Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  She made a sigh and stared at the ceiling, pleased that she had survived another day.

  *

  Stephen Bonser looked around the living room and took another swig from the Jim Beam bottle. It was the last one left.

  Three weeks ago, Stephen and James Thomson had been out on a run and had come across a newsagents. They came back with confectionery, some medical gear and cigarettes. Most of the cigarettes had been given to Joanne and Nick Gregory, the only smokers in the street, and everything else was shared.

  What James and Stephen didn't tell the rest was that they also had come back with twelve bottles of booze. They would have taken more if there was any room left in the car.

  They had taken a bottle of brandy, Southern Comfort, a large bottle of Jack Daniels, three bottles of red wine and six Jim Beams, James' favourite tipple. It was wrong of the pair of them to do this, but neither one knew what was around the corner. They had no idea how long they had left on this earth.

  James used to go round to Stephen's, where the booze was hidden, and they used to drink and reminisce about the world when it was normal. One night they eventually became lovers, and staying at Stephen's ended up becoming a permanent thing.

  Stephen stroked the bottle that was being held in his other hand, and rested it on his lap. He brought the rim up to his nose and sniffed. He wasn't going to get drunk tonight. He just wanted to drink to James. And so he did.

  He looked up to the ceiling, raised the bottle and winked, then took a generous gulp of the liquid. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and placed it by the side of the armchair. It was time for bed.

  *

  Craig paced up and down the musty-smelling living room and knew that he needed to relax, otherwise he was never going to get to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about Jez and the way he died.

  He looked over in the corner of the living room where he had stood up the hockey stick. It had been wiped on the grass after killing that thing on the way back, but stains were still present on the wood.

  Craig raised a smile and thought about their short relationship and some of the daft queries Jez would ask him to break up the boredom.

  Would you rather die from drowning or burn to death?

  For a two-litre bottle of water would you kill a dog?

  There were many others that Craig couldn't recall, but his mind then wandered again and thought about other things. He thought about his wife and kids and the scenes that he witnessed when the outbreak hit where they stayed at Alton Towers. He then tried to imagine what it was like for other people at other theme parks like Drayton Manor, Flamingoland and Thorpe Park. Some of these places had zoos and there were also safari parks where non-dangerous animals roamed free.

  When people turned and began to attack one another, did they also turn on the animals? Did the dead try and eat a zebra? If they tried but the animal escaped, did the zebra then turn? Was that actually possible?

  He shook his head and laughed at himself. All these questions were driving him crazy and were never going to help him sleep.

  He sat down in the armchair, closed his eyes and tried some breathing exercises.

  *

  She missed everyone. She missed her family, her old way of life, and her school friends. But Stephanie Perkins was alive, unlike most of the people she was thinking about, and she had to be grateful for that.

  The young girl lay on her bed as the evening grew older and closed her eyes, forcing herself to fall asleep, but every time she did this a flash from the past would torment her and create water in her eyes.

  She wiped them for the third time since she had retired to the bedroom half an hour ago, and tried to go to sleep again.

  She was tired and her eyes were stinging, but her mind was refusing to slow down.

  She thought about seeing Karen the following morning and asking her if she could try sleeping pills, or even just one, but she was unsure that they had any, and if they did she would probably be told that she was too young to be taking those kind of pharmaceutical drugs.

  She stubbornly stayed where she was, eyes closed, and knew that tiredness would eventually win in the end.

  *

  It was nearly ten in the evening and Terry Braithwaite was the unfortunate person to be doing nightshift on the gate. Vince was with him, but Kindl roamed around the street, showing signs of boredom already.

  Jim Danson had been told to do a stint and was at the opposite end of the street, by the wall, and looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Terry had never seen a man so scared before, but was kind of glad that Danson was present. If the street was attacked again on this night, which everybody agreed was highly unlikely, Danson would be as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. However, Terry thought it was about time that Danson did some work, rather spending his time hiding in the house like he used to when Lincoln was around.

  Danson and many others used to get away with murder when John Lincoln was alive, but things had changed. Although it wasn't official that Pickle was in charge, Branston had told Danson he was on nightshift duty. Pickle reassured Jim that everything would be okay, and if something did happen, Vince and Terry were present and Pickle said that he'd also be out in the street within seconds.

  Danson wasn't comfortable by the wall, holding a bat, but the numbers in the street had been depleted and there was no hiding place for any shirkers now.

  Terry turned away from Danson and leaned his baseball bat against the fence. He sat down on the kerb, near the entrance, and slowly dropped his head in his hands.

  Like most days, especially when he had nothing to do, Terry thought about that day; the day he lost his family.

  He thought he was the unluckiest guy in the world and had slowly realised that he wasn't on his own. Not only were there many thousands of people that were probably on their own after losing some family members or even their entire family, but some of those people were, or had been, living in Colwyn Place.

