Craig could see that Danny and Jez were confused by his quip. “A bit before your time, lads.”
“Why do they call you Pickle?” asked Jez. “Kind of a weird nickname, don't you think?”
“Surname's Branston. Branston Pickle?” Pickle explained in short.
Jez had no idea what he was talking about.
“Forget it. Anyway, if yer think Pickle is lame ... I used to know a guy called Daniel Badcock.”
“Bullshit,” snickered Jez.
“It's true, and that was no nickname, that was his real surname. Dead now, though.”
The laughing soon stopped.
“Badcock,” Danny shook his head. “And I thought Gosling was bad enough. At school my nickname was Goblin.”
“Well, I'm Burns, so I'm okay.” Craig then clapped his hands together and said, “Right. Are we ready to go over?”
“Burns?” Pickle rubbed his stubbly chin in thought.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Now, where have I heard that name before?”
Craig shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea, Pickle. It's quite a common name. It's nothing unusual.”
“You don't have a brother called Tommy, do yer?”
“No, I don't.” Craig shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“A couple o' months ago, when I had been briefly split up from ma group, I met a guy called Tommy. His name was Tommy Burns. He took me in when I was in a bad way, looked after me, but the poor bastard never made it. We both headed into the woods, tryin' to go back to Vince's place at the Spode Cottage, but Tommy was taken down and...” Pickle looked up and could see that all three individuals were staring at him. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now. It was the fourth week it had happened.”
“Pickle!” a voice bellowed behind the men.
They all turned and stared, and could see the plump John Lincoln standing on his doorstep, arms folded, waiting for Harry Branston to come over to him. Pickle exhaled noisily and made the walk over to 6 Colwyn Place.
“Everything okay?” Pickle asked as he reached Lincoln.
“Just needed a quick word in private.” Lincoln cleared his throat and had a quick look around. “About what you, Stephen and Vince told me on Monday...”
Pickle turned to his left and right, making sure no residents were in earshot of the two men. “About seeing those four bikers?”
Lincoln nodded.
“What about it?”
“It was my call to make sure that nobody else found out, as I didn't want to be spreading fear throughout the street.”
“Why are yer tellin' me stuff that I already know?”
“I don't know whether I'm being paranoid or not, but are you sure nobody else knows? The Danson family have been a little off with me, Beverley has hardly said a word, and Terry seems a lot more jittery these days.”
“I think yer bein' paranoid.” Pickle tried to appease the middle-aged man. “Karen knows, but nobody else, not even Paul.”
“But the others...”
“Terry, like Paul, has lost his entire family, Beverley is wary of Paul and thinks he's a little weird, and the Danson family, as long as I've been here, hardly step out o' their house. Nobody knows. Calm down.”
“Good.” Lincoln nodded and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “I've been worried sick all week, but if those guys wanted to make an appearance, they would have made one by now.”
“Agreed, and upping the guards at the gate and putting a man by the wall would have only raised suspicions amongst the rest o' the residents.”
Lincoln nodded his head in agreement. “You're right. I suppose you're looking forward to leaving the camp for a few hours.”
“Too right,” Pickle laughed. “Since we told yer about those four men, yer haven't let me, Vince or Karen go out on a run.”
“I needed you here ... just in case.”
“I totally understand. At least we've got the girls.”
“That's right.” John Lincoln raised a smile and added, “Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie have only come back with scraps over the last few days, not really worth using up the petrol, but I'm grateful that they're here.”
“Anyway,” Pickle looked over at Danny, Craig and Jez, who were patiently waiting by the concrete wall, “I better get back. Who knows? In another week's time, Jez and Danny could go out on runs together.”
“I hope so.”
Pickle walked away, but then stopped and turned around. “About getting other recruits...”
“I know.” Lincoln nodded. “I was going to approach Lynne and Sandra from number twenty.”
“As soon as Jez and Danny are up to speed, possibly Freddie as well, we can take Lynne and Sandra on board and see if they're up to being out there.”
“They might turn me down.”
“Come on,” said Pickle. “They spend their time taking trips to the Trent, washing clothes, then bringing them back and hanging them out in the back gardens. That's all they do.”
“It has to be done, Pickle.”
“We need to do something, John. What happened at that wall, a few days ago ... the turnout was pathetic. Most o' yer people stood and watched.” Pickle was referring to the incident when a horde approached the concrete wall and some of the residents had to put them down as they approached.
“They're your people now as well, you know.”
“I don't wanna fall out with yer, I'm just sayin'.” Pickle turned and headed for the wall. “Right, I'm going o'er. See yer in an hour or so.”
Chapter Four
It had been a night of bad dreams for Paul Dickson, and as soon as he sat up in bed, he dropped his head in his hands as he began to relive the last dream he had had. He stood up, trying to shake off the images of Kyle's body floating down the river.
A week ago, he and Stephen Bonser went out to fill containers at the Trent. Paul had seen a young body float by, making him drop one of the containers in the river. That must have where the dream had come from.
Still dressed in yesterday's clothes, including the boots on his feet, Paul made his way downstairs and peered out from his living room window. He let himself out and stood outside on his doorstep, leaving the front door open.
