"What the fuck is going on?" Pickle whispered.
Pickle then clocked the rest of the attire the thing had on. It was wearing white silky baggy trousers, and a silk shirt and a colourful waistcoat that Pickle wouldn't be seen dead in. The irony was that this thing was wearing the waistcoat and was also dead.
It made more sense once Pickle released a sharp whistle to get its attention. It turned around, caked in make-up, and wearing a huge red nose.
A clown. But it was a clown of the dead variety, and Pickle froze, even when it quickly strolled towards him.
Shaking off his lapse in concentration, Branston suddenly swiped the machete at the thing, hitting it in the neck. The Snatcher was still trying to claw at him, grab him, while Pickle was trying to free the blade that was halfway into its neck. Its dead eyes, bright red nose, stupid green wig, and white make-up that covered his face, only enhanced its hideous features.
Pickle had killed many of these things, but this one incident was one of the most frightening episodes he had experienced. He had always hated clowns at the best of times. They may well be fun at parties during the day or at a circus, but Pickle always used to joke that the fun factor of a clown wears off if you see one at midnight, drunk, and waiting for a bus.
Finally removing the machete, he front-kicked the beast in its stomach. It bounced off the living room wall and went for the ex-inmate once again, the bounce giving it some momentum. This time it received a fatal blow. The blade entered the right side of its head, and was so deep that it stopped just above the nose. The clown fell, and Pickle held onto the weapon as it hit the carpet.
"Well, yer don't see tha' everyday."
His mind began to wander and thought about the scenario that had just occurred. He bent down and went through the man's pockets.
Nothing.
He wore an ID badge, clipped to his breast pocket, and Pickle took it off. Pickle didn't know whether to laugh or not at the situation. He read the ID badge: "Jimmy Page. Children's Entertainer." I thought he was a guitarist.
The outbreak occurred over the weekend, so it made sense a little that there was a clown here, maybe for someone's birthday. But where were the kids? The parents?
Pickle heard a thud upstairs and left the room to climb the stairs to the first floor. The bathroom was quickly checked, but he knew that the bedroom on his right was where the noises had come from when he was on the ground floor. He checked the other bedroom to make sure, and then turned his attention to the one to his right. He tried the door, but it appeared to be locked, unless it had been barricaded.
Pickle gently knocked the door and said, "If anyone can hear me, say hello."
He heard the shuffling of many feet and then hands slapping the door, making him jump. He tried once more. "Is there anyone human in there?" The slapping continued and the things behind the door began to growl. "I guess not."
Pickle could just imagine the scene inside the bedroom.
He guessed that it was kids and parents that had locked themselves in, and maybe the clown, Jimmy Page, was attacked, fell into a coma for an hour, then turned and began attacking the party members, some fleeing outside and others running upstairs. Now they had turned and were still in their party clothes, still with their face paints on, probably.
Pickle shook his head. He didn't have a clue.
He remembered a couple of days ago a story that Karen had told him. When Karen went to Fradley, looking for him, Vince and Shaz, she came across a few girls that had been on a hen night and had turned. She explained what a weird situation it was, but Pickle felt that he had now a weird story of his own, and this scenario could probably top Karen's story.
He lowered his head, whispered a prayer through the door for the poor young souls that were inside, and left the house.
Chapter Eleven
Paul Dickson was still waiting to be given a job to do. He had been at the camp for days, and Vince had told him that he would eventually be given something to do while Rosemary looked after Kyle.
He was still waiting, and was even contemplating on volunteering for the next run they went on. He knew that that would be a selfish thing to do, considering that Kyle had already lost his mother and sister, but living on the caravan site was mundane, and maybe father and son having a break from one another now and again would be a good thing.
Paul and Kyle were walking around the area. Kyle had a twig in his right hand, pretending he had a gun, and would sometimes run in front of his dad and behind a caravan, to then jump out at him. Paul would feign being shot, clutch his chest, then tumble a little. A few minutes of this and Paul Dickson's enthusiasm to play with his son was deteriorating, and he began thinking of his wife and daughter, stuck in that Renault Clio at the supermarket for all that time.
Paul's mind wandered back to that day he had found his girls, reanimated, and walking away from them while Bentley Drummle had taken care of them with his Glock.
What did he call that gun? Paul scowled in thought, then smiled to himself. Glen.
"Daddy!"
Paul was dragged back to the present as his son stood ahead of him with his hands on his hips. He didn't look happy.
"What is it, big chap?"
"I was shouting you for ages, but you were ignoring me."
"Sorry son. I was miles away."
"I'm bored."
"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
Kyle stood and thought for a few seconds. "I want another bag of nuts."
"So are you bored or hungry?"
"Both."
"They're in the cupboard, back in the caravan." Paul cussed under his breath, then added, "The caravan's already open. Hurry back, I'll wait for you here."
"Yay!" Kyle punched the air, and ran away, almost knocking over an elderly woman.
Young Kyle Dickson entered the caravan and took out another small bag. He looked at the front to see if they were the same kind, but couldn't really tell properly. He took them anyway, and headed for the part of the hedge where he had seen the rat. His dad would have to wait.
