Karen smiled and shook her head. "Just a friend."
The girls turned left and went down Hardie Avenue. They didn't have to walk around too many remains, but the blood on the road and pavements was aplenty.
"Was he someone who lived in your street?" Sheryl questioned Karen. "You know, back in the old world?"
Karen was pleased that Sheryl was engaging in conversation; only a few days ago she hated her guts. She told Pickle a while back that she wouldn't piss on Sheryl if she was on fire. Now her mind had been changed.
"No. He's not from Rugeley." Karen eventually answered Sheryl's query. "We were coming back from a run when we met them. Paul and his son had been in a crash, and we took them back to Vince's camp."
Sheryl combed her fingers through her black hair, put her blade in her pocket, and said, "It's funny how certain people have met up with one another."
"I know." Karen turned to the side and emptied her nostrils on the floor. She continued, "I met Pickle in the woods, near Stile Cop. He was with some other inmates and a family. The two prison officers that released them was also there, and they'd all been travelling in a prison van. I think the Pointer family had a Clio."
"Jimmy Mac came from the Springfields. He just left and came to Sandy Lane." Sheryl paused, then added, "Bentley and Helen Waite only came to Sandy Lane because they were told that Vince's camp was too dangerous to travel to."
"When I think about all the people that have died, people I've known..."
"I know."
The two women were still on Hardie Avenue, and were now heading upwards, getting near to the other end of Queensway, the same part of Queensway where Karen had met Shaz. It was also the same area where Pickle was tortured by four men, and the same spot where Karen maimed one and was shot at, causing the car next to her to blow up.
They reached the end of the road and was now at the other side of Queensway. Karen looked to her left to see the carnage that she was involved with just over a month ago.
"Where are all the dead?" Sheryl shook her head.
Karen had no answer for her, and gasped when she stood and looked up at Cardboard Hill. She remembered the cabin, Wolfgang Kindl, and the good days she had up there. Being with Shaz up there was one of the highlights. Another highlight was when Jack Slade had turned up with Vince, after an ill-fated trip to Stafford Hospital on a medical supply run.
The two women turned right and looked up at Coppice Road. It was a steep fucker of a hill, and both huffed when they gazed at it.
"I remember trying to cycle that bugger when I was a kid," remarked Sheryl. "Much more fun on the way back down."
"It leads up to Flaxley." Karen took out her machete. "If we walk most of Coppice, cut down Hislop Road where the church and youth centre are, then that should be enough. There isn't a great deal else we can do, unless they have a vote when Lee and the rest come back and send out a search party."
Scoffed Sheryl, "I doubt that."
"Me too. Especially after what happened with Bentley last week."
The girls reached the top of the steep road after a lengthy walk. Karen bent over to catch her breath, but Sheryl continued on, relieved now that they were going downhill.
"Wait up," Karen called from behind. "I'm knackered."
"You're a whiny cunt, Bradley."
"Excuse me." Karen stood up straight, hands on her hips, and looked offended by Sheryl's comments. "I'm pregnant. Don't forget that."
Sheryl stopped walking, once she reached some garages, and pointed up at a road to her left. It was Flaxley Road. Karen caught up with Sheryl and looked to where she had been pointing. Karen could see eleven Snatchers stumbling around the road, but they were far away and hadn't noticed the girls' presence.
Sheryl said, "Hislop Road is just up ahead, on the left."
"Once we pass the church, we'll turn left, back onto Queensway and head back."
Sheryl nodded in agreement. "By the time we get back to the camp, we would have been away for nearly two hours. That's long enough. Paul knows where we stay. If he wants to come back, he knows where to come."
"I know all that," Karen sighed. "But he's not in the right frame of mind. I came here to try and talk sense into him."
"Sense? He's just lost his son." Sheryl stopped walking and took a scan around the desolate street. "It's a bit early to be talking sense into a grieving father. Maybe we should have just let him be."
"So this is a waste of time?" Karen was a little miffed that Sheryl was putting a downer on their trip. "So how come you came with me?"
"I told you before." Sheryl began to scratch at the inside of her nose with her little finger. "I was bored, and boredom creates tension."
"Come on." Karen Bradley was surprised, and relieved that the estate was so deserted, but still clasped onto her machete. "We'll try the church, then get out of this dump."
"Still," Sheryl smiled, "it's been a nice walk, hasn't it? With the quiet, the dead bodies, the smell of death in the air and the blood."
Karen shook her head, not picking up on Sheryl's dark sarcasm. "You're fucking tapped."
"Yes, you may be right about that."
Chapter Twenty Seven
Lee James slowed the tanker down and waved, from inside the cab, at the three men that were on the barrier. The tanker eventually came to a stop, yards from the HGV that was almost horizontally stretched across the road, serving as a barrier, and he got out to be greeted by warm smiles from the men. All three climbed down to greet Lee and were ecstatic at what they were witnessing.
