Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  Pickle picked up the water and the cereal bar and put them back in his pocket.

  “What're you doing?” the captive asked.

  “I can't reward bad behaviour.” Pickle walked away and Joanne followed him. He said to the young man, “I'll talk to yer later, when yer have calmed down. Maybe yer will have changed yer mind about taking me to see Drake.”

  “But I still need the toilet.”

  Pickle had reached the top of the steps and once Joanne was out of the cellar, he popped his head back in and yelled, “You can use the floor!” He then locked the door and headed outside with an injured and dazed Joanne.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Vince went over to the concrete wall, where Stephen Rowley and Stephen Bonser were standing, and asked the guys how they were.

  “We're fine, chap,” Rowley answered, then twisted his neck and cleared his throat. “Just a bit anxious.”

  “I know I didn't say anything yesterday,” Vince began, “but you guys did good.” Vince then turned to Bonser. “And I'm sorry about James. I know you two were close.”

  “That's okay,” Stephen Bonser said sadly. “Pickle had spoken to me yesterday evening about James. Despite breaking his fingers, Pickle seemed genuinely sorry that he's no longer with us. Everybody seems to be talking about the toddler, more than anything.”

  “I know. And what about John?” Vince shook his head. “You survive an attack from those arseholes, only to keel over and die in your own house from a heart attack. Talk about rotten luck.”

  “What do we do about a leader now, chap?” Rowley asked. “You or Pickle seems to be the obvious choice. If James was still alive, he might have stepped in. Terry isn't mentally stable enough and—”

  “I don't know. We can talk about it later,” Vincent said and nodded over to Karen and Pickle's house. “I'll bring the subject up. I'm going over to see them now anyway.”

  “That Karen's a tough cookie,” Bonser laughed. “I don't really speak to her, but she was cool as fuck yesterday. James used to think that the stories about Karen and Pickle were exaggerated to make them seem tougher, but I think he was wrong.”

  “He was wrong.” Vince smiled.

  “I suppose you know them better than most.”

  Vince smiled at Bonser and said, “About six or seven weeks ago, before I met them, Karen and Pickle were staying at a cabin.” Vince didn't want to tell them that the cabin belonged to his father, and that was how he met Karen and Pickle because he went there on foot after losing his vehicle with a guy called Jack Slade. That would cause questions and interruptions. He continued, “Karen and Pickle used to leave the cabin on Cardboard Hill and go to the back of the Pear Tree Estate to check out abandoned houses for supplies. Pickle had gone down on his own and had been gone too long, so Karen went down to see where he was. She knew, I don't know how, that Pickle was in this particular house and was being held against his will by four guys that they had a run-in with days earlier.”

  “What happened?” Rowley asked impatiently.

  “Karen was outside and hid for a while. Then two guys came out of a house and she attacked one man with a machete. She then picked up the shotgun that the man had dropped and fired it at the other guy. What she didn't know was that the vehicle the man was standing next to had gas canisters in it, with the boot still open. Some of the pellets hit the canisters and blew the car up, sending Karen and this man to the floor. Anyway, she went inside the house to find that Pickle had already taken care of one of the captors, and he had his little finger snipped off when the cunts were torturing him. There was four men in all, but one of them escaped in a car.”

  “So that's how Pickle lost his finger.” Rowley smiled.

  “Karen did all that?” Bonser asked with wide eyes.

  “Yip, pretty much,” said Vince. “I was out on a run with a woman called Claire, now deceased, and we came across a vehicle, I think it was a Corsa, that had crashed. The man inside was dying, so I put him out of his misery. When Pickle told me that story about them a few weeks back and the fact that one of the guys had escaped in a Vauxhall Corsa, I then realised that I had killed the remaining man from that gang of four. And that was before I met them. Funny old world, isn't it?”

  “Hilarious,” Stephen Bonser said almost hypnotically, then looked at Stephen Rowley, wondering if Vince had made that story up. Was he joking? Rowley had already told Bonser that Karen had killed Vince’s parents.

  “Anyway,” said Vince. “I'll see you guys later.”

  Kindl walked over to the house of 10 Colwyn Place and knocked the door, but there was no answer. Vince knew they were in; he saw Pickle leave Terry's place not long ago, so he opened Pickle and Karen's main door and shouted, “Are you two decent?” He was answered with two yeses from upstairs and let himself in. With thirty-seven-year-old Gareth Broadgate now deceased, Vince had a house to himself and was bored already.

  Vince sat down on the armchair and heard feet galloping their way downstairs. Karen stepped into the living room and greeted him with a smile.

  “Alright, Bradley?” said Vince. “I heard you went over to see Joanne earlier. She okay?”

  “I went over to see her about an hour ago?”

  “And?”

  “There's some bruising to her face, but nothing that won't heal. It’ll look worse tomorrow. No broken bones, so at least that's something. It looks worse than it actually is.”

  Vince sighed, “Poor Joanne.”

  “I think the prisoner did it because she was in the way. He probably wouldn't have touched her otherwise.”

