There was silence, followed by some shuffling coming from the room. The blind was raised and, although not brightly lit, there was enough light for the girls to see in.
The man sat back down and pointed to the window. They thought that it was a bedroom, but it appeared that the room was an upstairs living room.
“Apologies, ladies,” he said. “Because of the dreary day, the light isn't the best.”
Stephanie could see that the man was sitting in an armchair. He had his hands on his lap, palms facing upwards, showing the girls that he was unarmed and had no intention of harming them.
He said, “I don't have any hot drinks, I'm afraid.”
Elza was the first to step inside and lowered her bat.
The man noticed the stains and chips on the bat and laughed, “I see you've dealt with the dead on more than a few occasions.”
“Not just the dead,” said Elza.
The man's laughing stopped.
Ophelia was the next to step inside, followed by Stephanie, who had now lowered her bow and put her bag on the floor. The girls could see that bottles of water and a half litre bottle of cherry coke was sitting by the man's feet. Elza walked over to the man, grabbed a bottle of water, then sat on the couch that was opposite the armchair. Ophelia sat next to her and Stephanie sat on the other side. Elza took a large swig from the bottle, and then passed it to the girls.
Elza looked over to the man. He looked similar to a man that she and Ophelia had come across when they were staying at the Church of the Good Shepherd. He was thin; his hair was longer than probably what he was used to, and he had a full-grown beard that had streaks of grey in the chin area.
“What have you come here for?” the man remained still, but his question felt threatening.
“We thought they'd be stuff here for us,” Elza began. “Looks like we were wrong.”
“So you were gonna pick up supplies and then shoot off, is that it?”
Elza nodded. “And?”
“And you had no intention of staying here, making this place your home?”
Elza shook her head.
“So you already have a place to stay, a camp maybe?”
Elza cleared her throat and never answered his query.
The man laughed gently, but he was angry from the lack of response from the females. “I give you my water and you can't even answer my questions,” he moaned.
Elza remained tight-lipped, amusing the man, and changed the subject. “What about you? How did you get here from London?”
Knowing that he wasn't going to get anything out of Elza Crowe, he smiled and decided to talk. He hadn't had company for a while, and now he had three females sitting in front of them. The main speaker from the female group was an attractive thing, he noticed, and wondered what it'd be like to take her from behind.
“I'm lucky in some kind of ways,” the man began. “I had no family, not many friends, or even a job when this shit kicked off.” He paused, looked at the three females, but there was no verbal response. He added, “I did what everybody else did. I sat in, watched TV until the power went, and hoped for the best. The lack of power didn't bother me much. It was when the food and water began to run out ... I had to leave. It's funny, isn't it?”
“What is?” asked Elza.
“I watched my city getting bombed to fuck, yet it was the lack of food that made me eventually leave. I didn't leave until the last piece of bread, biscuit or fruit had been eaten. Makes me wonder why I waited to the last minute.”
“You were probably hoping that the government would get the country under control again.”
He sighed and chuckled, “Maybe. Anyways, I got tooled up and finally left my flat. Had to kill some of those beasts to get away. I stayed at a vacant house for a couple of days and met up with another survivor. We managed to find a vehicle and get out of London and up to Coventry before the vehicle ran out of petrol. My little pal was killed eventually. We got surprised by a group of those things, so I ran and managed to get a lift with another group of survivors who were going to Salford. They dropped me off at Stafford at my request and I've been here for the last three weeks. Found this place abandoned.”
“But the entrance was full of the dead?”
“Was?”
“We killed them all to get here.”
The man's eyes widened and looked impressed. “All of them?”
All three females nodded.
“They weren’t there when I first arrived. Since their arrival a week ago, I’ve been too scared to so much as look out the window.”
“And yet you leave your door unlocked.”
The man scratched his head. “Did I?”
“You said you was dropped off at Stafford. How did you get from Stafford to Rugeley?” enquired Elza.
“What the fuck is this? The Spanish inquisition?” The thin man scratched his scruffy beard and stood up. He walked behind the armchair and began to pace up and down and seemed to be getting annoyed. “I'm here, pouring my heart out to you lot, and all I'm getting is question after question. You haven't even told me about yourselves.” He stopped pacing the floor and pointed at Stephanie. “You!” he yelled. “Tell me your story.”
“Erm...” Stephanie was trying to think about what to say.
“Tell him fuck all,” Elza snapped.
“Oh, that's charming.” He began to laugh and sat back down. “I'll tell you all about myself. Maybe after I have finished, you'll understand that I'm actually a good guy.”
*
Terry Brathwaite had told Bonser to fuck off and leave him alone. Bonser told him that there were men outside, wanting to check the house, but Terry wasn't budging and remained lying on his bed. Bonser quickly left and Terry closed his eyes, but they soon opened again as soon as he heard his main door being tried once more. He was angry about the second intrusion. He just wanted some peace and quiet. He yawned and stretched and got to his feet quickly.
People were inside. He could hear them.
He didn't want anyone sneaking around his house like that Dickson fellow did a week ago, especially in the cellar. Not only would his secret be out, but someone could also get hurt.