  Vince had lost his parents, Wolfgang and Grace Kindl, although admitted that they were never that close. Pickle had lost his partner, but had never revealed about any other family that he had. Karen had lost her fiancé and had no idea if her mother was alive, or her father and stepsister that lived in Glasgow. Craig had lost his wife and two children and so had Paul Dickson.

  Even if the country, possibly the world, managed to get on its feet and restore some kind of order, there was going to be a lot of people with mental health issues due to the trauma and horror that they had experienced.

  Terry laughed to himself and began to shake his head in defeat. “We're all fucked.”

  Chapter Fifty Two

  August 21st

  The shunned Wrath of Evil gang member—or ex-gang member—yawned before he opened his eyes and could feel the pain in his left thigh. He was surprised that he had managed to go to sleep at all. He had hobbled his way to a field the evening before, and eventually collapsed with exhaustion.

  John sat up and looked around where he was. It was a new day; dawn was breaking, and he knew it was the pain that had pulled him out of his sleep.

  He looked down at the top of his left leg, and could see that the sleeve off his shirt that had been ripped off and tied around his leg had stopped the bleeding, but the agony was still there. It had been nearly twelve hours since Drake made him stab himself in the thigh, and he wondered how long it would be before the pain became tolerable. He prayed that his wound wouldn't get infected and hoped any other complications didn't occur, but now he had to focus on food and water and how to obtain them.

  He licked his wrinkly lips and rubbed his throat. He needed a drink. If only he could find a brook to drink from, or better.

  John attempted to get on his feet and cried out when he stood up, as he accidentally placed his injured leg on the floor. He struggled across the field and hoped he could find a large stick or branch of some kind to give him support. He winced in pain with every hobble he made and eventually made it to the side
of the road.

  He looked to the left and right and had no idea where to go. Drake didn't want him anymore and his family were dead, so where the fuck was he going to go?

  He tried left, knowing that right would eventually lead to Stafford, and he knew that if his face was seen anywhere near Drake's place, he'd be killed for his cheek of returning. Left would take him to Great Haywood and Little Haywood. There was a danger of bumping into some of the residents from Colwyn Place, especially if the locals were out on a run or checking the roads. But he had come to the conclusion that they were decent people and that Drake tried to take advantage of their good nature, but had underestimated the Colwyn residents and had come off second best when they launched the surprise attack.

  The journey along the road was a long, painful and frustrating one. He had managed a smile and could now see the Wolseley Arms pub in the distance. Turning left at the pub would take him to that place where those people stayed. He had to go ahead and try and get into Rugeley, but that was another two or three miles. He was never going to make that. The dehydration was making his head pound and he needed some kind of liquid, even if it meant going on the pub's premises and going down the bank and drinking from the Trent.

  Although it was early morning, he needed to rest, and he was going to use the pub as a temporary base, especially if there were liquids still left in there. He managed to find some new energy as he got nearer to the pub.

  Injured and with no weapon on him, he went round the back of the establishment once he reached the place, cautious that there could be some of the dead present. John hobbled over the car park to the back door of the pub and tried the door. It opened. The ex-Wrath of Evil gang member smiled and peered inside the place. It was a mess inside. Furniture had been scattered and some windows were broken, but he hobbled over to the dusky bar and smiled once his eyes clocked the bottles of tonic water on a shelf. He went behind the bar and grabbed a couple of bottles, opened them both with an opener and swallowed down the liquids.

  Man, that feels good.

  His eyes then spotted bottles of Fanta. There were only a few left. It appeared that the pub had had many visitors over the months, but not every drink had been consumed.

  A thud then alerted the man, and he suddenly scanned around in the dim place, looking for something that could be used as a weapon. He couldn't see properly, so he went over to one of the chairs in the lounge area, turned it on its side and with his hand he pushed down on one of the legs. One of them eventually came off, causing him to fall to the ground and banging his injured leg. He released a yell of pain and cussed.

  Using a nearby table, he pulled himself up, picked up the wooden leg and had a few practice swings with both hands. A thud could be heard again. He didn't know whether to leave or deal with whatever was inside the establishment. He was sure he could deal with at least one of those things, even with his disability. If he did kill whatever was inside, he could try and secure the place and stay for a while.

  The injured leg was a massive concern.

  In the films, injured individuals would pour alcohol on the wound to stop infections. He thought that once he had dealt with whatever was in the back room, he was going to try and find a bottle of alcohol and pour it onto his thigh. But then he remembered something his wife had told him, many years ago.

  His wife was a nurse and told him that alcohol can actually harm the tissue and delay the healing. Running water would have been better, but running water that was clean was hard to come by nowadays. He knew that pouring alcohol on his wound would be sore, but his options were limited.

  Another sound was heard.

  He knew that if he wanted to stay here until his injury healed, he needed to check out the place before he could relax. He was exhausted because of his short sleep and wanted nothing more than a lie down, providing it was safe upstairs. Ten minutes ago he wanted nothing more than a drink, but his thirst had now been quenched.