He grabbed a handful of nuts and sprinkled them by the gap he had created. He then walked a few yards away from the hedge and sat on the grass, near the shallow grave. After a few minutes of staring, he suddenly remembered that his dad was waiting for him and quickly got to his feet. But before he could move, his furry little friend appeared, forcing a smile over the youngster's face.
The rat began nibbling on the nuts, and was struggling, making Kyle laugh out loud. Kyle took a slow walk over to the creature, but Kyle's presence forced the thing to stop eating, then darted back under the gap.
"Hey, where're you going?"
Kyle ran over to the gap and stuck his face into it. He could see the rat scurrying through some long grass, and eventually being swallowed up by it. His eyes scanned the spot that was behind the camp, and wasn't familiar with this area. There were fields, and in the distance there was a house. Kyle guessed correctly that it was a farm.
Is that where his little friend lived? With the rest of the animals?
He looked over his shoulder, stuffed the bag of nuts into his pocket, and began crawling through the gap. He pushed away any twigs that poked him in the face and scraped against his body, and pushed the twigs in front of him so he could get through easier. Once he was at the other side, he brushed himself down, and began slowly walking through the grass. He whistled to beckon his friend, and was paranoid that he may accidentally step on him, so his strides were long and slow.
He spent most of his time looking down, searching through the long grass, and by the time Kyle Dickson had looked up, he could see that he was near the farmhouse.
Forgetting that his dad was still waiting for him back at the camp, the seven-year-old continued walking. He then stopped once he was near the farm, and wondered if there were any monsters inside. He was certain that he could outrun these things, but he'd prefer if he never came across one. He had only seen a few, and they scared the life out
of him.
He bypassed a small barn by the left of him and stood staring at the front of the house. He hated farms. Although the houses of farms were big, he found them too smelly. This one was no different, and immediately placed his T-shirt over his nose. There was something wrong, however. He could smell animal faeces, but he couldn't see any animals.
He looked to the right of him and could see, in the distance, the back of the hedge that surrounded the caravan park. He turned his head to peer back at the house, and was undecided whether to enter it or not. His thoughts about his furry friend had diluted a little, and now his mind was being smothered with intrigue because of the mysterious house.
He took a deep breath in and decided to go inside.
Chapter Twelve
Shaz walked alongside Karen as she was doing her medical rounds. Before, she had already been round to see if there was anything that the residents needed, as far as water and toilet roll were concerned, and gave a list to one of the guards who was in charge of the supplies in the Spode Cottage.
"Oh dear," Karen sighed.
"What is it?" Shaz asked.
Karen scratched at her left thigh through her blue jeans and then pointed at the door of the caravan they were now standing outside of. "The old guy that lives here is called John Waite."
Shaz looked perplexed, "And?"
"When you lot were out on that run to Fradley a few days ago, last Sunday, he bored the pants off me. Anyway, brace yourself. As soon as he opens that door he's gonna bore you to tears about his dead wife who died five years ago, his daughter, Helen, and his grandchildren." Karen was lost in thought. "What was their names again? Carla and Jack, I think."
"That's a shame." Shaz playfully punched Karen on the arm. "The old guy's probably just lonely."
"I know." Karen smiled, immediately feeling guilty for mocking an elderly man that was missing his family. The poor man was lonely, and frightened to death of what the future had in store for him.
Karen knocked the door.
*
Once the rounds were done, Karen informed Shaz that she needed a nap, Shaz told her friend that she was going to see a young man called Bobby, and was hoping to get some wine from him from the Spode Cottage.
Karen was on her way back to her place, looking up at the cloudless sky and the glorious sun, when she physically bumped into a man called David Chatting.
Karen immediately apologised, and David looked her up and down and said. "You can bump into me anytime, darling."
She never responded verbally, smiled, and was grabbed by the arm by David. He was an average-looking man, average height, and had a beard that was in desperate need of a trim.
"Let go of me, please." Karen swallowed her anger and tried to keep calm.
"I heard you gave my buddy, Robin, a hard time."
Karen had to think for a moment to digest what he was talking about. The penny had dropped. She responded, "I just don't like being looked at by old men, that's all. Any men, for that matter."
"Maybe..." he looked over his shoulder and his tongue poked the inside of his mouth, "...I could give you a hard time. Know what I mean?"
Karen managed a chuckle, and said, "Just because one or two women are up for it, doesn't mean we're all going to succumb to your advances."
"Eh?" It was obvious the man didn't understand what Karen was saying.
Karen laughed, "What I'm trying to say...I would, using Vince's words, rather shit in my hands and clap, than sleep with you. Thanks, but no thanks."
"You don't know what you're missing."
"If I can recall from my past, with the exception of my deceased fiancé, of course, what I'm missing is some guy using me like a piece of meat, followed by frustration. Go and empty your balls somewhere else."
David had anger stretched over his features and grabbed Karen by the hair as she went to walk away. She turned and slapped him across the right side of his cheek, making the man stagger backwards a little. He shook his head and was clearly embarrassed. He snarled and threw his arm back, ready to punch Karen, but he was suddenly pulled backwards onto the floor.