Since he witnessed Paul Dickson slide back the bolt of his cellar door, he had toyed with the idea of putting on a padlock, but knew that that would raise suspicion with the rest of the folk of Colwyn Place if a visitor spotted the lock. If he had a cellar with a padlock—nobody else had one—then accusations of helping himself and storing supplies could emerge, and how would he quell those rumours? By opening his cellar door and showing them that actually it's his reanimated daughter that he kept down there?
Terry put his boots on and could hear more noises coming from downstairs and voices he didn't recognise.
“What the fuck?”
Unarmed, he left his bedroom and began the descent to the ground floor to find two strangers, both donning leather jackets, in his hallway with the cellar door open. It looked like the two of them were ready to go down.
“Get away from there!” growled Terry.
Both men looked startled at first, and then their faces turned to anger. The tallest one told Terry to go outside and join the rest, which confused the man. The rest? Then when the other WOE individual went down the cellar's steps, the red mist came down on Terry Braithwaite.
Terry ran and grabbed the tall man by the throat; both men fell to the floor. Timid punches were exchanged, but the dismal fight didn't last long. A scream rang out from the cellar and both men, who were tussling with one another in the hallway, let go of each other and scrambled their way downstairs.
“Paddy!” the tall biker yelled. “Paddy!”
The Paddy character was on the cellar floor. His throat had been torn open and he was bleeding out on the ground, gurgling, barely conscious. He was seconds away from death and Terry and the tall biker glared at the reanimated Kayleigh Braithwaite in the dusky room.
“What the fuck is this?” The tall man turned to Terry and p
ulled out a knife from his back pocket.
“No!” Terry screamed and ran at the biker, but was taken out with a left hook. Although he was still conscious, Terry helplessly lay on the floor and watched the biker ram his blade into his daughter's head, making the little ghoul drop to the floor.
Terry curled up and began to cry, but his crying was short-lived when the tall biker turned around and booted Terry in the stomach. He grabbed Terry and tried to drag him up the steps, back to the hallway, but he was too heavy.
“Get fucking up!” he yelled. “You're coming outside with me!”
Terry rolled around the floor and groaned, “Fuck you,” then started to sob again.
“What the fuck are you crying for? She was dead anyway, you stupid cunt.” The man turned to see his dead friend, then looked back at Terry. He was about to go over and take his knife out of the girl’s head, but had more to say. “And thanks to you—”
The biker never had a chance to finish his sentence as Terry jumped up and wrapped his hands around the man's throat. The man panicked and grabbed a hold of Terry's shirt as the dizziness began to hit him. The biker managed to push Terry away and ran up the steps. Terry ran up the steps after him and grabbed the fleeing WOE character and punched him on the back of the head. The biker turned and threw a punch himself, but Terry had grabbed the man around the throat once more and squeezed as hard as he could.
Terry towered over the man, and the biker was slowly sinking to his knees as Braithwaite continued to squeeze his throat, and let go once his victim released his grip and slumped to the floor. He was dead.
Terry sat down, exhausted, dripping in sweat, and placed both palms over his face and began to cry. His crying was cut short when a stranger, dressed in the same attire as the other men, burst through the front door. He looked at Terry, then the dead body of his friend in the hallway. His other friend, Paddy, was nowhere to be seen, but the cellar door was open. The man told Terry to stay where he was and made slow and careful steps towards the cellar door. He took in a deep breath and slowly put his head in the cellar and peered down, witnessing the defunct reanimated girl and his other friend who had had his throat mutilated.
“Shit.”
He took another look at the heartbroken Terry and ran out of the door and into the street. The other biker asked him what was wrong, but he continued to run towards the opened gate and went for his bike, urging his surviving pal to do the same, which he did.
“What the fuck is going on?” Karen asked, but the dozens of people in the middle of the street couldn't give the twenty-three-year-old an answer.
“This is very weird,” Vince sighed.
Pickle nodded in agreement and gave Vince a nudge. “Let's go inside.”
Both men jogged over to the first house of Colwyn Place, and could see straightaway that Terry was on the floor and one of the bikers next to him was dead. Vince could see that the cellar door was open and had a quick look in.
“Pickle, you need to see this shit.”
Harry Branston peered in and could see the body of the other biker and then his eyes clocked the young girl with the knife sticking out of her head. Vince and Pickle returned to the hallway. It didn't take long to work out what had happened.
“That's your daughter?” asked Vince.
“Yeah,” said Terry softly.
Pickle looked at Terry. “Yer have had her in here the whole time?”
Terry nodded.
“Shit,” Vince cussed.
Pickle asked, “What is it?”
“Don't let those other two leave! We can't let them tell that Drake fellow that two of their men are dead. We're gonna have to detain them or kill them. If we detain them and Drake's mob turns up later, looking for them, we can play dumb and say that we never had a visit from any of his men.”
Pickle and Vince ran out of the house, but they were too late. The bikes were starting to move away once they reached the front lawn of 1 Colwyn Place.
“Bastards!” Vincent had his head in his hands.
