Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  Pickle nodded. “Aye, thanks to yer good self.”

  “In all the madness,” Vince began, “we never had a chance to thank you for your Rambo shit earlier.”

  Paul smiled and just nodded the once.

  “Seriously, though,” Pickle spoke up, “What yer did was ... fucking insane, but it helped to scare them away. I know I never mentioned anything earlier when we were in the pickup, getting rid o' the gang's bodies, but what yer did...”

  “Forget about it,” mumbled Paul.

  “What we also want to know is...” Vince paused then asked, “Where the fuck have you been and how did you get that truck in the first place?”

  “I went for a walk to the Wolseley Arms pub.” Paul decided to lie about being taken from his bed by Bonser and Thomson. Thomson was now dead, and he was sure that Bonser was regretting what he did. “I saw some guys arrive at the Wolseley Arms on mopeds, but one guy was behind them, in the pickup. They parked up, so I jumped in the back of the truck and the rest is history.” Paul couldn't be bothered to go into any more detail. He was too tired.

  “Well, I'm sure there was more to it than that,” said Pickle. “But thanks. Yer have saved a few lives.”

  “Doesn't help the ones that are dead.” Paul cleared his throat and looked at the two men.

  Vince and Pickle lowered their heads in sadness and both nodded.

  Pickle said, “There's nothing we can do for them now, but if I can try and reason with this Drake fellow, face-to-face—”

  “Is that such a good idea?” Vince asked.

  “Not sure.”

  “He might just kill you there and then.” Vince ran his fingers over his scarred face in thought, unsure whether facing Drake was a good move. It was certainly desperate ... and brave.

  “I have to try something. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

  “And why does it have to be you?” asked Vince. “Isn't Lincoln in charge?”

  No one responded. It was obvious what they thought about Lincoln. Yes, he was a good organiser, but he was a leader that never got his hands dirty.

  Stephen Bonser stepped out of his house of 20 Colwyn Place and stood up straight, taking in the air.

  Pickle pointed over at Bonser and gave Vince a nudge. “Another one that can't sleep.”

  “Not surprising,” Vince scoffed, considering what's happened.”

  Pickle released a short, sharp whistle, beckoning Bonser over. Bonser looked at the three men and was reluctant to go over because of Paul's presence. He decided to be brave, took in a deep breath and made a slow stroll over to the three men by the concrete wall.

  Stephen Bonser had no idea what this was going to be about. Were they going to have a chat about what happened earlier, or had Paul told them about the kidnapping? Even Terry had been involved. What would be done to him?

  “How yer holding up?” Pickle asked the man once he reached them.

  “Not bad,” Bonser responded and breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like that it was going to be a friendly chat.

  “I'm sorry about James. I know we were hardly best pals, but...”

  “It's okay. It's the toddler I can't stop thinking about, and I didn't even see the poor thing with my own eyes.” Stephen Bonser could feel himself getting emotional, smiled thinly and looked at Paul Dickson. He cleared his throat and said, “What you did earlier...”

  Paul hunched his shoulders. “Forget it.”

  “But the way we treated you... Especially me and James.”

  Paul laughed, “I didn't do myself any favours, did I?”

  “But me and James...”

  Paul shook his head at Stephen, telling him to be quiet. Bonser had realised that Pickle and Vince didn't know about him and James snatching Paul from his bed, and was baffled why Paul was being so forgiving.

  There was a blanket of silence over the four men, and Vince turned around and peered over the wall, into the dark empty street.

  “It's gonna be a long night,” Vince sighed.

  “Certainly is.” Pickle nodded. “We'll get our heads down for a few hours once the next lot turn up for the morning shift, then we'll head out with the prisoner and see this Drake fellow.”

  “Have you ran this idea by John yet?” Bonser asked the former inmate.

  “Not yet.”

  “But do you think John will agree to this?”

  “I have no idea.” Pickle hunched his shoulders. “I'm not gonna give him a choice. What's the alternative? For us all to sit about, shitting ourselves, waiting for the next attack? I don't think so.”

