Snatchers (Book 11): The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  “We'll probably have to go out and scout for more people,” said Karen.

  Pickle sighed, “Yep, but who knows? We could all be dead tomorrow.”

  “I just love your positive way of thinking, Pickle,” Vince joked.

  “What's that noise?” Pickle sat up with a start and rubbed his eyes.

  “I can't hear anything.” Karen look puzzled. “Maybe you were dozing off and dreaming.”

  Pickle never reacted and the three of them were silent for a minute or so, until he spoke once more.

  He said, “No, I can definitely hear something.”

  “I can hear a buzzing.” Vince spoke up, rubbing his eyes. “A vehicle, maybe?”

  “That's what I was thinking.” Pickle nodded and pointed to his right. “It's coming in that direction.”

  All three were now on their feet, looking to the right. They were trying to look through the gaps of the hedges that were far away, trying to get a glimpse of what it was.

  “There!” Karen pointed.

  A large white transit van could he seen moving along the Stafford Road. They were all hoping that the vehicle was just some random family or individual escaping or going somewhere. They hoped that the van continued to go straight ahead, across the two mini roundabouts and onto the Rugeley Road, but it slowed down when it reached the pub and turned left. It was now on the Wolseley Road, heading for Colwyn Place, heading their way.

  “We need to stop that van before it gets to Colwyn,” cried Pickle.

  He ran towards the road, climbed the wall and Karen and Vince followed suit. All three crouched and hid behind a large bush.

  Asked Vince, “Now what?”

  Pickle looked around and picked up a large stone. “I need to take out that van.”

  “By putting through his windscreen?” Karen's face suggested that it wasn't a good idea.

  “Have yer got any better suggestions?” Pickle snapped. “If we jump out in the middle of the road, he'll just go through us.”

  Vince began, “Maybe it's not related to that gang and it's a scared guy that...” Vince didn't finish his sentence and could feel Karen and Pickle's stare. “Okay,” he admitted. “Who am I kidding? It's them.”

  “What if whoever's in there are here just to talk?” Karen questioned the former inmate. “There are no other vehicles with it.”

  “I don't think we can take that risk. There could be a dozen men in the back o' that van, all armed.”

  The van increased its speed; Pickle clasped the stone tighter and could see through the van's windscreen. He turned to Vince. “There's only one o' them in the front.”

  All three seemed hesitant, but then Karen said, “Fuck it. Just do it.”

  The van was getting nearer and Pickle was unsure what do to now. “Here goes.”

  He stood up and threw the stone.

  The windscreen cracked, the vehicle's tyres squealed and the van veered right and crashed through a picket fence. It eventually came to a stop in the field opposite.

  All three looked at one another, then took out their large blades. Pickle led the way as they crossed the road and entered the field.

  Harry Branston approached the front of the van, and could see a young man inside trying to start the engine after it had stalled when coming to a stop.

  If there were men in the back, they would have been out by now, Pickle thought. So what was in it? There must be something in it, otherwise, why bring a van in the first place? Why didn't the man appear on a moped if he was travelling alone to pass on a message?

  Pickle opened the driver's door and could see by the clothing that it was one of Drake’s men. He grabbed the man with his left hand and dragged him out of the vehicle and onto the grass. He then raised his blade and pointed it at the Wrath of Evil gang member.

  “Don't kill me, man!” the young man begged.

  Pickle stood over him with his machete in his right hand. “What’re yer doing ‘ere?”

  The man was young, dark-haired, and was of average height and build. He refused to answer Pickle's question and now Karen and Vince were standing over the man with their blades out.

  “Do yer really want us to hack yer to death right here?” Pickle snarled and raised the blade, resting it on the man's shoulder. “Cos that's what's gonna happen, if yer don't speak.”

  “What do you wanna know?” the man asked.

  “Why are yer here? And what's in the back?”

  There was still more silence and Pickle decided to do something. It was something that could backfire, but he tried it anyway.

  “Fine,” Pickle huffed. “Have it yer way.”

  He raised his machete over his head with two hands, giving the man the impression that he was about to be hacked to death. Pickle's actions had worked and scared the man so much that he cowered and raised both of his hands in front of him as a desperate way to protect himself.

  “Please ... don't,” he wailed.

  “Then fuckin' talk.”

  The man yelled, “Okay, okay! I'll talk! Just don't hurt me!”

  Pickle lowered the machete and said, “Ready when yer are.”

  “I have supplies in the back,” the young man began. “It's kind of a peace offering for you guys.”

  “A peace offering?” Karen laughed. “I don't believe that for a second.”

  Pickle looked at Vince and Karen. “Go check it out. The pair o' yer.”

  “It's just water and stuff,” the man said. “All three of you check it out, if you want. It's our way of calling a truce. Go on. All three of you take a look.”

  “No, it's okay.” Pickle gazed at the man and added, “I'll stay here with yer. Make sure yer don't do a runner.”

  “Fine,” the man gulped and began to look agitated.

  Pickle watched as Karen and Vince went round the back of the van to open the doors and asked the youngster, “So why is there just one of you this time?”

