“And being called Steve reminds you of the abuse you experienced?”
Stephen Rowley sucked in a deep breath and then released it slowly. “I don't really want to talk about it any further.”
“Okay.” Vince respected Stephen's wishes and leaned his head back, wondering if he should leave him or try and think of something else to say. Maybe he should try and change the subject.
“My dad did this to me.” Vince pointed at his scarred face. “So you're not on your own.”
Stephen took a glance at Vince's features, but never responded verbally. He then looked away.
Vince added, “It doesn't matter how old you get, you never seem to forget, do you? You never get over it.”
Stephen nodded but remained looking away.
Seeing that Stephen Rowley wasn't in the mood for talking to anyone, Vince patted the man on the shoulder and slowly walked away. “I'll see you later.”
Chapter Six
The walk was fifteen minutes old and Pickle, Craig, Danny and Jez had seen not one of the dead on their travels. They now passed St Mary's Abbey and were getting near to the end of the village.
Pickle stopped walking and the other three did the same.
“What now?” asked Craig.
“Ain't much we can do,” sighed Pickle. “If there're no Snatchers to put down, we may as well head back. Maybe tomorrow we should take a vehicle and go further out.”
Jez looked disappointed. He had killed these things before, but not many. He needed the practice, and with being out with Pickle and Craig he knew he was in safe hands.
“Unless...” Pickle rubbed his stubbly chin in thought.
“Unless what?” Craig queried.
“I tell yer what,” Pickle began. “We'll go o'er the hump bridge, o'er the Trent, onto the Stafford Road. We'll go by the pub and head back to the village that way. Maybe we'll see some ... action.”
“So basically we go in a full circle?”
“Pretty much.” Pickle nodded.
Harry Branston led the way. Once they reached the hump bridge, all males wordlessly crossed it and were now on the Stafford Road.
“There.” Pickle pointed up ahead and all four could see three Snatchers. Pickle initially thought they were from the abbey, but these creatures were dressed in casual clothes.
“Danny has a little more experience than yer now,” Pickle looked over to Jez. “So yer can get two o' them. Straight through the eye, the temple, or through the front o’ the head, if yer think yer blade is strong enough.”
Jez looked like a bag of nerves and seemed reluctant.
“It'll be fine.” Craig tried to reassure the youngster. “We're not far away.”
Jez shook his head. “Easy for you to say.”
“I'll go first,” announced Danny, then released a whistle, making the three dead turn around in unison.
The dead were spread out and Danny strolled forwards, telling the others that he would get the one in front.
“Have you noticed a change in him since you first took him out?” Craig asked Pickle, as both men watched the confident young man, from twenty yards away, getting ready to take out the first ghoul.
“Absolutely.” Pickle nodded. “The first time I took him out, he could barely kill one, even though I had it in an arm lock.”
“It's all about practice, which then builds the confidence.”
Pickle nodded his head in agreement. “That's all it is.”
They watched as Danny put the nearest one to him down with no difficulty. The young man then briskly walked back. He had a smile on his face, almost smug-like, and said to Jez, “Over to you.”
“I don't know about this.” Jez didn't look sure. “Two of them?”
“They're quite spread out.” Craig pointed over to the two dead who were apart and heading their way. The one in front was five yards ahead of the one behind.
“By the time yer take out the first one,” Pickle said, “yer should be ready for the second.”
“But what happens if I mess it up?” Jez almost looked teary. He really wanted to do this, but thought that taking out two was too risky.
“Then yer will probably die,” Pickle joked.
“This is not funny, Pickle. I'm shitting myself here.”
“Relax.” Pickle lost his smile and began to feel sorry for the youngster. “If yer get into trouble, we'll sort yer out.”
“You promise?”
“Aye.”
“Okay.”
Jez strolled forwards, away from the others, and stopped once he was near the dead. He blew a breath out, now clasping onto his knife with his clammy right hand. He stared at the first ghoul; it was only yards away, and he could already smell the disgusting odour coming from its rotting body.
The teenager held his breath and brought his arm back, over his head, finally driving the knife into its skull, just above the forehead. It fell to the ground and Jez quickly tried to retrieve the knife, aware that 'number two' wasn't far away, but he couldn't move it.
“I need some help here,” he called out.
Craig laughed and made his way over, seeing that Jez was almost in tears with panic. Jez tried to pull out the knife one more time, but nothing was happening. He still couldn't get the knife out and now decided to retreat back to the group. He passed Craig and stood next to Pickle and Danny as Craig took care of the other Snatcher with little fuss. Craig then made his way back, and only stopped to bend over and pull out Jez's knife out of the skull of the being that Jez had put down earlier.
Feeling stupid, Jez lowered his head in embarrassment as Craig approached him and handed him back his knife.
“It was a good effort,” Pickle said to the youngster, knowing that the young man was feeling deflated.
“Was it?” Jez wasn't sure.
“Some people can't even kill one.”
“But if I was on my own and came across two or three, I would have been in trouble.”
“Yer could run.”
“But if I was trapped...”
“Yer would be fine. Fear would make yer fight yer way out. I'm sure o' it.”