Karen looked up to see Pickle standing over the man. He had just come from his watch, heard the melee on the way to his own caravan, and turned the corner in time to see Dave getting his slap from Karen.
Karen could be a fiery creature, but Pickle knew that she wouldn't slap someone for no reason.
"Wha' the fuck are yer doin'?" Pickle stood over the cowering man, waiting for an answer.
"It's okay, Pickle." Karen spoke up from behind him. "Leave him. I think our friend is a little...frustrated, shall we say."
Pickle scrunched his eyes at the cowering David Chatting. "So all this arguing was because yer wanted to get yer end away?"
"No harm in asking," said David, now holding his hands up.
"Just forget it, Pickle." Karen wasn't in the mood. All she wanted to do was a have a lie down.
"Yer was gonna strike her." Pickle pointed his finger at Chatting. "She's a pregnant woman."
Said David, "I didn't know that."
"No?"
He shook his head vigorously and added, "God, no."
He seemed genuine and Pickle believed him.
Robin Barton appeared from around the corner, along with another male colleague that Karen and Pickle didn't know by name. Their presence gave David a burst of confidence, and he quickly stood up and brushed himself down.
"Problem, lads?" Robin stood, holding a baseball bat. He and the other male had just finished a barrier watch and were on their way back to their caravans.
Pickle sighed, "No problem at all."
"No problem?" screamed David Chatting. He then turned to Robin and the other guard and added, "This faggot just dragged me to the floor."
Pickle explained to the others, "He was pestering Karen, so I acted." He then turned to David and added, "And please don't call me that name again. It's disrespectful."
"You mean faggot?" David quipped. "Faggot!"
All three men were in hysterics and Robin was the next man to speak. "Vince puts you in charge for one day, the new guy, and you think you're something special."
Pickle was tired of talking. He had had a bad day, and was sleep deprived.
"Uh-huh." Robin cackled, and began to playfully nudge his two pals, "I think he's getting angry."
"I'm not angry." Pickle rubbed the palms of his hands over his tired face. He simply wasn't in the mood for this bullshit. "I'm just tired and I need a lie down." Pickle turned away and gestured to Karen that she should walk with him.
"That's it." Robin cackled, "Walk away, faggot."
Pickle stopped walking, turned around, and took a few strides forwards, with no protest from Karen, and this made all three men giggle like children.
Robin looked smug and had his chin in the air, still grasping the bat. "You think you're a hard case, do you? Just because you spent weeks out there? I've heard about your story."
David joked aloud, "Watch he doesn't hit you with his handbag."
Pickle stormed over, making all three men jump, and David Chatting was the first to be grabbed. He gripped David by the hair and threw him up against the caravan. Karen shouted after him, but she saw the venom in Pickle's face—something she hadn't seen before, and was scared of being accidentally hit while the red mist was down. She decided to keep well back.
Robin Barton took a step forward as David Chatting screamed and fell to the floor, but Pickle side-kicked Robin in the knee, forcing him to fall and drop his bat, and then booted him in the face as if he was kicking a football. By this time the other colleague had ran away, and Pickle grabbed David Chatting up with both hands, ignoring his pleading, and head-butted the man twice. He released David and threw another punch into the side of his cheek.
"You're gonna kill him!" screamed Karen. "Stop it!"
Pickle then turned to Robin, who was clambering to his feet, and threw his knee into his side. Robin collapsed and moaned, trying to get
his breath back, and Pickle grabbed his shirt with both hands and threw him against the caravan. Inside, the curtains twitched and whoever was inside was too scared to come out and see what the bother was.
Three more men appeared from around the corner, including the one that had ran away, a man called Bobby, and were all carrying bats. All three men looked at the state of Robin and David. Pickle was standing tall with his arms folded, and glared at the three men with devilish eyes and said to them in a calm, disturbing tone, "Yer gonna need more than three men to sort me out, sisters. And bigger bats."
One man on the right immediately threw his bat down and said to Bobby, "I didn't realise it was Pickle that you wanted us to beat up."
The other male also left, leaving Pickle and the man who was originally with Robin, glaring at one another. "Just you and me," said Pickle.
"Just you." The man lowered his head, cleared his throat and walked away.
"What the fuck's got into you?" yelled Karen. She was still apprehensive of approaching the man she thought she knew. She remained where she was. She kept her distance.
Pickle took an age to answer and was taking in deep breaths to calm himself down. "I've had a bad day," he finally responded.
Karen had her hands on her head. "You've messed them both up."
"That David was bothering yer."
"I was handling it."
"Yer were two seconds from getting a smack."
"And I would have smacked him back, trust me. Vince is gonna go nuts."
"I can handle that prick."
Karen finally approached her friend and inspected the carnage that he had created closely. Both Robin and David were on the floor, groaning and bleeding.
"Look at the state of the pair of them."
Pickle tried to joke, "They're lucky I didn't have ma handbag with me."
Karen managed a smirk, and gave him a hug, but she wasn't feeling anything back. She broke away, a little embarrassed and looked at his face. "Apart from this, how's your day been?" she tried to joke.
Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) Page 57