"I'm not like you," said Daniel. "I've been shielded by a lot of stuff that's happened. I'm not used to it like you."
"You never get used to it." Karen removed her hands and was still seething with the comments that were made by James McDonald. "Right."
Karen stormed off and Daniel called after her, "Where're you going?"
"I'm off to tear someone a new arsehole."
Chapter Eighteen
Pickle and Lee entered the supermarket and wasted no time in going to the first floor. Their paranoid eyes scanned the area and could see, at the end of the place, that there was a clothing section.
"Which room do you think you saw the woman?" asked Lee.
Pickle stopped and pointed at a yellow door, ten yards from the two men, and said, "There."
Lee had a look at the door. On it, there was a 'private' sign with black letters on a gold-coloured plaque. Pickle swivelled his head and had one more look around the barren place before knocking.
There was no response, so he knocked again and decided to speak. "Yer okay in there?" Pickle never waited for an answer and continued, "My name is Harry, and I'm here with a few friends. We have a camp in Rugeley, and we came here to take the tanker that we heard about." Pickle paused and looked at Lee, who shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what else to do.
Does Pickle continue talking? Kick the door in? Or just leave the woman?
Pickle added, "Come with us. We have o'er a hundred people at this place, and we 'ave a good set-up. We have food and water. The toilets do flush, but because the sewage goes to a treatment plant that used to be powered by electricity we try not to use it. Another thing—"
Lee nudged Pickle in the side and giggled quietly, "Entice her out, don't fucking bore her to death."
Pickle took the light reprimand, and before he could continue, the door clicked. It sounded like the bolt was being slid open. Pickle and Lee both took in a deep breath. Only an inch of the door was opened, but the two of them looked at one another and screwed their faces in disgust as an awful smell hit them.
The door opened fully and they could both see the woman was shaking. Her greasy hair was tucked behind her ears, and they could see that she had been urinating and defecating in the corner of the room. Pickle and Lee's heart sank when they could see the conditions the woman was staying in. She looked to have been snacking on crisps and drinking water; the evidence was scattered on the floor. The table and chairs in the middle of the room, and the kettle and fridge, suggested it used to be some kind of room for the members of staff.
"What happened?" Lee asked the frightened-looking female.
She shuddered, "Everybody left, but I was too scared to." She still had her uniform on and her body odour was overpowering, not quite as bad as the shit and piss in the corner of the room.
"You've been here for nearly two months?" Pickle was astonished, and couldn't believe that someone could live in such isolation for nearly eight weeks and not have some psychological problems. He had spent a week in solitary once, when he was in Stafford prison, and that was more than enough.
"I wandered around the floor for a few weeks, stuffing my face," she began. "I didn't always stay in this room. People came and went, and when they did come ... I hid. But two weeks ago something happened, and I've been in here ever since."
"You don't have to explain," Lee reassured the woman, "If you come with us you'll be safe. You won't need to hide from anyone."
Despite opening the door, she seemed reluctant to go with Pickle and Lee; they could both see that.
Pickle asked, "Did something happen to yer? Yer said something about two weeks ago. What went on?"
"I was..." she paused. She tried again. "I was ... attacked by three men."
When she mentioned the word 'attacked,' both men knew what she meant. She had been raped.
She said, "The big man told me that if I sounded like I was enjoying it, he'd spare me." She began to sob, "Then the other two had their ... turn."
"Animals," Pickle snarled. "Fucking animals. Fuckers like that need to be castrated. The world's bad enough without that shit going on."
Lee held out his hand to stop Pickle continuing with his rant, turned to the woman, and asked, "Do you want to come with us?"
She nodded.
"Considering what happened to yer," said Pickle. "I'm surprised yer opened the door at all."
She wiped her tears, and looked at the corner of the room where she had been going to empty her bowels. "My options are limited. And these days I'm beyond desperate. I do want to go with you, but I don't want to go to your camp."
"Okay," said Pickle. "What's yer name?"
"Celia."
"Do yer have a home, Celia?"
She nodded.
"Wanna go back there?"
She nodded again.
Chapter Nineteen
Karen stormed to 19 Burnthill Lane and knocked James McDonald's door. She brushed her dark hair behind her ears, ready for a row, and only had to wait a few seconds before the door was opened.
"What the fuck now?" Jimmy Mac snarled, then suddenly changed his attitude once his eyes clocked Karen. His tone changed and asked, "What's up?"
Karen glared at Jimmy Mac and he could see she was raging, and knew exactly why. Word travels fast in the Sandy Lane camp.
"I have no problem with you." Jimmy Mac's attitude towards Karen had changed from how he used to talk to her. She had been through a lot to survive, and he had great admiration for the young woman. He even apologised to her after Rosemary had told him a few stories about Karen and Pickle. Harry Branston, however, he still couldn't stand.
"Kyle is..." Karen paused, "...was a seven-year-old boy."
"I know that—"
"Paul needs to grieve, he needs closure—a place he can go to visit his son. He doesn't have that with his wife and daughter, and I fear that this will tip him over the edge."
"So when this comes to a vote, you want me to speak up and get the kid buried?"