“What the hell is that?” Craig was pointing in the opposite direction of the fallen dead, and all four males could see an individual—it looked like a man—cycling towards the group. He didn't seem to be in any rush, and once he clocked Pickle and the rest he didn't look too bothered about their presence. He was now getting near, and they could see that the man was slowing down and had a huge grin on his features.
The bike stopped and the man held his hand up. “Morning, gentlemen.” He then looked over at the dead and added, “I see you've been busy.”
All four mumbled 'good morning' to the man with dark features. He looked to be in his fifties, had a full beard and had a large belly. His overall appearance suggested that he had kept well since the apocalypse.
“Where yer headed?” Pickle was the first to query the man.
“I mean no harm, gentlemen,” the man spoke, still standing up and straddling the bike.
“And neither do we.”
“I'm on my way back to my family.” He turned and patted the basket that was attached to the back of the bike. “Did a bit of strawberry and raspberry picking, near Milford.”
“Yer seem in good shape.” Pickle smiled, making the man relax. “What's yer secret?”
“I have a little place, not far from here.” The man wasn't giving too much away, which was understandable. “Water seems the hardest to come by, don't yer think? I have a cabin. We've used everything.”
“What like?”
“We collected rainwater, used a borehole.”
“We go to the Trent now and again. If a river's practically on yer doorstep, then yer may as well use it.”
“I hope you boil your water.”
Pickle said, “We don't really have the gas or the—”
“Boil your water! All of it!” The man was now becoming irate, making the other four tetchy. “You got it from a
stream? Boil it. We now live in a world where most of humanity has fallen victim to a mass-transmitted virus. Don't trust water!”
“Erm...” Pickle was confused and didn't know how to react to this unpredictable and aggressive individual. “We'll bear that in mind.”
The stranger added, “Showers are a pain in the arse.”
“Why's that?”
“There're two reasons. Heating the water is a pain and getting the water in the first place can be tricky. We had one shower that took two batteries. It was heated by a small gas cylinder and needed electric to power a small pump. We needed a bucket of water from a tap or stream, which is just about enough for a quick hot shower. What about your place?”
“What about our place?” Pickle was becoming uncomfortable in the man's presence. He seemed pleasant at first, then suddenly became aggressive without warning.
“What about solar power? You have it?”
“Erm.”
“Do you have solar power or not?”
“Yeah, but it's not perfect. It works better on some days, depending on the weather. Running water can be a pain, unpredictable, so that's why we take trips to the river every day.”
“Solar power,” the man scoffed. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”
“Why?” asked Pickle
“Wait till the winter when you'll only get four or five hours of daylight, then you’ll know why.”
Pickle decided to say no more about the facilities and the whereabouts of Colwyn Place. He was unsure about the man. There was a silence, and all five males looked at one another and all seemed uncomfortable.
“Well,” Pickle clapped his hands together and decided to end the awkwardness, “We'll be seeing yer.”
“What?” the man scratched his head.
“Don't wanna be keeping yer family waiting, do yer?”
“Oh.” The man lowered his head and said, “I suppose I better go then, get back and see my boys and the missus.”
“Well, you take care now,” said Craig. “And good luck with ... surviving and all that shit.”
Finally taking the hint, the man huffed, “Fine. So long, gentlemen.” He placed his right foot on the pedal and began to move away.
All four watched as the strange man travelled along the road, weaving in and out of the three dead bodies, slowly getting further away from them.
“Well, at least that wasn't weird,” Craig sarcastically remarked.
“He was a bit unusual, that's for sure.” Pickle nodded.
“I wonder why he started to become aggressive?” Jez asked.
“No idea.” Pickle turned and looked at Danny, Jez and Craig. “Shall we go home?”
All three nodded.
Chapter Seven
The light drizzle from the dark heavens had ceased for the time being, and Paul Dickson made his way back to Colwyn Place, humming a New Order tune in his head.
He stopped halfway through it and his thoughts went back to a couple of days ago. He was getting to know Craig Burns and they both talked about their past. Like Paul, Craig had lost his whole family and seemed to be coping with it better than what Paul was. They talked about people they had met and where they had stayed since the outbreak.
When it was revealed that Craig had stayed in Slitting Mill, in one of the big houses, Paul perked up and told Craig that he had met a nice guy with a beard called Dave as he was passing through the place on foot. He had a son and a wife called Teresa. Craig knew who Paul was talking about, and reluctantly told Paul that the Dave and his family that he had mentioned had been killed by the WOE gang, days ago. This piece of news seemed to have put Paul in a sombre mood.
Snapping out of his daydreaming, Paul Dickson could see a lone figure stumbling out onto the road, from a field. He had seen nothing on the way to the Woolpack Inn, and pulled out his knife, just in case it was needed.
His feet began to slow down and could see that the figure was male, human, and was now sitting on the side of the road, holding his arm. Paul held his hand up to greet the man; the man waved back. As Paul got closer, he could see that the individual looked exhausted, mid-fifties and was teary, as if he had recently been involved in a traumatic experience.
