, "What do you mean, you killed my mother?"

  Karen pulled her lips in and breathed out through her nose, preparing to tell Vince about his mother's demise, not knowing how he was going to react. "When me and Pickle arrived at the cabin, your dad kept her in the bedroom, tied up. She was one of them. Pickle and I...well, we took care of her. We were as gentle as we could have been. I promise you that."

  "Thank you." Vince's remark surprised Karen and Shaz, and the focus went back to Jack. "And I'm sorry about Pickle."

  "Vince!"

  Vince jumped when one of his men called his name. He turned around to see Jason Manifold. He was carrying a cleaver and looked like he had something urgent that he wanted to say. Vince asked, "What is it?"

  "We've got Rotters heading towards the barrier. We've got one coming over the brow of the hill, and two others on the other side of the blockade coming
from the Armitage area."

  "Great."

  "You said that we should tell you everything that happens as soon as we can."

  "Yes, I did."

  Jason Manifold asked, "Shall I take them down?"

  "No. I'll take them down myself." Vince removed his stare from Jason and looked at Jack's fresh grave. "I need the therapy. I need to release some anger."

  "If that's what you want."

  "It is." Vince turned his back on Jack's resting place and began heading towards the barrier, leaving the girls by the shallow grave. As he made his quick stroll towards the blockade, Vince shouted out to no one in particular, "Someone get me a crowbar!"

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Vince stormed to the barrier and climbed to the top of one of the HGVs where one guard was present. There were two trucks stretched out over the road, and were both positioned so that each truck was quite a few yards from each other and each was at either end of the large entrance of the camp.

  On the other truck were two of his men, both holding shotguns that had been in their possession for years when they used to be humble farmers.

  Vince could see that two beasts from the Armitage area were quite close, but the one on the other side of the blockade, coming from where he had just been, The Ash Tree area, was just over the brow of the hill, heading slowly for the HGV where his two farmer-guards were. It was rare that they would get Rotters coming at them from each side of the barrier, but at least they were small in numbers.

  Vince could see that he was gaining funny looks from the guards when he climbed down the HGV where there was just the one guard, and casually walked to the two Rotters that had come from the Armitage way.

  "Where the hell are you going?" one of the guards yelled from the other HGV. "Have you got a death wish or something?"