  “We could move,” Vince suggested. “Go somewhere where they'd have trouble finding us.”

  “No. We've moved enough o'er the last two months or so. No more. Besides, we've got a good thing going here. I'm not giving it up for these pricks.”

  “Don't you think it's best for Lincoln to step aside?” said Vince. “He doesn't have your experience, Pickle. Or your balls.”

  “We're still newbies in this place,” Pickle laughed gently. “I don't think the people in here will appreciate it if I start making the decisions.”

  “What's left of us,” Bonser scoffed. “I can't speak for the rest of the people in here, but I wouldn't mind you being in charge. I appreciate everything John has done, but dealing with this situation is too big for him. Maybe we should have a vote.”

  “At least Lincoln decided to grab a bat and hang about his garden,” said Pickle. “Yer have to give him some credit for that.”

  “Not that it did any good,” Bonser spoke up. “I heard his back garden was never even breached, unlike the others. Jammy bastard.”

  “He still stood his ground.”

  Paul remained tight-lipped and lowered his head. He was listening to the conversation, but chose not to get involved.

  “Speak of the devil,” Vince spoke.

  They all looked up and saw Lincoln in his front window. He gave the men a wave and they all waved back. He then disappeared from his window and opened his front door.

  Lincoln stood on his top doorstep with his arms folded and said, “Can I borrow one of you gentlemen for a moment?”

  Pickle, Vince and Bonser groaned, but before any of the three could respond verbally, Paul told them that he'd go over.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  The hours went by slow, darkness fell, and the heavily bearded Chris sat up and allowed Stephanie to have the armchair for herself. She was nodding off and Chris felt sorry for the young girl. Ophelia and Elza were still awake, staring at the floor and making little chat with the man.

  Elza knew she could take the man. He hadn't even asked the two women to hand over their bats. It was clear to Elza that he was genuine. He really did want to be listened to and was desperate for a place to stay and survive, but his threatening behaviour towards them and especially Stephanie had put her off taking him back to Colwyn Place. They already had one unstable individual in Paul Dickson. John Lincoln wasn't going to thank her for bringing Chris back with them.

  Elza sat up. The tiredness was crippling her, but she couldn't sleep with him opposite her, his knife on show. How the teenager slept, Elza would never know. She must have been exhausted.

  “You mentioned a surprise earlier,” Elza began softly. “What did you mean?”

  “I'm not telling you until the morning.” Chris was also clearly tired and stopped pointing the knife in Stephanie's direction. He placed it on his lap, knowing that if Elza moved for him, he'd have enough time to stick the girl before she reached him.

  But what if that scenario did occur?

  After stabbing the teenager, the two women would bash his brains in for sure. If he didn't do something, he was going to die anyway. This was his last shot. These three females were his last chance.

  “I don't really know what else I can do to convince you that we won't try anything silly on the way to our place,” said Elza. “We should have gone when we had the chance, before it became dark.”

  “I know y
ou girls think I'm a pig, but if we get to your camp and I’m given the chance to explain myself to your leader, I can convince him or her that my actions here were done out of desperation. And then, ladies, I'll apologise to all three of you.”

  “Just let Stephanie go, and we'll leave you in peace.”

  “I can't do that,” the man sighed, exasperated. “Haven't you been listening? Don't you understand? If you leave me now, I will die here. I've been out there, scavenging. There's nothing left. You're my last hope.”

  Elza sat in thought and suggested, “Why don't we all take a walk to our car. If you want to press your knife against Stephanie, then that's fine. But let's all go now and leave together.”

  “It's too dark to travel, too dangerous now.” He nodded towards the window and added, “We're not going anywhere until dawn breaks.”

  “So we just wait here until light?” Elza huffed, her face filled with annoyance.

  Chris smiled and said, “That's exactly what you're going to do, like I said before, so I suggest you lot get some shuteye.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Oh, don't worry about me.”

