Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  “I can't believe the people we've lost,” she cried. “And that poor little soul and Beverley. What did that baby do to deserve that?”

  “This virus has brought people together, but there're also a lot of people doing bad things for their own survival.”

  Paul rubbed Joanne's back and could hear her moaning. She seemed to be calming down now.

  “This is nice.” Joanne kept her head on his shoulder.

  “I used to have cuddle sessions with Karen like this when I was at Sandy Lane.” Paul smiled and began to reminisce. “We used to do it on the bed.”

  Joanne lifted her head, screwed her face at Paul and gave off a cheeky smile.

  “It was nothing sordid,” Paul gently protested. “It was just something that she needed, something that we both needed, I suppose. Strangely enough, we haven't done it since moving here. I thought with losing the baby...”

  “Maybe she's shut herself off ... emotionally.”

  “I don't know.” Paul rubbed his hand up and down Joanne's back and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “I know you're scared. We're all scared, but we'll get through this.”

  “I'm just weak, that's all.” Joanne placed her head back on his shoulder and said with her tongue in her cheek, “Maybe if I hang around with you for long enough, I'll toughen up.”

  “Joanne,” Paul snickered softly, “I was the most spineless man you could ever meet a couple of months ago.”

  “But not now.”

  “No, not now.” Paul sighed and added, “I lost everything. I've now stopped giving a shit.”

  “You don't mean that.”

  Paul never responded to Joanne's comment and looked up as tears formed in his eyes and his throat began to harden. He cleared his throat and was pleased that Joanne had now composed herself. He asked her, “You want me to go now?”

  “No. Stay for a bit longer.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Craig Burns handed young Jez a glass of water and could see the young boy was distraught. The blonde haired teenager was sitting in the armchair and was numb from the events the night before.

  “Have you slept?” Craig asked him, but Jez never gave him an answer immediately.

  Craig gazed at the youngster and could see the bags under his eyes. If Jez had slept, it wasn't for long.

  Jez took a sip of the water and shook his head. “Hardly.”

  “This is not your fault ... it's not our fault.”

  “But are they gonna see it like that?” Jez was referring to the Colwyn residents. The young man wiped his eyes before continuing, “The only reason that gang came here in the first place was to look for me and you.”

  “If Terry Braithwaite had managed to keep it together...” Craig paused and decided not to go on. What was the point? Blaming individuals for the situation they were in wasn't going to bring people back.

  If anything, Craig could blame himself for the way that these events had unfolded.

  If Craig hadn't bumped into Pickle, they wouldn't be in Colwyn Place at all. If Craig had decided not to take a WOE man off of his bike and rode into Haywood on it, they wouldn't be in this mess. He could torture himself all day, thinking about things that had led to this.

  “I understand what you mean about Terry,” said Jez. “But some people aren't going to see it that way.”

  “Doesn't matter now. What's done is done.”

  “I was beginning to think that maybe I could settle here,” Jez began. “I was getting on with Danny and Freddie, and now this has happened. Freddie is dead because of me.”

  “People in this street know that these guys are bad news.” Craig sat down on the couch, opposite where Jez was sitting. “Pickle had some trouble with them a few weeks back, and look at that poor family at Slitting Mill.”

  “You don't have to remind me.” Jez lowered his head with sadness. “I was there.”

  “Anyway, these kinds of people were gonna pop up eventually. A lot o’ people think that killing and bullying people to get what they want is the only way to survive. Survival of the fittest, and all that. It's one of the reasons why I decided to stay on my own. And then we met Pickle and saw this place. A place where people are ... normal and kind and...”

  Feeling Jez looking at him, Craig laughed and said, “Sorry, I'm going off on a tangent.”

  A knock on the door made both men jump.

  Craig gestured Jez to remain where he was and headed for the door. Before he opened it, he knew it was Pickle. He could tell by the outline of the man, even with a sheet of frosted glass in front of him.

