Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  “Again, I'm sorry about Paul.”

  “There's always hope,” she said.

  “Not in this situation, Karen. Paul's gone for good.”

  Karen lowered her head and headed back to her house. Soon after, everybody else did the same.

  *

  Craig had been told by Pickle in private that Jez had been killed. Craig took the news well and told people that he would go out and find him himself and put him in an unmarked grave.

  He left with a shovel in his left hand and his hockey stick in his right, and headed to the gate and let himself out. Craig could hear the gate being locked behind him, but never turned to see who it was.

  He then turned left and went out to find Jez's body. He didn't exactly know where his body lay; he was certain that it was in 'some field' near the street and most of the fields were to Colwyn's left.

  Craig felt for Jez and hoped that his death was a quick one, but because of Drake and the other Wrath of Evil members desperately wanting to sort out this 'traitor', Craig was already convinced that Jez had died brutally.

  Poor Jez was in a no-win situation when Craig had hit him with the hockey stick in that ditch. Craig and Jez had left together, but Jez had no choice. If he stayed behind, then he was going to be killed by the gang members for failing to kill Craig as part of his initiation test.

  Walking along the road, he twisted his neck from side to side, looking for a field with a body in it. He could see up ahead that the road was bending and he followed it round. A few minutes later, he was surrounded by more fields and could see to his right that a body lay motionless on the ground.

  He knew it was Jez.

  With a heavy heart, Craig walked into the field and headed for the body. He stopped once he reached Jez. He dropped the shovel on the ground, grabbed the top of the hockey stick with both hands, using it to keep his balance as he crouched down.

  There was a lot of blood present around Jez's midriff, and Craig could see that the youngster had been knifed to death and could feel tears welling in his eyes. Jez would always say that he wasn't strong enough and cut out for the new world, and Craig would reassure the frightened teenager and tell him that he'd be okay if he stuck with him.

  Jez had obviously had enough and decided to leave the street.

  He was right. Jez was right about not being strong enough.

  He had only been away from the camp briefly and had lost his life.

  “I'm sorry, buddy,” Craig sighed. “I'm so sorry.”

  Craig dropped the hockey stick and began to dig. He never stopped once until he had successfully managed to create a hole that was big enough for Jez to lie in.

  It was shallow but it'd have to do.

  Craig took a rest for a minute, then used the shovel to put the pile of dirt over the body. He did this with narrow eyes and tried not to look at the mutilated body of the poor boy. He patted the earth once the nineteen-year-old was laid to rest, but decided not to say a prayer.

  What was the point? He didn't think there was any point.

  Craig Burns wiped his wet head with the back of his forearm and picked his hockey stick up with his right hand, and kept the shovel in his left.

  He walked away and headed back to the main road that ran past Colwyn Place. He had no idea how long he had been out of the street. Maybe an hour. Maybe longer.

  His walk was only minutes old when he saw an unusual sight, especially in this barren area. He saw one beast walking in front of him. It had its back to him and was struggling to walk. It must have walked by the field whilst he was digging Jez's grave.

  Another five minutes and it'd be walking by the gate of Colwyn Place and would probably be dealt with anyway, but Craig decided to remove the male creature himself.

  He moved closer to the dead being and then placed the shovel at the side, on the grass, then walked up behind the Creeper—as the Colwyn residents called them—and whacked the thing at the top of its skull. It fell immediately, but it wasn't quite finished, forcing Craig to give it two more blows as it twitched on the floor.

  With its head crushed and polluted brain matter exposed, Craig wiped his hockey stick on the grass and placed it next to the shovel. He grabbed the legs of the creature and dragged it to the side, leaving a small bloody slug-like trail.

  He took in a deep breath, picked up the shovel and stick, and headed back to the street.

  Chapter Forty Six

  With his hands tied behind his back with a black plastic cable tie, Paul Dickson sat in the back of the Audi, inbetween two gang members, staring out of the windscreen.