  “You'll need to sleep too.”

  “I won't be closing my eyes with you three in my presence.” He then began to laugh and gently added, “And before you start to get your hopes up ... I've managed to stay awake for three days before, so I wouldn't try and plan anything.”

  *

  Paul raised a smile once he was at Lincoln's door and asked what was the matter.

  Lincoln pushed his spectacles up his nose with his middle finger and told Paul to follow him. Lincoln turned on his heels and Paul went inside and followed the man into his kitchen.

  “What is it?” Paul asked.

  “I need a hand with a cabinet.” Lincoln took a bottle from the side and took a generous few gulps of water.

  “A what?” Paul wasn't sure if John was joking or not.

  “You heard. A cabinet.”

  “A cabinet?” Paul looked confused.

  Lincoln lowered his head and looked embarrassed. “I want to go to sleep, but I won't be able to unless my door is blocked off. After what happened today...”

  “I thought most people blocked off their doors anyway.”

  “I never did.” Lincoln cleared his throat and was physically shaking, close to tears. “I suppose with somebody on the gate and being in the middle of nowhere, I never thought we'd get any trouble. I thought we were untouchable. How wrong was I?”

  Lincoln then broke down in front of Dickson and sobbed like a child. Paul Dickson remained unmoved and watched Lincoln as he cried his heart out. It took minutes for the fifty-five-year-old to regain his composure. He temporarily removed his glasses and wiped his wet eyes with the backs of his hands. He placed the glasses back on and apologised for his break down.

  As if the incident had never happened, Paul then asked Lincoln if he wanted the cabinet moved right this very second, and Lincoln nodded.

  “Just help me move it near the door,” Lincoln ordered. “You can give yourself enough room to get out, and I'll do the rest once you've left.”

  Paul nodded and stepped into the living room. There was an oak cabinet by the fireplace and pointed at it. “This one?”

  Lincoln said, “Yes. I'll probably struggle a little. My back's playing up a bit.”

  Paul went over to the cabinet and tried to get a good grip. Lincoln joined him and went to the other side.

  “On three,” said Paul. “And then we'll lift it.”

  Paul counted to three and both men lifted.

  “Hang on, hang on.” Lincoln dropped the cabinet to the floor and clutched onto his chest.

  Paul sighed impatiently, “What is it?”

  “Indigestion.” Lincoln continued to clutch his chest. He walked back into the kitchen and began to go through his cupboards. Paul followed him and asked what he was looking for.

  “I thought I had some Gaviscon in here.”

  “What's that for?”

  “Indigestion. There should be some over where we stored that stuff from the chemist run last week.” Lincoln glared at Paul and raised a smile.

  “And you want me to go over and get you some?” sighed Paul.

  “That would be great,” Lincoln chortled and clutched on his chest with both hands, now wincing with discomfort. “Better hurry, though. It's getting worse.”

  Paul headed for the door and stepped outside, into the dim street, moaning to himself about Lincoln. He crossed the road and heard Pickle call out from the wall, “Where're yer going?”

  “Lincoln has indigestion,” said Paul. He looked over at the wall where Pickle, Vince and Bonser were. “Off to get some stuff for him. Who's on guard in there?”

  “Nobody tonight,” Bonser called over. “Just help yourself. It's open.”

  Paul entered the house and went into the dimly lit place. The medical supplies were on the ground floor, in the living room, and Karen had put labels on the shelves.

  Paul went over to the large cabinet and saw the label for indigestion and heartburn on the third shelf down. He took a bottle of Gaviscon, put it into his pocket, and then exited the house.

  He walked across the road, back over to Lincoln's and ignored Vince who called over sarcastically, “Don't forget to wipe his arse if he goes to the toilet.”

  Paul went through Lincoln's door and announced, “Got it.”

  He popped his head into the living room and could see that there was no one there. He called after John, thinking that maybe he had decided to go upstairs. Nothing.