There was an older guard, mid-fifties, who leaned his sawn-off against the wheel of the lorry behind him, and was the first to speak. His name was Henry Winter, and he had been a resident of Sandy Lane for twenty-one years.
"And how the hell did you manage that?" Henry had his hands on his head, aghast, and slowly walked around, inspecting the large vehicle.
"The keys were left in the ignition," laughed Lee.
"Bullshit."
"No bullshit." Lee shook his head, and was wearing a wide grin. "We found this, and then we filled the pickup with some tins from the supermarket."
"Where're the others?" the young-looking guard spoke up. His name was Garth Bateman. He was nineteen years old, with dark features and was covered in acne.
"About ten or fifteen minutes behind me," Lee said. "They're taking some bit of gash that they'd found back to her house."
"Are we a charity now?" Henry Winter shook his head. "We can't have softies going out on runs."
"Softies?" The young-looking guard scoffed, the third remained silent throughout. "Haven't you heard of that Pickle character?"
"I've heard he takes it up the arse," Henry laughed, but nobody joined in.
"Be careful. If he hears you saying stuff like that," Lee didn't look impressed with Henry's remark and had now adopted a more serious look on his features, "then I won't be able to protect you."
"Oh, so you can refer to women as gash, but I can't say—"
"Just reverse the truck back." Lee wasn't in the mood for an argument. "I need to get this tanker in."
"How much is in there?" Garth Bateman queried, referring to the fuel that was stored.
Lee shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea. "A lot."
"And how do you get the fuel out of the tanker?"
"Jesus Christ!" Lee rubbed his head. He hadn't drunk enough fluids today and now his head was banging. "Let me get the thing inside first. Anyway, anything happen while I was away?"
All guards took a nervous gape at one another, and Lee knew straight away that something was up.
"Fuck. What now?" Lee dropped his head in his hands.
"We lost some people." Henry was the first to speak up.
Lee then looked up and was wide-eyed and asked, "How?"
Henry shook his head and sighed, "Paul Dickson left the camp."
"What?"
"And..." Henry Winter seemed hesitant to finish off the sentence. He gulped and blurted out, "Kar
en and Sheryl went after him."
"Why would they do that?" Lee looked puzzled and began to pick the dry skin on his left elbow. "And why the hell did Paul Dickson leave the camp anyway?"
"Kyle Dickson was killed. Attacked by one of the dead."
Lee was in shock and remained quiet, so Henry decided to continue talking. "Daniel reckons it was some outsider who had probably been bit. He climbed the fence and went into the changing rooms."
Lee James could feel the blood draining from his face and felt his legs wobble. He took a few steps onto the pavement and leaned against a wall for support. "So what you're saying is..." Lee paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts, but anger was beginning to snowball from inside of him. "You let a grieving father, Sheryl, and a pregnant women go out of the camp, on your fucking watch?"
Garth Bateman said, "I suppose if you put it like that, it does sound bad."
"When Bentley and Pickle hear of this, they're gonna go out looking for them, especially with it being Karen." Lee sighed and kicked out at the wall. It was a stupid thing to do, and he was certainly going to feel it the morning. "I won't be able to stop them. Especially Pickle."
"I'm sorry, Lee," Henry Winter said.
"So where's the body?"
Garth looked at Henry before speaking. "See Daniel. He's taking care of this mess."
*
Ten minutes had passed since Lee's arrival. and Bentley, Pickle and Rick had now arrived back at the camp. The red pickup stopped by the articulated lorry, and they waited for the truck to reverse back. Once it did, and the pickup squeezed through the gap, they drove down Sandy Lane, turned right onto the car park where the Lea Hall building stood, and parked up next to the tanker. Waiting for them was Daniel Badcock and Lee James, standing outside of the entrance of the building.
Pickle could tell by their faces that something was wrong, and he, Bentley and Rick Morgan got out and walked over to the two morose-looking individuals.
"Okay," Pickle sighed and put his hands in his pockets. "What's up?"
"What makes you think that something's up?" Lee said, whilst Daniel remained silent and kept his head lowered.
"Well, we've come back with barrels full o' tins," Pickle pointed at Lee, "and yer have come back with enough fuel to keep us going for ages, but the pair of yer look like somebody has shat on yer burger."
"This must be the easiest run I've ever done," said Bentley. "So what's happened? Why the long faces? Something's happened while we've been away."
Lee ran his fingers through his dark hair and scratched at his beard, showing obvious signs of distress. "Let me speak with no interruptions." Lee cleared his throat. "Kyle Dickson is dead. Somebody, somebody possibly infected, must have sneaked into the camp during the night. They hid in the changing rooms. Kyle went in this morning and was killed. Everybody is accounted for, and I was told that the infected thing, which was removed a few hours ago, wasn't one of our own. It was definitely an outsider."