Karen, Stephen Rowley and John Lincoln asked what was wrong, and Vince turned to them and told them that Pickle will explain the situation.
Kindl pulled out a knife and said to nobody in particular, “I better take care o' that biker in the cellar, before he turns.”
“Turns?” Lincoln looked outraged. “What the hell are you on about?”
“Ask Pickle.”
Vince walked back into the place, went down the cellar’s steps and paused. He gazed at the poor girl with the knife sticking out of her head and he winced when the smell of death hit him. It was a wonder why nobody hadn't complained about the smell when visiting Terry. However, Terry had little visitors and kept himself to himself.
Vince took in a deep breath and looked down on the man that had had his throat ripped out by the infant. He crouched down and stuck his knife into the man's left temple, then waited a few seconds before pulling the blade back out.
He stood up and felt a little giddy.
He felt nauseous after doing this, and brought up a little puke in his mouth, quickly swallowing the stuff back down and screwing his face once this was achieved.
“Jesus,” said Vince, and stood up straight. “I must be going soft.”
He trudged back up the steps of the cellar, stepped into the hallway to find that Terry was still there.
“I'll leave you in peace,” Vince said to Terry before leaving to go outside.
*
The sound of mopeds stirred Paul Dickson from out of his seat and he ran to the window. He could see the bikers go by, which confused Paul. He was certain that he had seen four earlier go the other way. So where were the other two?
They must have stayed behind, he thought. But why?
Unless the four of them had decided to separate for some reason.
Paul looked to the right and saw six of the dead approaching the front entrance of the pub from the Stafford Road.
“Now where did you bastards come from?” he groaned, convinced that the sound of the engines had attracted them from wherever they came from, possibly the woods.
He ran downstairs and double-checked that the doors were shut. He peered out of one of the bar's windows and could see that the dead were in the beer garden, where the main door was. It looked like Paul was going to have to wait longer before making his way back to Colwyn Place, unless he fancied his chances killing six of the dead. He had destroyed fourteen a week ago, when he was alone in the woods, but that was a moment of madness. He had waited this long to get back to Colwyn Place, so another few minutes wasn't going to make any difference, he thought.
He kept an eye on the situation for half an hour and could see that the dead were slowly, one by one, leaving the beer garden and making their way back to the front of the pub on the main road.
Paul still had a problem.
To get back to Little Haywood he would still need to go by them. He was going to have to wait until they disappeared completely, but that could be hours. Paul was hungry, but at least there were still liquid refreshments left. He took a bottle of coke from behind the bar and headed back upstairs.
He entered the room he was in before, and peered out of the window whilst sipping on the coke.
Chapter Seventeen
“Now what do we do?” was the first query from Karen Bradley.
Most of the residents were confused, frightened, and talking amongst each other in the middle of the street. Two mopeds were behind the gate, belonging to the deceased, and Pickle had told Danson and Thomson to take them and put them in his back garden.
Vince gazed at Pickle and said, “Maybe I should go back in to get Terry. He has some explaining to do.”
“Don't bother.” Pickle rubbed his chin in thought. “It's obvious what's been happening. His daughter was never taken care o' in the first place. She's been in that cellar since day one. But the question is: what the fuck are we going to do when they come back?”
Lincoln shook his head
and quivered with nerves. “They came here because Craig had killed one of them, so what do you think they're gonna do now we've killed another two.”
“We never really killed two,” said Vince. “Terry killed one and the other was bitten by his daughter.”
“Well, they're not gonna see it like that, are they?”
“Probably not,” Vince sighed. “I've got a feeling that this time they're not going to be as polite when they come back.”
“Aye,” said Pickle, “and it'll be more than four people that's gonna turn up, I can tell yer that for nothing.”
“Maybe if we grovel when they return,” suggested John Lincoln. “If we apologise...”
“They're gonna attack us,” Pickle said. “Whether it's through that gate, o'er the back gardens or o'er the concrete wall, or all three ... they're gonna want vengeance for three deaths in all.”
“So what do we do?” Lincoln put his hands behind his back and puffed his chest out. He was feeling the pressure.
“Get the people that can’t fight to hide in their houses, barricade the doors, and get their arses into the attics.”
Karen nodded. “Good idea.”
Vince said, “They could burn us out.”
“Not if the rest o' us stand and fight. I don't think these guys are blessed with guns.”
“No, but they could be blessed with numbers.”
“Jesus, I hope to Christ Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie get here soon,” Karen huffed. “We're gonna need them. And where the fuck's Paul?”
Nobody could give Karen an answer. Pickle turned to John Lincoln and told him to address the residents that were still out.
Lincoln nodded, walked over to the people and clapped his hands to get the full attention of the small crowd, which now included Jez and Craig, stopping them mumbling to one another. It took a while for every individual to stop talking, but once there was complete silence, John Lincoln began to speak.
“These people are going to come back, mark my words,” he began. “We're gonna need numbers to fight. Everyone else who’s not up to it ... go. Go inside, barricade your doors, and get into your attics.” The crowd of people stared at Lincoln; no one was moving. “Now! If you're not prepared to fight, then go now!”
Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock Page 8