  Craig smiled thinly once the door was opened and greeted Pickle with a good morning.

  “And how are yer two fellows?” asked the former inmate. It was clear that he had no malice towards Craig and Jez. “I know it's a stupid question, but I thought I'd ask anyway.”

  “I'm okay,” Craig said softly, hoping it was out of earshot from Jez, “but the little fellow is struggling.”

  “A lot o' people died yesterday. We lost a lot o’ people, including John. It's a lot for most people to take in.”

  Craig opened the main door wider and asked if Pickle wanted to come in.

  “Aye, thanks.”

  Both males stepped into the living room and could see the upset nineteen-year-old sitting in the armchair. Craig headed into the kitchen and Pickle decided to sit on the couch.

  “How are yer holding up, kid?” he asked Jez.

  “I'm struggling, to be honest,” the teenager admitted.

  Pickle nodded. “It's understandable. It's bad enough when the dead attack our own, but when it's man on man, and children are involved...”

  “Amongst others, that toddler is dead because of me,” Jez cried.

  “No, he's not,” Pickle sighed. “He's dead because some sick fuck wanted to shut him up. The guy wasn't right in the head. Trust me. I was there.”

  “What happened?” asked Craig, stepping out of the kitchen and now standing in the doorway.

  “Me and Karen went upstairs and he kind of knew he was trapped. He had killed the wee one earlier, to shut up his crying. He then killed Beverley, then did himself in.”

  Craig's eyes widened in shock and asked, “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe the idea of being captured didn't appeal to him.” Pickle shrugged his shoulders and half-laughed. “I'm not sure, but I've got a feeling that he didn't want to get captured and possibly tortured.”

  “Would you have tortured him?” Jez asked.

  “Aye, probably,” Pickle replied honestly. “Although I didn't agree with Paul's methods to get one o' them to cooperate.”

  “That was crazy shit.” Craig shook his head. “That Dickson guy has a screw loose. Are you gonna have a word with him about his behaviour?”

  “Nope. Not with this incident, but with possible future ones I will.”

  “Are you sure, Pickle? Didn't you see what he did to that man?”

  “O' course I did, but he did it to rattle the other man and it kind o' worked. I did something brutal myself to an intruder, back at Sandy Lane, to try and protect the camp.”

  “I do think his behaviour was ... brutal.”

  “I agree, but I'm not going to reprimand a guy that saved the street. This is how it is now. There're dangerous people out there, as yer well know. It's alright trying to create a civilised street like Colwyn Place, but it's a civilised street in a now brutal world. These WOE guys had jumped our fences and killed some o' our people. In two month's time it could happen again by a gang that are far more sick and desperate.”

  “It's going to be an interesting few months,” Craig said.

  “Isn't it?” Pickle smiled. “I do agree with one thing what one o' the bikers said yesterday, before we were attacked, when those four turned up at the gate.”

  “And what's that?”

  “Our security is shit.”

  Craig added, “It'd be bet
ter if we had more people. Especially now.”

  “What that guy said, about our security ... he was spot on. He slated the fact we have a wall on one side and just a steel gate with one man and a bat on the other.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “I don't know.” Pickle shook his head and said, “The security is pathetic in this place, but I'm not sure how we're going to improve it anytime soon. We need the necessary materials, and like yer said … we need the numbers. No point having high walls and fences if there's no fucker to guard it.”

  “Something to think about once this has blown over.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Does that mean you're in charge?” Craig asked. “Now that John's dead.”

  “I don't know what's happening. In Sandy Lane, Lee James used to have a voting system. Maybe we could do something like that. I don't want the locals thinking I'm taking o’er. I've only been here a couple o' weeks.”

  “It wouldn't bother me if you were in charge,” said Jez.

  “Me neither.” Craig nodded.

  “We'll see what happens, gentlemen.” Pickle stood to his feet and added, “In the meantime, I'll bid yer farewell. I'll see maself out. I'm off to see Joanne.”