  “You're not sticking up for the guy, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said Karen, “but I noticed that not all of these guys are sadistic rapists and killers. One or two looked frightened when they invaded us yesterday. This Drake guy seems to have a hold on them.”

  “I don't think these guys were expecting us to fight back the way we did,” said Vince. “They certainly weren't expecting Paul to turn up in that pickup. Did you know that he'd spotted the pickup driver and jumped in the back of the vehicle? He punctured the tyre and once the driver stopped and got out, Paul killed him, then came here.”

  “Jesus.” Karen shook her head in disbelief. “The Paul of old from weeks back is well and truly gone. I'm just glad he's on our side.”

  “Me too,” cackled Vince. “The mad bastard.”

  Karen walked over to the window and peered out into the street. “There's Paul going over to see Joanne now.”

  “Does he know about her being attacked?”

  “Don't think so. Oh well, looks like he's gonna find out once he opens that door.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Stephanie, Elza and Ophelia were sitting down in their living room, having refreshments. The news of the deaths didn't seem to bother Elza and Ophelia, but Stephanie was still upset. The death of the toddler affected her more than the others, and she couldn't understand why individuals could be so cruel to a defenceless baby, even in this world.

  Pickle had told her that he had come across groups of individuals who had caused them problems, but being attacked by a gang of people of this size, from an actual camp, was a first for everybody.

  Stephanie was still uncomfortable in Elza's company and wondered if she should move house. She was eager to know who was going to be in charge. With John Lincoln dead, she assumed Pickle would be the next person to lead.

  Stephanie stood to her feet, prompting Elza to ask where she was going.

  “Out for some air,” was all that Stephanie said before leaving.

  She stepped out and the fourteen-year-old clocked the other fourteen-year-old in the street, David MacDonald. She hardly spoke to the boy since she had arrived, apart from a hello and a good morning.

  She saw the boy sitting on the doorstep of 7 Colwyn Place, a place he shared with Stephen Rowley, and decided to go over and speak to the teenager. She had heard he wasn't coping very well a few days ago, and felt sorry for him.
>
  David stared into nothingness and looked up as Stephanie headed over towards him. He gulped and shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. He went to stand up to greet the young lady, but then changed his mind and sat back down.

  “Hi, there,” Stephanie greeted.

  “Hello.” David gulped again and looked up at Stephanie who was standing over him. She was very pretty, too pretty for him, and her presence made him feel anxious. She was the same age as him, but seemed more grown up.

  She giggled and pointed at part of the doorstep that David's butt wasn't covering and said, “Do you mind shifting along? It'll be nice to talk to someone my own age for a change.”

  “Sure.” David moved along a few inches and Stephanie sat down next to him.

  They both looked out onto the street and were enveloped in quiet for a few seconds before David MacDonald bravely broke the silence.

  “I’m still shocked about what happened yesterday,” he said.

  “I know.” Stephanie nodded. “I feel bad for not being here when it happened.”

  “You weren't to know.”

  “That's true.”

  “You could have shot a few arrows from the safety of your bedroom,” David tried to joke. “You could have taken a few of them down if you were here.”

  “I could have,” Stephanie responded with a serious tone.

  David cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. “Me and you are the same age.”

  “Yes?” Stephanie smiled, unsure where David was going with this.

  “And yet...” He paused and dipped his head with shame.

  “Go on.”

  “You go out on a run with those two women, but when the street is attacked I'm told to hide in the house, in the attic.”

  “Do you have any experience of killing these things?” she asked bluntly.

  David flushed a little and shook his head.

  “Then ... that's why. If you haven't killed a Creeper, you'd certainly struggle against a fully grown man.”

  “But we're the same age.”

  “I know, but the only reason why I have experience out there is because I was thrown into the deep end, so to speak. I had no choice when this shit kicked off.”

  “Me and my dad lived on the Springfields, in Rugeley,” David began. “We left to go to Sandy Lane and was kind of protected for a few months from what was really happening in the outside world.”

  “That’s what I'm talking about. We’ve had two different starts to this new world.”

  “Everybody keeps calling it that,” David huffed and seemed to be in a bad mood. “New world. What a load of shit. Since this new world has happened I've lost my dad, my friend Charles Pilkington, and his family were also killed...”

  “What happened to your mum?”

  “She died a while back.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry.”

  “Anyway,” David stood up and looked ready to go inside, “it was good to talk to you, but I'm going inside now.”

  “Okay.” Stephanie was confused why their little chat was so short, but then saw his eyes filling up. David MacDonald was becoming upset and was uncomfortable by this.

  Stephanie placed her hand on his shoulder and said to him, “If ever you need to speak to someone, give me a shout.”

  David nodded and stepped into his house.

  “David?” said Stephanie.

  He stopped and turned around.

  “There's no shame in crying.”

  “I know.” He produced a thin smile and slowly shut the door.

  Stephanie took a stroll back to the house where she was staying.

  *

  Paul knocked on the door of Joanne Hammett's and gasped when it was opened.

  One side of her face was covered in contusions and he took a step back to get a look at the damage to her countenance.

  “You didn't hear?” she said.

  Paul shook his head. “I’ve been busy doing…”

  “You better come in.”