He looked around the street.
He clocked the guard on the gate, John Lincoln talking to a resident on his doorstep, and the concrete wall to his side. It felt like Groundhog Day.
He saw Joanne Hammett in her bedroom window. She was fully clothed and looked like she was cleaning. She looked to her side, spotted Paul and waved at him, and he waved back. It took a few days to build a few bridges, but their friendship was back on track after a few days of talking. Paul jokingly told Joanne that he wouldn't throw her across the room anymore, so long as she left his cock alone.
He had his good days and bad days, but today ... he felt okay.
Pickle and Paul were going to go on a short run in the afternoon, after Pickle returned from No Man's Land. The reason for the short run was to pick up a couple of people from a cafe that Pickle had seen a few days ago with Danny. Pickle had mentioned it to Lincoln the other day, and John seemed annoyed that he had left the father and the two children behind. Pickle told Lincoln that he had offered them a place to stay when he was out with Danny, but the man had turned him down.
Lincoln wanted the community to grow. He told Pickle that he would love to eventually remove the concrete wall and extend the new Colwyn Place and have a few more empty houses available, and then make another barrier. Bringing back the father and his two children would mean that every house in Colwyn would have been full, especially with Ophelia, Elza and Stephanie now staying in number two.
Paul Dickson didn't want to hang around for a few hours, sitting on his doorstep, waiting for the afternoon. So he went down the side of his house, patted his right pocket to make sure that his knife was still there, and went into the back garden of the house he was staying at.
It was time for a walk.
His boots dragged throug
h the long grass of the lawn and reached the end of the garden; he was now facing a tall fence. He took a look behind him and stroked his dark thin beard that he allowed to grow over the last five days. He made sure residents from his side of the street hadn't spotted him from their bedroom windows, and then climbed the fence. He had jumped the wall a week ago, but he had been seen by Lincoln, then James Thomson on his second trip, so he didn't want to cause any more grief. He knew that Pickle and some others were in—or were going to be in—No Man's Land, so he decided to climb the fence and take a walk along the country lanes instead, rather than be in Little Haywood itself.
He climbed the fence, feeling the knife in his pocket pricking his thigh, and swung himself over, landing on the other side. He took his knife out and could see that on the other side of the road was a small privet hedge that seemed to run on for miles, and behind the hedge was a field.
Seeing that the place was clear of the dead, he placed his knife back into his pocket and went for his stroll. There was a slight cold breeze that stroked his features on this strange murky day, but Paul shook it off and continued with his meander.
He took in deep breaths as his feet hit the tarmac, and could see that the road was curving to the right up ahead. He followed the road and his walk continued. He had now been on the road for over ten minutes and the thought of being too far out and away from Colwyn Place never bothered him. He was enjoying the peace and quiet, which was made even more pleasurable because there were no dead about.
Not one single abandoned car, not one patch of blood, and not one limb could be seen on his little journey. He tried to imagine that the world was still a normal place and he was just a guy out taking a normal stroll, but the thoughts of his family soon killed that daydream off.
He followed the road that curved to the right and realised he was now at a crossroad. He took the road ahead, still with fences to his left and fields to his right, and increased his pace. He realised that he didn't know the place very well. In the past, it was a place he only drove through, not an area that he would pass on foot, and could see a road up ahead, to the left of the main road that he was on.
He reached the area and stopped.
He had come to a tiny village, a place he had no intention of going in to check out, but what did intrigue him was the pub at the side of the road.
“The Woolpack Inn,” Paul spoke aloud. He wasn't far away from Stafford, and was near a place called Gayton. He didn't realise he had walked that far. Paul Dickson had heard of the pub. He had been to it on one occasion, a few years ago with Julie. He remembered the visit well. It was before they had kids. He had the lamb shank and she had a chicken risotto.
He made a few steps forward, and then shook his head. “Nah. Ridiculous idea, Paul.”
He paused, and then had another scan around. The place all around had no dead or the living present.
“Maybe if I just have a quick peep inside,” he muttered to himself, staring at the large public house.
He took a slow walk over to The Woolpack Inn and noticed that the small car park had no cars on it at all. It looked like even the owner or owners had abandoned the place. He remembered the condition The Wolseley Arms pub was in after nearly three months, but this place looked immaculate from the outside.
He decided to take a slow walk around the place first. He approached the main double doors, and grabbed the brass handle of each door and gave them a pull. It was locked. If he wanted to have a snoop inside, he was going to have to try something else.
He took out his six-inch blade, heading for the back doors of the establishment, and passed the windows of the place; all windows had the curtains drawn. Once he reached around the back, he could see the back entrance, and decided to give the door a try. If this one didn't open, he was going to head back. He didn't want to head out any further, and he certainly didn't want to return to Colwyn Place looking like a drowned rat, as the sky looked threatening and rain didn't look too far away.
He reached for the doors and took in a deep breath. He didn't know why he did this, as he was fully expecting them to be locked. He gave them a tug.
They were locked.
“Oh well,” sighed Dickson. “Back to Haywood it is.”