  Chapter Thirty

  A knock at the door made Joanne jump. She stood to her feet, walked out of the living room, reached for her main door and opened it to see Pickle.

  “Pickle?”

  “The one and only,” he laughed.

  “What is it?”

  “Charming.” Pickle put his hands on his hips and feigned hurt on his face.

  “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude.” Joanne smiled and invited him in, but Pickle politely declined.

  “I actually want yer to come with me,” he said.

  Joanne was taken aback by his statement and asked, “Where're we going?”

  “We're going to feed our guest. It's breakfast time.”

  “The prisoner?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why do you want me to go with you?”

  “I think our guest is on edge a little. A female presence may make him feel more relaxed. He said yesterday that he'd take us to see Drake, but Terry mentioned to Vince that the guy said that he had now changed his mind. Some o’ these guys seem quite loyal to this Drake fellow. I want him to know that he won't be harmed if he complies, despite what happened to the others.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Joanne seemed unsure. “Isn’t it a bit dangerous?”

  “It’s okay,” Pickle tried to appease the young woman. “Terry got a chain from his shed and tied the man up in his cellar.”

  “A chain?” Joanne screwed her eyes. “I heard he only tied his daughter up with rope.”

  “Aye, but that was his daughter. This guy is a prisoner.”

  “What's he having to eat?” she asked.

  Pickle pulled out a bottle of water from his pocket, and a cereal bar out of the other one. “It's not much, but it'll do him for now.”

  Joanne still looked unsure whether to go with Pickle or not.

  “Look, most men are suckers for a pretty face.”

  She sighed, “Okay, if you think it’ll help in anyway.”

  Pickle walked away from Joanne's house, with her following behind. They reached 1 Colwyn Place and saw Terry standing outside.

  “How is he?” asked Pickle.

  “Mumping and moaning,” Terry snorted. “Says he needs a piss, and he’s also moaning about the chain hurting his waist.”

  “Listen,” Pickle began, “thanks for doing this. I know this ain't easy with yer daughter being down there for months on end.”

  “Don't worry about it.” Terry smiled thinly, headed inside and added, “You want me to come down to the cellar with you if you’re taking him for a piss?”

  Pickle nodded. “I'll need you to watch him and shadow me, just in case he does anything daft.”

  Terry nodded. “I'll get my bat.”

  “No need,” said Pickle. “There's a thing prison officers use called come-along-holds. It's where two officers stand on either side o' the prisoner, and they hold the wrist and grab the elbow. Once he's unlocked, we'll walk him to the toilet—”

  “Bollocks to that,” Terry snapped. “He's not using my toilet. He can use a bucket.”

  “No chance. If we’re gonna soften him up, we need to treat him with respect.” Pickle sighed, “We'll take him to the side o' the house for a piss. Then we’ll take him back to the cellar, feed him, then we’ll see if he’s going to take me to this Drake fellow. Has he still changed his mind?”

  “As soon as we'd put him in the cellar, he started going on about how he wasn't going to help us out, saying that he was a dead man whatever he did.”

  “Okay.”

  “So is that why Joanne's here?” Terry snickered. “Is she here to soften him up?”

  “She'd soften any man up in this street, wouldn't yer say?” Pickle smiled and gave Joanne a playful nudge.

  “Apart from you, Pickle?” Terry gave Harry Branston a gentle slap on the shoulder.

  “Aye, apart from me. Brad Pitt would soften me up.”

  Terry approached the cellar door, slid the bolt back and was the first to descend down the steps, with Pickle and Joanne following behind.

  They reached the floor and Joanne could see, with the little light in the cellar, that the man was chained up. His legs and arms were free, but a large and long chain was tied around his waist and attached to a wooden beam.

  “What's this?” the young man snapped. He was still dressed in his jeans, black shirt and leather jacket. “A welcoming committee?”

  “We brought yer food and water,” Pickle announced. “I'll get yer something more substantial before we go to Stafford and see this Drake guy. Yer said yesterday that you'd do it, but I heard that yer have now changed yer mind.”