"A vote?" Karen was bemused by what he had just said. "I don't care whether there's going to be a vote or not, he's getting buried, even if I have to do it myself."
"They'll kick you out." Jimmy Mac looked over his shoulder and took a step forward. He closed the door behind him, as if he wanted to avoid any eavesdroppers from within the house. He cleared his throat and explained his strange behaviour, "My son and Charles Pilkingon are playing upstairs. Don't want them listening in."
Karen never responded.
"We can't have preferential treatment because it's a kid that has died." Jimmy Mac was in a serene mood and this surprised Karen. She was expecting a full scale argument between the pair of them, but James was calmer than she had ever seen him.
"I'll see what Lee has to say about it," said Karen, "when he comes back."
"Lee doesn't run this place. He may think that he does, the way he barks his orders at people, but important decisions are made by a voting system, as you well know."
"This shouldn't be put to a vote. He should be buried. Simple. And you running your mouth off doesn't help anyone."
Jimmy Mac released a noisy exhale and folded his arms. "I have a right to an opinion, whether you agree with it or not."
"And what if it was your son?"
James McDonald shrugged his shoulders, and said with a straight face, "I'd expect him to be dumped with the rest of them at the Market Hall car park."
"And it wouldn't bother you?"
"Yes it would," he sighed. "But it is what it is."
Karen had no more words for the man and walked away, baffled, and was expecting something different. She shook her head. As soon as word got out that the boy was going to be moved off the camp, if that happened, then she was going to kick up a stink. For now, she was going to bide her time.
*
Using the bow-drill method, the young girl had lit a fire. It was a small fire, and over it was a made-up spit roast that took her a while to construct. She had managed to get tw
o Y-shaped branches and had screwed them into the ground on either side of the fire, and a straight wooden long skewer was sitting on the grass. She took out her knife and, without wincing, she began to skin the animal that was lying on the lawn.
After the skinning, she put the blade into the stomach of the animal and opened it up, pulling out its intestines and putting them in a neat pile in the corner of the garden area. She made the short journey down to the river bank and began to wash her bloody hands, then returned to the corpse.
She had done this before, but it was usually squirrels or sometime foxes she had eaten over the last couple of weeks. She grabbed the dog's head, and slowly severed it from its body before putting the skewer into the Border Collie. With the head missing and the canine being gutted, she hoped that it would make it lighter and that the Y shaped sticks would take the weight once the skewer and animal was placed on top. Only one way to find out.
She lifted it and struggled to get it on. After four attempts she had managed it, and once it was on, she sat down, exhausted, and rubbing her sore back. The fire began to take shape, and a smile stretched over her face as the branches burned and crackled. She had no idea what to have with the animal. Maybe she would have a protein-only meal. Whatever she decided, she had another mouth to think of. Seeing that the fire was growing and the thick wooden skewer was holding, she got up and went to get some water.
She grabbed her plastic container that was sitting on the grass, which was basically a soda bottle cut in half, and had, at the top of the bottle, small pebbles. Underneath the pebbles was sand. A cloth was below the sand, tied with an elastic band. She went to the river for a second time and took a big scoop of water.
Once it had filtered she was going to pour the water in a vessel, boil it for a minute and let it cool down. She already knew that the water must be filtered to remove waterborne cysts that could harbour and protect bacteria from chemical treatment or even boiling. The cysts were capable of withstanding high temperatures.
The filtering process would remove these cysts along with pesticides, herbicides, sediment, insects and other debris. It was a lengthy process, but if she and her guest weren't hydrated, they'd suffer. There was plenty of soft drinks on offer, but if she could get a healthier alternative of being hydrated, then she would.
Whilst it was filtering she went back inside her temporary lodgings, The Wolseley Arms pub, and went in to see if her guest was awake.
Since she had found him, the exhausted man had done nothing but sleep for days. Yesterday was the first time he had been on his feet for more than three hours, and after that he had to retire and rest some more.
She looked back at the animal on the skewer; it was being licked by the dancing flames of the fire. She hoped that her guest had got his appetite back, because she had a special treat for him.
Chapter Twenty
Pickle told Lee to drive the tanker back to the camp on his own, whilst they dropped Celia back to her home. He agreed with little fuss. The journey to Lichfield had been danger-free, and with him driving a tanker that would crush anything that got in its way, Lee's confidence was high.
The red pickup truck turned left, and Celia told Pickle, Bentley and Rick that she lived in Fradley and greatly appreciated the ride home. The twenty-six-year-old woman was sitting at the end and peering out of the window, watching the trees go by. Thirty-five-year-old Rick Morgan had taken a shine to the woman and couldn't keep his eyes off her.
"Another mile and we should be there," she said, running her fingers through her black hair. She was a voluptuous woman, big-breasted, wore large glasses and had a round pretty face. She turned to the driver, Pickle, and said, "Thanks for this. I really appreciate it."
"No worries," remarked Pickle. "It's refreshing that we've bumped into a good person. There ain't many o' yer left."