  “Drake said it would look less threatening if they sent a youngster on his own.”

  “True.” Pickle nodded, and was beginning to think that maybe his visit was genuine after all.

  “Fuck!” Karen yelled from around the back of the van.

  “Shit!” Pickle was about to run to the back of the vehicle, then realised that he'd be leaving the young man alone, allowing him to flee. “Stay there,” warned Pickle. “In fact...” Pickle grabbed the youngster by the shirt and punched him in the face, knocking him out.

  *

  As soon as the doors of the van were opened, dozens of Snatchers fell out onto the grass. Karen stepped back and screamed out “Fuck!” and reached for her machete. Vince did the same, and didn't know where to start. Many were on the floor and were now struggling to get up.

  Pickle had arrived with his blade out and witnessed for himself what was happening.

  Karen, Pickle and Vince leaned over and tried to take out the ones on the floor, but many were getting to their feet. There must have been thirty on the floor and another ten still in the van.

  More fell out and the rest in the back shambled towards the exit of the vehicle, towards Karen and Vince, falling to the ground as they stepped off the back of the van.

  Karen and Pickle front-kicked a few back to give themselves spare seconds, and rained blows at the closest beings that approached them. Dark congealed blood and diseased brain flew as the three of them sliced their way through the standing dead.

  The three took more steps back and could now see that the inside of the back of the van was empty and all the dead were out. They were now on the ground and getting to their feet.

  “We can't take this many on,” Vince said. He grabbed his machete with both hands and rammed it into the forehead of a teenage girl that was dressed in a yellow T-shirt and pink shorts.

  “We're gonna have to get back to the camp,” Karen panted. “We can run them down with the motorhome.”

  “Not this many,” Pickle cried out. Aerobically, the former inmate was struggling, and could see th
at nearly a dozen had been put down, but there were many left, over twenty, and were now advancing towards them, forcing the three to walk backwards.

  Once the three were on the main road, they continued to stride backwards in the direction of Colwyn Place. All of the Snatchers were now out on the road with them.

  Pickle turned to Vince and Karen and said, “Keep walking backwards, and let them follow yer. Be back in a sec.”

  “Where the fuck are you going?” cried Karen.

  Pickle ran to his left and jumped over the fence and back in the field, leaving Karen and Vince alone with the dead. A now exhausted Karen and Vince were still walking backwards, but were now keeping their distance and were too tired to put any more down. If they ran into any more difficulty, they could pay with their lives.

  The horde were scattered along the road as they meandered toward Vince and Karen, and both humans screwed their faces in confusion when they heard the engine of the van being started.

  The vehicle went out the way it came in, through the gap where part of the fence used to be, and headed towards the herd from behind.

  Pickle, now the driver of the vehicle, was only twenty yards away when he blasted the van's horn, making the dead all turn around in unison. The blast of the horn was to also warn Karen and Vince to move out of the way. It worked.

  No words had to be said.

  Karen and Vince ran to the side of the road as the van eventually ploughed through the dead crowd. Limbs and heads were removed from the rotten and fragile bodies once they were mowed down by the heavy van, but some of the dead were still mobile.

  The vehicle stopped after it had successfully went through them, creating only superficial damage to its exterior, and Pickle slipped the motor into reverse, went back and hit some of the ones that were missed. He also struck the dead that had been hit, but were on the ground, trying to get back to their feet.

  Once this was done, he moved the van forwards again and went over two heads of the dead that were lying on the floor, the wheels crushing and popping the heads like grapes, and then he pulled the van over.

  He jumped out and could see three were left. Two of the dead were still standing and one was getting to its feet. Vince and Karen walked past the van, quickly passing the front of the bonnet that was now dressed in dark blood and rotten flesh, and stood by Pickle's side.

  “What happened to the young man?” Karen asked Branston. “You didn't...?”

  Pickle shook his head. “I knocked him out.”

  “We need answers from him.”

  “Aye.” Pickle nodded over at the three dead. “But first...”

  They approached the three dead, who were now all on their feet, and Vince was the first to put one down. His machete entered the male ghoul's head from the left side and it dropped to the floor seconds later. Karen opted to bring her machete down and into the centre of the skull of the female twenty-something, and Pickle rammed his blade under the chin of the final one, the tip of the blade sticking out of the top of its skull. There were too many bodies to remove from the road, and Pickle told Vince and Karen that they would have to move them another day. All three now headed back over to the field.

  “We'll get the guy,” said Pickle, “throw him in the back and take him to Colwyn.”

  They entered the field; they could see that the man was dazed, wriggling on the floor and moaning.

  The three of them stood around him, put their bloody machetes back into their belts and watched as he struggled to get on all fours.

  “Jesus,” Karen laughed and looked at Pickle. “How hard did you hit him?”

  Pickle shrugged his shoulders. “It was just a bit o' a slap.”

  The guy looked up, confused and bewildered, then groaned once he realised what had happened and the predicament he was now in.

  “Time to explain yerself, sonny.” Pickle stood up straight and folded his arms.

  “I don't have to explain to any of you cunts,” he snapped.