  This was it. He was going to die.

  Unless...

  This was not the way he had envisaged his death.

  For many weeks, when he was stuck in his house with Kyle, hoping that one day Julie and Bell would return, he would think about his own demise. He had thought of numerous ways he was going to perish, but never like this: Taken back to a camp to be killed as an act of revenge. This was something that you'd see in a Mad Max film. But it was happening.

  Drake was in the front passenger seat, sitting in silence, in fact they were all sitting in silence, and Paul began to wriggle about in the back seat and was beginning to annoy one of the men sitting next to him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” the man sitting to Paul's right asked. His name was Bill, Drake’s second in command.

  Paul never answered and continued to wriggle.

  “What are you doing, fucker?” the man asked once more.

  Paul never answered and Drake asked from the front, “What's happening back there?”

  The WOE man could see that Paul had both hands down the back of his jeans and grabbed his wrists, pulling them back out, making Paul yell in pain.

  “You prick!” Paul exclaimed and spat in the man's face.

  Bill wiped off the spittle and swallowed his anger. He didn't want to react with violence. He saw what happened to Mac. They all saw what happened to Mac.

  After wiping off the spittle, Bill answered Drake, “He had his hands down his trousers. Fucking weirdo.”

  “I was itchy, okay?” Paul shook his head and added, “Jesus, doesn't Drake let you retards scratch your own arses?”

  Drake laughed from his seat, surprising both the driver and his two men that sat inbetween Paul Dickson. They'd seen Richard Bromley, only six days ago, being beaten to death with a crowbar for being cheeky to Drake. The only solace about losing Richard was that he had no other family that stayed with him at Drake's place.

  He didn't kill many of his own men, but the ones that he did were on their own and had no family. So Drake had some compassion. Didn't he?

  Drake had stopped laughing and managed to compose himself. The tall, thin male ran his fingers across his shaved head, and moved the rear view mirror so he could see Paul in the back.

  “I just love the way you're putting a brave face on,” Drake said. “One thing I can't stand is to see grown men crying and begging for their lives. It's pathetic. But this tough guy act won't last long. When you get back to—”

  “Save your fucking speech,” Paul mumbled.

  “Don't you fucking interrupt me, you cunt!” Drake yelled, making every person in the car, even Paul, jump in fright. “When I'm talking, you fucking listen, you hear me? Two things I hate the most: Cunts interrupting me, and being ignored. Don't you fucking do that again! Understand?”

  Paul never responded, making Bill and John on either side of him tetchy.

  “Under-fucking-stand?”

  Paul began to laugh and giggled, “Go fuck yourself.”

  A silence fell on the men. Apart from the engine, no other noise could be heard. Drake had his hands on the dashboard and his nails were digging in. Paul thought he was going to pull the vehicle over and kill him at the side of the road, but thirty seconds of deep breathing and Drake slowly sat back and seemed to be relaxed again.

  Drake cleared his throat and said, “So this is what's going to happen to you, Paul
Dickson. We're going to take you to a courtyard where we stay. There are two relatives, brothers in fact, of one of the guys you ran down and killed. We'll keep you tied up, and the brothers will then repeatedly stab and beat you until you are dead. It's not going to be quick. You'll probably be stabbed in the legs and arms before your heart takes a blade. The other relatives didn't want to take part; they just wanted to watch, and I’m not going to take part to avenge Gerry’s death either. Allowing them to kill you is the least I could do for them, don't you think?”

  Paul never answered and continued to squirm in his seat.

  “What the fuck's wrong with that cunt?” Drake asked one of the men in the back.”

  “I dunno, Drake,” said Bill who was behind Drake.

  “If he keeps it up, give him a fucking slap. You have my permission.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Paul continued to wriggle his bum. He lifted one cheek, and then relaxed again.

  “What the fuck is that smell?” the driver began to cough and twisted his face in disgust.

  “Jesus,” John, who was sitting to Paul's right said, “That's fucking disgusting.”