  He limped further into the lounge and could hear more noises. It sounded like it was coming from the male toilets.

  Still holding the chair leg, he opened the door to the restroom and could see the urinals to the left and four cubicles on the right. It literally pained him to do it but he went down on one knee, bending the leg that wasn't injured, and looked underneath.

  There was a set of feet in the first cubicle.

  He painfully got back up and decided to leave the beast alone. He was sure that the cubicle was locked from the inside, and if he somehow locked or blocked the main door to the toilets, he thought that he should be okay. It should be enough to make him feel at ease.

  He headed for the exit of the toilet door, trying to drag his feet as quietly as he could. He placed his hand on the handle, ready to pull it open. He took in a deep breath, turned around and had one last look back at the cubicles as he opened the door.

  A groan from behind startled the man and he turned around to see what it was.

  A ghoul stepped forwards, into the toilet area, and the man screamed out, alerting the being that was locked in the cubicle. He dropped the piece of wood once the pair of cold hands went round his throat. He screamed out again once his brain had registered that he was face-to-face with one of the dead that had somehow came from the lounge area of the pub, and couldn't react in time when the beast leaned in and took a large bite out of his cheek.

  The man screeched as the blood poured out from the side of his face, and did nothing but stand in shock as the creature, still chewing from its first bite, moved once more and took a large chunk out of the man's neck.

  “God, help me!” he wailed.

  He grabbed at the wound on his neck in a hopeless way of trying to stop the bleeding. With his shirt already saturated in his own blood, he fell to the floor and could do nothing when the beast grabbed the wounded neck and forced it open further with its dirty fingers, blood pissing out all over the floor.

  By the time the ravenous creature dropped to its knees and buried its head into his bloody neck and began to chew on the man's meaty tongue, he was already dead.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Paul Dickson woke to hear his stomach growling. He wasn't starving as such, but his stomach demanded food. Any kind of food.

  He stood to his feet and, fully dressed, he went over to the bedroom and peered out. Unlike the last few days, it was a beautiful day. The sun was out, hanging in the middle of the sky, and not one white cloud was around to keep it company.

  “It's going to be a scorcher,” Paul muttered to himself.

  He thought it'd be better to go out now and find some food. The longer the day went on, the hotter it was going to become. Paul had made a decision to stay in the house for a while, then move on and try and find something else.

  He was so tired the evening before that he never checked the cupboards in the kitchen to see if there was anything to eat. After nearly three months since the apocalypse began, he doubted that there was anything, but thought to check anyway before he left to go to the woods. There was plenty of water in the bath, so maybe there was food as well if the family had decided to leave their home early.

  He grabbed the thick branch that he had found in the woods and left the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and took a few gulps of water from the bath and went downstairs.

  He entered the living room and walked through to the kitchen. He walked through the pool of water that was present on the kitchen floor, and could see that it came from the fridge freezer that must have defrosted once the power was lost. He opened the cupboards that were above the kettle and the toaster, and a wide smile stretched across his face. There were no tins of food like soup, tuna or beans available, but there were other things that could keep Paul in the house for a week or so. It appeared that when the family had left, they took what they could, but didn't take everything. Maybe they thought this was something that would only last a few days or weeks.

  He looked in the cupboard. On the right side of the cupboard he could see a pac
ket of Jacob's cream crackers, digestive biscuits, chocolate and caramel crispy cubes, a chicken and mushroom pot noodle and a couple of packets of dry pasta. On the left side was a box of cream eggs on the second shelf, as well as a tin that was full of Cadbury's chocolates. On the shelf below was a basket. Paul pulled out the basket and could see it had some medical supplies in it. There was a box of laxido, paracetamol, co-codamol, ibuprofen, sodium citrate for cystitis relief, Gaviscon, and a mixture of plasters.

  Paul opened a cupboard below the sink and draining board, and took a carrier bag from a box. He screwed the carrier bag up and put it into his pocket, hoping he was going to return with it full of mushrooms, berries, maybe even apples.

  He left the house, taking his branch with him, and headed for the woods, promising himself that he wouldn't venture far or stay out for more than a few hours. He didn't need to do this, now that he had found some supplies in the kitchen cupboards, but if the woods had edible goodies to offer, he may as well take advantage because by late autumn and winter, there'd be nothing for him.

  He had a spring in his step after finding what he had, and swung the branch and almost skipped like he was a child again. He had been out for nearly fifteen minutes and his pace began to slow when he reached an old-looking cabin. He stopped walking altogether and scanned all around him before approaching the cabin with caution.

  He walked around the place first to see if there was any kind of danger. There were two dead bodies around the back of the hut, and the smell made Paul gag. As he walked by the maggot-infested corpses, he found that there was nothing that was a danger to him. He could see that the main door to the place was slightly ajar, by a few inches, and pushed it open further with his fingers. He peered inside to see that it was bare. The place wasn't even furnished, unless it had been emptied by the owners or other people.