"Don't I know it." She lowered her head, thinking of the ordeal she had to go through with the three men. She'd never forget their faces. The big man had dark features and had pinned her down with ease, then raped her first. The second man had blonde hair and seemed to have enjoyed himself more than the big man. She did her best to fake her enjoyment of the whole ordeal, but even with her life at risk she was finding it difficult to keep up the act by the time the ginger-haired man with the ponytail had his turn on her.
She shuddered as the image of her rape projected in her mind. It was something that she was never going to forget or get over, but she was still alive, and now, after nearly two months, she was finally going home.
"Look..." Pickle paused, unsure whether to continue with his talk. "There's no way o' dressing this up... Yer parents that yer mentioned before... There's a good chance that they could be dead."
"I know." Celia spoke with sadness. "I've already prepared myself for that scenario. If they've committed suicide or have turned..."
"We'll take care of it," Rick chipped in, eyeing the woman. He felt guilty for being attracted to her, considering what she had been through, but she looked nice, bad odour aside. Celia smiled at Rick and thanked him.
"We're nearly there." Celia looked out at the front and noticed the country road had four bodies scattered along it. The pickup truck slowed down and drove around the corpses. The truck entered a tiny village where only a dozen houses existed. Three of the dead were standing in the distance, with their backs to the truck, and turned around once they heard the engine.
Celia pointed at the white house at the end of the street. "That's my house."
"Right." Pickle stopped the vehicle. "Me and Bentley will take care o' those three before yer go in."
Celia and Rick remained sitting, whilst Pickle and Bentley got out of the vehicle and walked over to the beasts. The two men took out the dead with little fuss.
"Wow, they're really good," Celia gasped, then noticed Rick was staring at her. "Problem?"
Rick look hypnotised and said, with no hesitancy, "You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
"Er ... thanks, I think." Celia wasn't paying too much attention to Rick, and looked out the front to see Pickle and Bentley nonchalantly walking back to the vehicle.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Rick asked her.
Celia gasped and look bewildered. "Are we seriously having this conversation? Are you asking me out?"
Rick's face flushed; he took in a deep breath and stammered, "W-w-with the world the way it is, I'm not sure I'd get another chance to ask somebody out. I've never asked anyone out before, in fact, I've never..."
"Okay, this isn't weird at all," Celia sarcastically responded. "I appreciate the ride, but we're in the middle of an apocalypse, my parents could be dead, and my trust in men isn't that great at the moment."
Rick added, "I just want to know what it's like to hold a woman, to stroke and sniff her hair, to..."
Celia sighed with impatience. This man was making her feel uncomfortable. "I was gang-raped two weeks ago, I haven't showered in weeks, and even if I was interested in hooking up with somebody, it wouldn't be you."
"Oh." Rick looked upset, but soon put on a brave face once Pickle opened the passenger door, whilst Bentley stood in front of the vehicle.
"It's clear," Pickle announced to the young woman. "I'll take yer to yer house and we'll check it out."
Celia got out and, without saying cheerio to Rick, she walked with Pickle and wiped her clammy hands on her dirty uniform.
Pickle took a look around the empty street, and thought that if the Sandy Lane camp didn't exist he'd like to stay in this area. He approached the wooden door and gave it a knock. He could see Celia was nervous and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She flinched, and immediately felt guilty the way she reacted to him. Not all men were the same, she had to remind herself.
Pickle knocked again, and said to the twenty-six-year-old, "I'll try three times, then I'll break in and see if the coast is clear. Yer can wait here."
Celia nodded in agreement, but a noise above their heads immediately made Pickle and Celia loo
k up.
A woman in her fifties peered out and placed her quivering hand over her mouth. "Thank the Lord," she cried.
Celia burst into tears. "Mum."
Pickle could feel himself filling up and took a slow breath out. The mature woman disappeared from the window, and after a few seconds had passed, the main door opened. Standing in the doorway was the woman and Celia's father. Pickle took a step back as the young woman hugged her parents. All three were in tears and finally the portly, bald man, Celia's father, broke away from the family embrace and thanked Harry Branston for bringing their daughter back.
"How have yer been copin'?" Pickle asked the man in his sixties. "Yer have plenty o' water and food?"
"We have a well in the back garden, but we haven't eaten in days," the elderly man announced. "We'll cope ... somehow."
"Okay. Be back in a mo." Pickle walked over to the truck and asked Bentley to give him a hand with one of the barrels. He did without questioning the man, and the two men struggled to carry the barrel full of tins along the street. They eventually had to drag the barrel, and lifted it once more to get it inside the house that belonged to Celia's parents.
"This should keep yer goin' for a wee while." Pickle urged Celia and her parents to take a look what was in the plastic barrel. It was tins of food.
The old couple had tears in their eyes when they thanked Bentley and Pickle. Both men wished the three of them good luck, and headed back to the truck.
Rick Morgan wound down the passenger window and put his head through. "What's Lee gonna say?"
Pickle and Bentley looked at one another and stood beside the passenger door where Rick was sitting. Pickle said, "We went over a bump and lost a barrel."
Bentley laughed, "These country roads can be unpredictable."
Rick shook his head. "I can't lie to Lee, and if Jimmy Mac finds out we gave a barrel full of food away to some old couple—"
Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Page 8