  Paul lowered his head and apologised for what he did. “I'm nervous. What do you expect?”

  “Jesus, son.” The driver was coughing, almost retching and wound his window. “Have you shat yourself or what?”

  “A little.” Paul nodded.

  “For cunt's sake!” Drake snapped. He then turned to the driver and told him to stop the car.

  The driver brought the car to a halt and the trucks and mopeds that were following behind also stopped. Nobody from behind asked questions about what was happening.

  “Now what?” asked the driver.

  “I'm not having this cunt shitting all over the car,” said Drake. “You two,” he pointed at the two men that Paul was sat inbetween, “get him into the woods and let him shit himself thin. Smelly cunt. I swear, we're better off killing him here and telling them back home that he’s already dead.”

  “You did swear you'd bring him back,” the driver said. “They'd appreciate that, Drake.”

  Drake never responded.

  Paul was taken out of the car and was then ushered into the woods by Bill and John that had been sitting either side of him. They went in ten yards and the two covered their faces because of the smell that was coming from Paul. Bill pointed at a large oak tree and said, “Behind there. Fucking hurry up.”

  “I can't shit with my hands behind my back,” Paul cried out. “At least one of you undo my top button.

  Both men gazed at one another.

  “I'll fucking do it,” said Bill who had been sitting on Paul's left. “But we're not untying you.”

  He walked over and reluctantly undone Paul's button; he then stepped backwards as if he was on fire.

  Paul said, “I can get the rest.”

  Dickson, with his hands still tied, crept behind the tree. Minutes went by and the patience of the two men were being tested.

  Both men took a step backwards, turned around and covered their noses when the unmistakable sound of an individual having chronic diarrhoea could be heard. They winced and squirmed as the sound of loud flatulence came from behind the tree.

  Paul moaned, “Oh God. Have you guys got any toilet roll?”

  “No, we haven't!” Bill yelled. “Fucking hurry up!”

  “But I've caked my jeans. When I go back to the car, I'm still gonna stink.”

  Both men looked at one another and both shook their heads. Paul was going to have to travel half-naked once he was back in the car.

  “What's the fucking hold up?” Drake could be heard yelling from the car.

  “We're just coming!” John shouted. “Waiting for this prick to hurry up.”

  Bill began to anxiously bite his nails, whilst John was drumming his thighs with the palms of his hands.

  Bill was still biting his nails and stopped doing so and huffed, “This is taking too long. I'm gonna see what the hold up is.”

  “I'll come with you,” John said.

  They both turned and watched in horror as Paul was running away. His arms were somehow free and he was already thirty yards away from the men, running through the bracken like Usain Bolt. He was so far away already that the pair of them knew that running after the man was pointless. Three seconds later the woods swallowed him up.

  Bill turned and gasped at his other pal John and said, “I think we're both fucked.”

  *

  “What did yer say to Paul before he left?” Pickle asked Karen. The pair of them were standing near a doorstep, outside of their house.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yer said somethin’ in his ear and put yer hands in his back pocket.”

  Karen smirked. “You saw that?”

  “O' course. Yer looking at a man that used to pass all kinds o' shit, mainly drugs, to inmates under guard's noses. I saw yer, but I don't think anyone else did, yer sneaky little minx.”

  Karen laughed softly and gave Pickle a glance before lowering her head.

  “What did yer say?” he persisted. “And what did yer put in Paul's pocket when Drake was talking to one of his guys?”

  “Nothing. It doesn't matter now.” Karen had her head lowered and could feel Pickle's stare. “It might not even have come to any use. Poor Paul.”

  Pickle smiled. “What are yer talking about, woman?”

  “It doesn't matter, Pickle.”

  He leaned over and tried to look in Karen's eyes. “Tell me. What ‘ave yer done?”

  “Okay.” Karen moaned and tucked her dark hair behind her ears. “Remember when I went to the house where all the medical supplies are, when Drake was here?”