  Once they were both in the living room, Paul remained standing up, whilst Joanne sat down and began to tell him about her visit to the WOE guy that was being held.

  She explained to him why Pickle thought it'd be a good idea to take her along, but it had obviously turned out a little sour. The prisoner had almost escaped and Joanne and Terry had been assaulted. Paul sat down next to Joanne and the pair of them embraced.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “It's okay, “ Joanne spoke softly. “It's not as bad as it looks.”

  “What the fuck was Pickle thinking, taking you there? And I would have let the prick piss on the floor anyway.”

  “He thought it was a good idea taking me there. And he didn’t let him piss on the floor at first because he wanted to gain the man’s trust and treat him with respect.”

  “I'll fucking kill that prisoner,” he seethed, saliva running down his chin.

  “No, you won't,” she said.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “I think you've killed enough people yesterday, Paul Dickson. Just keep holding me.”

  They continued to embrace for a further minute; then Paul broke away from the embrace and asked her if she wanted tea.

  She said yes.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Terry Braithwaite sat in his kitchen and listened to the loud yelling and moaning coming from his cellar. He felt his nose where the hostage had struck him before he tried to make his escape, and winced. It wasn't broken, thankfully, but it was still sore to touch.

  The rant from the cellar had been going on for ten minutes. Terry had no idea how it had started. The guy had been quiet since he had been chained back up. Terry was counting down the minutes for when he was back on the gate, just to get away from the noise. He decided to get up and walk to his door. Maybe a sit on his lawn and some fresh air would do him some good.

  Terry walked down the hallway that led to his front door and heard the man's voice yell, “I need a fucking drink down here, man!”

  Terry stopped moving, puffed out a breath, then went back to his kitchen and grabbed a small bottle of water. He went to the cellar door, and unbolted it. He made his way down the steps and left the cellar door open so that some kind of light was in there.

  “You want water?” Terry laughed; he lifted the bottle and shook it, teasing the young prisoner.

  “Give it fucking here!”

  Terry added, “Why would I give you water after you tried to break my nose?”

  The prisoner said, “Look, I'm sorry about that.”

  Terry could just about see in the dusky cellar. The man had dropped his head, looking guilty because of the previous attack, or pretending to look guilty.

  “What I did was desperate,” the man began to explain. “I wanted to escape. I'm not going to talk, so I had no option. If I don't talk and show you guys where we stay, you will probably kill me. If I do, Drake will probably kill me.”

  “Is he that bad?” Terry asked.

  “He can be. He'll be pissed that he lost all those guys yesterday.”

  “I bet it came as a surprise the way we fought back?”

  The young man began to laugh, annoying Terry, and snickered, “Okay, I admit it. We underestimated you lot the first time round. We thought the number of guys we had was enough to give you an arse kicking. But we have three times that many back at our base. If Drake wants to kill you all, and he probably does now that you've killed a lot of his guys, then he will.”

  Terry never responded and the prisoner could see that Terry's confidence had drained from the information he had been given.

  “A storm is coming your way.” The prisoner decide to taunt Terry further and said with a smirk, “And it's not gonna be pretty.”

  “Is that right?” Terry put the bottle of water into his pocket, then folded his arms and listened to the man's response.

  “Oh yeah.” The young man wore an annoying and conceited smile. “I reckon by the end of the week you'll be joining your
family.”

  Terry took a step forwards, his fists clenched, and snarled, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “When I was brought here,” the young man said. “You know, after that maniac killed my friend, I noticed through your kitchen window that there were graves. That was your family, right?”

  Terry clenched his teeth and winced when his nose picked up the odour of urine. It looked like the prisoner had pissed on the floor after all.

  “Yeah,” the prisoner began to laugh. “That was definitely your family in that fucking ground.”

  “Shut up!” Spittle left Terry's mouth and disappeared into his ginger beard, his eyes were wide with rage.

  “Or what?”

  Terry grabbed the prisoner’s shirt with both hands, making the young man gasp, and spat, “Keep your mouth shut, if you know what's good for you!”

  “Why should I?” the prisoner laughed. “I'm not gonna talk. I'm not gonna show that Pickle where we live, so I'm gonna die anyway. It's just a matter of when.”

  “Just ... keep quiet.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  “I said ... keep your fucking mouth shut!” Terry grabbed the man's shirt tighter.

  “Your wife? Kids?” The man continued to laugh and placed his hand over his mouth, mocking Terry. “Oh shit. You didn't lose the whole deck, did you? That's rotten luck.”

  “Shut up!”

  “What did you have? One kid? Two? It looked like a pretty big grave.”

  “Quiet!” Terry's blood was boiling and he was shaking with rage.

  “You do realise that it's all your fault,” the young man continued to tease. “The basic requirement of a father is to protect his child or children.”

  “I swear to fucking God—”

  “I don't know how you can live with yourself.”

  Terry release a strident cry and slammed the man's head off of the concrete wall, again and again, then released him and allowed him to drop in a heap.

  He was dead.

  Terry then took a step back and began to cry. He walked over to the steps and sat on the second-from-bottom one to get his breath back.