  Pickle patted his blade and told the young man, “Mr Machete disagrees with yer, and yer don't wanna piss him off.”

  The dark haired man looked up at the three of them and sighed in defeat. He sat on his backside, pulled his knees to his chest and put his arms around them. He rested his head on his arms and moaned about how his head hurt.

  Pickle said, “I'm waiting for an answer.”

  “I volunteered to come here,” the young man began. “If I'm not back in an hour, it'll be seen as a sign.”

  “What kind o' a sign?”

  The young man never answered and still moaned about his headache, so Pickle asked again.

  “What kind o' a sign?” he asked for the second time.

  “If I don't return,” the young man began, “then Drake will be coming here with a shit load of men. So if you keep me prisoner, you're gonna get a little visit within the next sixty minutes. But if you let me go...”

  “And why are yer so important?”

  “I’m Drake’s little brother. If anything happens to me…”

  Vince, Karen and Pickle all looked at one another.

  “Why would Drake allow his brother to come all the way here on his own?” Pickle asked.

  “I just wanted to do something. I’m sick of him treating me like a kid.”

  Pickle sighed and said, “So what was the plan? You ram our gate, empty these freaks into our street, then flee in the van and go back to your base in Stafford?”

  “Pretty much.” The man nodded. “Then a day or two later we were gonna turn up to see the state of the place, see who was left.”

  Karen asked him, “What kind of animals are you?”

  “You think we're bad people,” the man laughed and sniffed hard, then emptied both of his nostrils on the floor. “What you have to realise is that we think you're the bad guys. And let's not forget, even before we turned up at your place, one of your guys killed Hardy in the woods.”

  Pickle didn't know what he was talking about at first, but then remembered the story Craig had told him and how he had met Jez. “Craig was protecting Jez. And he wasn't one o’ us when that happened.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  The young male slowly stood, forcing the three to take a step back and nervously put their hands on the handles of their machetes, and rubbed his head. “For fuck's sake,” he whined and rubbed his hands over his face. “You could have killed me with that punch.”

  “Don't exaggerate,” Pickle began to snicker. “I didn't hit yer that hard.”

  “Pickle?” Vince was getting annoyed with the small talk. “So what do we do? What are we gonna do with him?”

  “I think he's tellin' the truth about this sign story. I think he is Drake’s brother as well.” Pickle took in a slow deep breath and rubbed his stubbly chin as he pondered. “If we kill him, then Drake and his mob will be here soon. If we take him prisoner, then Drake and his mob will be here within the hour.”

  “He could be bullshitting about being Drake’s brother,” Vince spoke up, but Pickle disagreed. “Maybe if he never returns, the people back in his camp wouldn't give a shit.”

  “I don't think he is bluffing,” Pickle sighed. “These people know that this place o' ours exists. If we don't get any trouble within the next day or so, we'd probably get some in a few weeks.”

  Karen turned to the side and spat on the floor. “What're you saying?”

  “This predicament we have with this Drake guy has to be sorted, otherwise it's going to hang o'er our place. Living in fear and paranoia isn't living.”

  “You're not going to let him go, are you?” Karen took a threatening step forward, glared at the young man and reached for her machete.

  Pickle held out his arm, stopping Karen from progressing any further. “We need to let him go.”

  Vince decided to stay out of the little argument that was taking place. He wasn't usually a man that would sit on the fence, but he understood why Karen was so annoyed, and he also understood why Pickle was going to releas
e the man. Pickle was doing it for the safety of the street. If the young man went back and told Drake that he was captured briefly, but then was allowed to leave, with the van, then maybe Drake and his cronies would see the residents of Colwyn Place in a different light.

  “Do you really want to let this piece of shit go?” Karen questioned her close friend. “He was going to release a shit-load of Snatchers in the street, in our street.”

  “True,” Pickle nodded, “but what damage would it have done really? By the time they spilled out of the van, everyone would be safely inside. It'd just be a pain to remove them, that's all. But that's done now. Maybe if we let him go, let him live, Drake might cut us some slack.”

  “There must be another option.”

  “No, there isn't,” said Pickle. “We don't have a choice. The numbers they have ... we just can't deal with that.”

  Vince cleared his throat and stepped in, backing Pickle up. “And I agree.”

  Pickle glared at the young man and said, “Get back in the van and get yer arse back to Stafford. Yer said that Drake would be upset if you didn’t return, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell Drake to come and see me. We need to sort this out, once and for all. All we want to do is live in peace.”

  “So … you’re definitely letting me go?”

  Pickle nodded. “Give me yer word that you’ll tell Drake what I just said.”

  “You have my word.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Jim Danson slid the gate back once he clocked Karen, Pickle and Vince. He watched as they walked through without uttering a word to them, and was baffled why they never spoke to him, or at least thanked him. Was something wrong? He looked again and noticed that their machetes were covered in dark fluid and that blood was on their faces.

  Once Danson had shut the gate, he couldn't help himself. He mumbled, “A thanks would be nice once in a while.”

  Pickle stopped walking, immediately making Danson gulp and wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

  Pickle turned around and said to the family man, “We've got something to tell yer, but I need the whole street out.”