  Pickle nodded. “O' course. Yer said yer had a migraine.”

  “Well, I didn't.”

  “Karen, yer not making any sense. What did yer go to the medical place for, if yer didn't have a migraine?”

  “To get a few things. Things that could help him.”

  “Help him?”

  Karen shrugged her shoulders.

  “Jesus, it's like getting blood out o' a stone,” Pickle sighed. “Just fuckin' tell me what yer did.”

  “When I hugged Paul I put a suppository in his back pocket.”

  “What?” Pickle scratched his head and was confused why Karen did this. “What for?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I have no idea, Bradley.” Pickle wasn't in the mood for games. “Just fuckin' tell me, will yer?”

  “I put it in his back pocket and then I whispered in his ear what he should do with it and when he should take it.”

  “So you sneaked him a suppository?” Pickle looked baffled. “So he's gonna shit himself all over the back of Drake's car? What’s the point?”

  “That's right.” Karen nodded. “And I also slipped him a razor blade.”

  “What for?”

  “Originally to attack whoever was guarding him. I could hardly sneak him a knife. Anyway, since they tied him up, it looks like he'll be needing that blade to probably cut himself free.”

  Pickle sighed and lowered his head as he took the information in. “If this comes back on us...”

  “It won't.”

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Vince Kindl walked over to the concrete wall where Stephen Rowley was, and could see that the forty-three-year-old rotund man from number seven was standing on a small stool. His front was against the wall, facing the old part of the street and resting his chin on the top of it.

  Vince crept up behind Rowley and could see that the man was in a world of his own. Vince then crouched down slightly and grabbed Rowley by the waist and cried, “Gotcha!”

  “Jesus, fuck!” Rowley wobbled and nearly fell off the stool. “Vince, you stupid prick. I nearly shat a brick.”

  Vince doubled over with laughter and was clutching onto his stomach. “Your face,” he howled. “You look like you've just walked in on your mum getting banged by the window cleane
r.”

  “Not funny, chap.” Stephen stepped off the stool and leaned his back against the wall, trying to get his breath and clutching onto the left side of his chest. “You could have given me a heart attack.”

  “What're you doing anyway?”

  “Nothing.” Stephen shook his head and was too annoyed with Kindl to go into detail. “Just thinking.”

  “Well, don't think too hard, Stephen. Don't want you having an haemorrhage.”

  “I was actually thinking about Paul.” As soon as he mentioned this, Vince lost his smile. “And everyone else that we've lost in the last couple of days. Makes you wonder why we still want to live.”

  “We've all been there.” Vince nodded and knew where Stephen was coming from. “We all get down days. It's part of living in this shitty new world.”

  “This is what it's like for me,” Stephen began. “We're all on death row. It's just a matter of time before we go. It could be tomorrow or it could be next month.”

  “You should tell stories to the Danson kids.”

  “I'm serious, chap. What is the point?”

  “What's the point?” Vince was bemused by Rowley's ramblings. “What do you mean? What's the point in being alive?”

  “I don't know, chap.” Stephen began to quiver and Vince could see that Rowley was beginning to get emotional.

  Vince looked around, hoping that there'd be a woman about to take care of the situation. Most men were simply hopeless in these circumstances, and Vince was one of them.

  “There, there.” Vince reluctantly patted Stephen on his lower back and could see Stephanie stepping out of 2 Colwyn Place with her bow in her hand and bag on her back.

  Vince waved her over, and the fourteen-year-old slowly made her way towards Vince and Stephen.

  “Oh look, it's Stephanie,” Vince said.

  Stephen turned around and began to compose himself, wiping his eyes with his hands.

  “Everybody okay?” Stephanie asked.

  “Stephen was just having a wobble,” Vince explained.

  Rowley cleared his throat and said, “I'm okay. Just having a bad hour.”

  “We're all allowed them now and again.” Stephanie smiled. “I get them quite often.”