“You okay, pal?” Paul asked, as he got nearer.
The man smiled thinly, still holding his arm, and shook his head. “Not really, mate.”
Paul could see that the man's right hand was grasping a tea-towel and the material was pressed onto the man's left forearm. Paul sat next to the man, on the side of the road, and could see he was pale, sweating profusely.
“How recent?” Paul pointed at the man's wound, the blood slowly soaking through the material.
“Just.”
“Just?”
“Ten minutes ago,” the man groaned. He wiped his brow and Paul could see the side of his grey hair was covered in sweat. “I can't believe it.”
Paul said, “I'm sorry.”
“You wouldn't believe the shit I've gone through and the things I've had to do to get this far, and then this happens.”
“How?”
The man never answered Paul's query straightaway. The stranger said, “You know, three weeks ago me and my four buddies hacked our way through nearly thirty of the fuckers to escape from the woods, then I get fucking munched on while I'm having a shit. Really?”
“You on your own?” asked Paul.
The man nodded.
“Family?”
“Not anymore.”
“So, now what happens?”
The man sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Just wait, I suppose, until I turn into one of those DCs.”
“DCs?”
The man released a short laugh. “Just something me and my pals call them. I was out with some of them, but we were attacked.”
“Your pals dead?”
“Yep. Every single one of them.” The man released the towel and threw it to the side. “Don't know why I'm doing this. I'm gonna be dead, sooner or later.”
“How did they die?”
“You ask a lot of questions, mister, don't you? I suppose it doesn't matter what I tell you now. I was with a gang, a biker gang from Stafford, and we ran into the dead a few days ago. I managed to escape, but I lost my bike, my jacket ... and my pals.”
Paul wasn't sure if this man was a part of the moped WOE gang, but chose not to ask. He was a condemned man. It didn't matter what he was before.
“So, how are you gonna play this out?”
“What do you mean?” The man seemed puzzled by Paul's question.
“You have options.”
“Options?” The man began to laugh. “I'm fucked.”
“True.” Paul nodded at the blade he was holding. “But it can be slow or quick. It's your call.”
The man gulped. “I don't know. I don't want to get ill, but at the same time I want to savour every second I have left on this earth.”
Paul flashed the guy a sympathetic look, smiling thinly. “Are you sure about that, pal?”
“I think so.” The man looked unsure. I wonder what it feels like ... you know, when you turn.”
“I think there's a lot of discomfort, then you slip into a coma before ... you become one of them.”
“Doesn't sound so bad, does it?”
Paul smiled. “There're worse ways to go, I suppose.”
“There is.”
“I can make it quick, if you want.” Paul looked at the broken man, but he never responded to Paul's suggestion.
Even if he was a part of the biker gang, he was still probably a father three months ago, a husband, and maybe a brother. He still lost people he loved. Maybe he was a part of the gang before the apocalypse, but he didn’t seem to be wearing the usual attire. Or were they formed after?
Was the gang a mixture of people, mainly men, who had all lost partners and children and now wanted to survive at all costs, no matter who got in their way? Maybe they weren't such bad people. Maybe this was just the way the world was now, and thinkin
g otherwise would be naive.
“I need to get back.” Paul held out his hand. The pair of them shook hands and Paul stood to his feet, still holding onto his knife. “I'd take you back with me, but bringing an infected stranger into the street wouldn't go down well. I'm not Mr Popular as it is.”
“That's okay.” The man dropped his head and gazed at the ground, tears falling from his eyes. “I don't think I'd make it anyway. I can hardly stand and my head's pounding.”
“My name's Paul, by the way.”
The man kept his head lowered. “I'm Billy.”
“Rest in peace, Billy.”
Paul brought the knife down, into the back of the man's head. He released the blade and watched as Billy slumped to the ground and fell onto the road. Dickson bent down, pulled out the blade, wiping it on the grass, and placed it back into his pocket. He put his hands under the arms of the recently deceased and dragged him to the side, on the grassy bank.
“Sorry, Billy.” Paul looked at the body with sympathy, before adding, “There're enough of those fuckers about as it is, without you adding to the equation.”
Paul put his hands in his pockets and casually walked away, back to Colwyn Place, humming another New Order tune.
Chapter Eight
“I wonder how long they'll be.”
Karen Bradley turned her head and stared at Vince Kindl, waiting for some kind of a response. Both individuals were sitting on the kerb, bored. The street wasn't busy as such, but it had some activity. There was a guard by the steel slide gate as usual, all four members of the Danson family were making a rare appearance and talking to Lincoln on his doorstep, and Stephen Rowley stood by the concrete wall, peering over.
“Vince!” Karen tried again.
“What?” Finally she got a response.
“I was just wondering how long they're gonna be.”
“Good for you,” he snapped. He looked to the side, at Karen, and felt guilty immediately for snapping. She was clearly worried about Pickle.
“They'll be fine,” he sighed. “I can understand why you're worried. Every time we go out, something happens. But they're just out looking for a couple of Rotters for Danny and Jez to practice on.”
Snatchers (Book 11): The Dead Don't Knock Page 3