He went back to the front of the establishment and headed for the main road, but something caught his eye. He turned around and saw a single ghoul shambling down towards him. It was all very bizarre. The front of the village and everything else around him, the pub and the main road, were clear and had no sign of carnage, not so much as a bloodied handprint on any of the windows.
But now this lone Rotter, Snatcher, Roamer, Creeper, Monster, Lurker, Biter ... whatever the fuck it was, as Paul didn't really have a nickname for these things like everybody else did, was heading towards him.
He could have walked away. It was still yards from his presence and a quick stroll would have created a lot of distance between him and the thing, but he stayed still and put the knife in his pocket.
He glared as the creature stumbled over in his direction, and he could see now that it was a male. The creature look bloated. It was dressed in a black suit, wearing a cravat, and had a dead flower attached to its breast pocket. Paul was certain that it was another ghoul that was released from the abbey, and he wasn't wrong.
A lot were killed by Colwyn's wall and Paul himself had put a few down on the way back to Little Haywood, but Pickle had told him that he was certain that more were about, and here was one of them.
Paul allowed the creature to get closer and smiled as it stretched out its arms and grabbed him on his shoulders. Paul grabbed its cold neck to prevent himself from being bitten, and slowly forced it to the floor. He began to laugh manically as he slowly pushed it to the ground. The creature gnashed and snarled, but Paul's overall strength was too much for the walking corpse.
The widower was squeezing the creature's throat so hard that he could feel his thumbs and fingers slowly sinking into the cold rotten flesh of the beast.
The laughing had now stopped. Paul had lost his smile, and he had now adopted a solemn look, which slowly transformed into a look of anger. He then began to snarl and smash its head off the tarmac; three times he whacked the back of its head on the road and now the ghoul was motionless.
He stood up straight and wiped his bloody fingers on his shirt. Paul then remained standing, glaring at the dead creature, until his breath returned to normal. Once it did, he had one last scan around the desolate area, then headed to the main road.
He had had enough.
He was going back to Colwyn Place.
Chapter Five
Vince Kindl had been talking to Lincoln.
Once the conversation had come to a close, Vince excused himself from the fifty-five-year-old man once he had clocked Stephen Rowley. Both Vince and Stephen had grown close as the days went by, forcing Karen to mock them as having a bromance, but it was just another pal for Vince.
It was good to make friends with the others, although Elza Crowe was still distant with Vince, despite Stephanie Perkins' attempt to get them to speak to one another over the last few days.
Vince walked over to Rowley's place, the same place where David MacDonald stayed, and asked where the young man was.
Rowley was on his doorstep, eating an apple that had been collected from the orchard at Colwich the day before, and smiled as he saw Vince approaching from the side.
“I think he's in bed, chap,” Stephen said. “He got up, but was moaning that he was still tired and that he had had a bad night's sleep.”
Vince smiled. “I wonder why that is.”
“No idea.” Stephen grunted, then twisted his neck and asked, “Anyway, are you alright, chap?”
Vince nodded and remained standing. “Just talking to John. Thinking about taking a trip to the garden centre down the road. Gonna see if there're any of those hand mowers left.”
“Really? Why?”
Vince laughed and pointed around at the overgrown lawns.
>
“But there's fuck all left in that garden centre.”
“There's bits and bobs, or there used to be. Don't you think these bad boys need a trim?” Vince asked, pointing at the lawns.
“Of course, but water, food, gas and medical equipment comes first, chap.”
“Which we now have plenty of, maybe not that much gas. But if John wants this to be a proper community, almost like it was in the old world...”
“I dunno.” Stephen finished the apple and put the core into his pocket. “If outsiders spot our small street, with the lawns all trimmed...”
“We were spotted days ago anyway, and I think a six foot concrete wall on one side and a steel slide gate on the other side is a bit of a giveaway that we have a good thing going here.”
“True. I'm just glad nothing came out of what we saw on Monday,” said Rowley. “I'm starting to relax now.”
“Me too.”
“Sorry, who's going on this little trip to the garden centre?”
Vince smiled. “Take a guess.”
“Me and you,” he sighed.
“It'll take five minutes to get there and five to get back,” said Vince “Lincoln wants to bring two hand mowers back, if possible, and it'll be us two that'll be cutting the lawns over the next few days. All twenty, front and back.”
“It'll keep us busy, I suppose, Vincent.” Stephen shook his head. “Sorry. I meant to say Vince.”
“I get called both. Doesn't matter to me. I'm not picky about what people call me, unlike you.”
Stephen lowered his head and uttered, “I know you think I'm weird about people addressing my name correctly, but I have my reasons, chap.”
Vince could see the sombreness on Stephen's face and cleared his throat before saying, “I don't want to pry, but—”
“My dad used to call me Steve.” Rowley looked teary. He looked away and cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. “Especially when he was belittling me.”
“Was your dad a bit of a bastard?”
“A bit.” Stephen nodded. “He was ... let's just say he was old school. He liked to use old methods as punishment. He like using the belt and his fists, calling me Steve as he was doing it.”
Snatchers (Book 11): The Dead Don't Knock Page 2