  “Yes I have,” he spoke with a cheeky smile.

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever decision I make, I'm going to die anyway. When that nut killed Stuart, I panicked, but now I've had all night to reflect. I'm ready to die.”

  Pickle sighed with frustration and knew that the 'nut' the man was referring to was Paul Dickson. “We can protect yer.”

  “Balls,” the man scoffed. “Anyway, I just can't do it. You don't understand.”

  “I dealt in drugs for many years and spent a lot o' time in prison. I understand loyalty perfectly fine. I also understand fear.”

  “Then you'll know why I’ve changed my mind.”

  “We don't want to harm Drake. We want ... I want to talk to him. We've all lost people. It's time to put this to bed and stop fighting.”

  The young man huffed and pointed to the chain that was tied around him. “I need to empty my bladder. I've been in discomfort for the last few hours, and I don’t wanna piss on the floor.”

  “Discomfort? I thought yer were ready to die anyway.”

  “Please,” the hostage begged.

  Pickle nodded and gestured for Terry to unlock the man.

  Pickle said, “We'll talk more later. Maybe I can convince yer.”

  “Maybe.”

  Pickle told Joanne to take a step back. She took two steps back and was now at the bottom of the steps. Pickle grabbed the prisoner's left arm and told Terry to grab his right once he had unlocked the chain. Terry nonchalantly unlocked the man and slipped the key into his pocket. He immediately felt a stinging sensation on his nose and his eyes were now watering.

  Terry was confused and had no idea that the captive had struck him in the nose, and had also managed to get out of Pickle's grip and was about to flee.

  The prisoner headed towards the steps, where Joanne was, and screamed, “Move!”

  Feeling brave, Joanne stood in the way of the steps as Pickle began to move after him. The detainee grabbed her shoulders, but she wouldn't move, so he head-butted the woman, threw her to the side and made his way up the steps, with Pickle just a second away from grabbing him and pulling hi
m to the ground.

  The prisoner had made it to the top, and ran into the kitchen. He tried the back door that led out into the garden, but it was locked. If he could get out into the back garden and over the fence, he'd be safe. His only option now was the main door. He then ran down the hallway, heading for the main door, but a presence made him stop in his tracks.

  Pickle had reached the top of the steps and was now standing in the hallway. The prisoner walked towards Pickle with his fists raised.

  “I used to be an amateur boxer,” the youngster warned the former inmate.

  Pickle never spoke. He just stared at the young man.

  “I used to box for the police boys, the club in Rugeley.”

  He swung a right hook at Pickle. Pickle leaned back, the fist missing him by centimetres, then kicked the youngster with his right boot inbetween his legs. The prisoner groaned and had a look of surprise and pain on his face. With both hands on his crotch, he fell to his knees, where Pickle remained standing over him.

  Pickle then grabbed the back of his hair and pulled his head back and spat, “Back to the cellar for yer, sonny.”

  He remained holding his hair and dragged him back down, his body banging and scraping off the steps as he made the painful descent. The prisoner screamed all the way down. Pickle chained him back up whilst Terry left to clean his nose, and went over to see Joanne. She was on the floor, sitting up, and holding her right cheek.

  “Yer okay?” Pickle asked her, as Terry made his way up the steps.

  “I think it might just be bruising,” Joanne said.

  “I'm sorry. I thought I had him. Slippery little shit.”

  “Don't worry about it.”

  “I should have listened to Terry and made him use a bucket and kept him tied up,” Pickle sighed. “He was too quick. By the time he had struck Terry—”

  “Pickle,” Joanne interrupted. “It doesn't matter.” She touched her cheek and moaned, “I think I'm gonna have a cracking bruise by tomorrow.”

  The prisoner began to apologise and told the pair of them that he did what he did in a desperate way to escape.

  “I wouldn't normally strike a woman,” the prisoner said. “You have to believe me.”