  The kitchen?

  Paul strolled through the living room and had a look in the kitchen. John Lincoln had collapsed. He was lying on the floor, still clutching his chest, shaking, and his breathing was shallow.

  Paul took out the bottle and placed it on the side. He then bent down to have a look at John. “What happened?”

  Lincoln tried to explain but his speech was slurred.

  Paul guessed that it wasn't indigestion and that Lincoln had had a heart attack or maybe a stroke.

  “You're okay. Need to rest.” Paul then went on his knees and added, “I think you've had a heart attack or a stroke. I'll get Karen to look you over. Pickle can take charge.”

  “I'm the one that makes the decisions around here,” Lincoln snarled, still clutching onto his chest. He curled up on the kitchen floor and cried out as shooting pains went across his chest. “I'll be okay.”

  “Look, this is the wrong time to have an argument. With what's going on, I think it's better for Pickle to be in charge, at least until this Drake business has been sorted out. You should be in your bed, resting.”

  “We did okay before you lot arrived,” he slurred.

  “I know, but this is a threat that's way over your head. There’s a big difference between ordering people about when it comes to getting water or seeing to the vegetable patches, compared to what we're facing now. Hand the reins over to Pickle, even if it's temporary. He's been brought up with violence. He'll know what to do, especially if these talks with Drake breaks down.”

  “What talks?”

  Paul had forgot that Pickle's plan hadn't been discussed with John yet. “Forget it.”

  “I'm in charge. Got it?” Lincoln grabbed a hold of Paul's shirt, eyes bulging, and growled, “Now go and get Karen. Make yourself useful.”

  Paul grabbed Lincoln's hand and pushed it away. He remained on his knees, staring at the man who was in severe discomfort and shook his head.

  Paul began, “You're fifty five years old. You've lived a lot longer than any of these fine people are going to, but you making the decisions, with the problem that we have right now, is not good for the camp. Not good at all. Time to take a step back.”

  “Go and get Karen,” Lincoln spat, still clutching onto his chest.

  “We've lost a lot of people tonight. One more won't make a difference.”

  Paul pushed Lincoln's head down with his left hand, an
d with his right he covered the man's mouth and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  Lincoln struggled very briefly, and Paul kept his hands where they were until John Lincoln had stopped moving altogether. Paul remained where he was for a minute, just to make sure, then removed both hands and stood up.

  Lincoln was dead. Paul was convinced that it was for the best.

  He left the kitchen and headed for outside again. He stepped out of Lincoln's house and went over to the lads by the concrete wall.

  “Are you finished?” Vince began to snicker, “Or is he going to need his head rubbed later?”

  “Go and get Karen,” said Paul to Pickle, ignoring Vince's comment.

  “What?” Pickle queried. “Why?”

  “I think John has had a heart attack. I can't wake him up.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  August 20th

  Dawn was breaking. It was the start of a new day, and Chris stood up from sitting on the floor and stretched his arms and back. His moaning stirred Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie, and all three couldn't believe that they had nodded off.

  “Well, are you sisters ready?” Chris began to laugh. “I bet you can't wait to get back, clean your teeth and get a proper sleep in a decent bed.”

  Elza groaned at the man, “You don't even know what our place is like.”

  “Well, you look in good condition. I'm guessing you lot live in houses, maybe even have solar power.”

  “We lived in a church for weeks,” Stephanie spoke up, rubbing her eyes. “We've only been in this camp for a few days.”

  “So you're new.” Chris rubbed his hairy chin in thought. “So they are taking in people. This is getting better.”

  Nobody responded.

  “So who's in charge of this little ... community?”

  “A guy called John Lincoln.” Elza didn't think there was any point lying to Chris.

  He stretched his legs and said, “Let's go then.”

  Elza smiled. “You must be mad if you think you're gonna be staying at Colwyn Place.”

  “It's not up to you, is it? It's up to this John Lincoln guy. I just need you guys to give me a ride to your place.”