"Shit." Bentley was the first to say something.
All three were devastated by the news, Bentley especially. Bentley Drummle had helped out the father and son and had become fond of young Kyle Dickson. "I don't believe it. We're gonna have to get barbed wire as soon as possible. No more dithering. In fact, I'll go today, just as soon as—"
"That's not all," Daniel spoke up with a frog in his throat, raising his head.
"What else?"
"Paul Dickson has left the camp."
"Left?" Bentley put his arms behind his head and released a heavy breath out. "What do you mean ... left?"
"He's left. I assume he just lost the plot, overcome with grief or something."
"Great." Pickle was saddened to hear the awful news of Kyle's demise. Poor little fellow. And what a terrible way to go for anybody, but for a seven-year-old boy! "So since we've been out, we have one killed and a person missing."
Lee and Daniel looked at one another, a look that Bentley, Pickle, and even Rick noticed. It was a look to suggest that there was more to come, and it wasn't good news.
"Out with it," Pickle said.
Daniel explained, "We don't have one person missing. We..."
"Go on," Pickle urged.
"We have three people missing."
Chapter Twenty Eight
If Theodore Davidson wanted to make the trip north with plenty of fuel. He was going to have to stock up, especially if he was going to dwell in the countryside, away from population. He had already tried one farm for fuel, behind the hedge of the caravan park, but nothing was there: No fuel, cattle, or people.
His knowledge of The Rugeley/Brereton area wasn't great, but he did see an old sign by the Ash Tree roundabout for 'Park Farm Bed and Breakfast.' Whether it still existed and the people were still there was another thing. The people he didn't care about. All he cared about was if they had plenty of diesel, the same diesel they'd use for their machinery that would keep his jeep going for weeks. He was unsure whether there was a difference between road diesel and the stuff they used on farms. Maybe it was just a difference in sulphur. Whatever it was, he was sure that it was going to work and there was only one way to find out.
There should be some kind of storage tank somewhere, he thought.
His last resort was to siphon any vehicles he came across. There were a few abandoned cars in Rugeley itself, but most cars ran on petrol, and it was jeeps and vans that were mainly diesel. Also, the dangers of being out in the open whilst siphoning were too high.
Theodore Davidson drove slowly to the Ash Tree pub and turned left at the roundabout. He went down a road, passing an abandoned vehicle to his left that was stuck in a ditch, and saw another old sign for Park Farm. He stopped by the weird junction. To his right was a dead end, and to the left was the road that led to the golf course.
He drove straight on, onto the premises, and up a curly road that was steep. It was a place he had never been to before, but was certain that the empty fields to either side of him were littered with sheep and cattle some time ago. The road curved to the right, and a converted barn could be seen next to the large white house. He stopped the jeep and stepped out onto the grass. He took a quick look around him, then headed for the establishment, the kukri still sitting in its holster by his side.
He passed a red tractor on his left, and couldn't see anywhere where the owners could have stored their fuel. Maybe it was around the back of the farm.
He looked at the windows of the side of the house. No window had the curtains drawn, and there was no sign of life inside them. There was a cobbled path that went in an almost semicircle, and Theodore Davidson followed the path and found that it led to the main door of the house. The window to the conservatory and the living room also had their curtains open, and there was no one in when he looked inside.
He was going to go inside, but he decided to have a look around the other side of the place first. Once he did, he could see a garden. At the end of the garden was a large vegetable patch, and a greenhouse was on the other side of the lawn. He took a slow walk over to the patch and could see that it was empty; all the produce had been dug up. His short trip to the greenhouse produced similar results, and he was now ready to search the house.
He knew the type of people that owned farms, mainly middle-aged or elderly people, and was convinced that if they were still alive they shouldn't pose too much of a threat to him.
Theodore's attention was distracted when he heard a small thud coming from the large barn to the side of him. He decided to check it out before entering the house.
He looked up to the cloudless sky, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. He wasn't looking forward to the winter—for obvious reasons, but September and October's cooler air would be more than welcome. He hated the summer. Even when he was in prison and had chance to spend an hour in the exercise yard, he'd sometimes choose to stay indoors, away from the sun.
Back on the cobbled path, and passing the house, the man that was nicknamed The Bear, or
just simply, Bear, went to the barn and this time took out his blade. The wooden doors to the barn were locked together with a padlock and chain, and he tried to peer inside the crack inbetween the two doors, but all he could see was darkness. He took a step back and stroked his chin in thought, wondering if he should force the doors open. Maybe this was where they kept the fuel. He heard footsteps to the left of him and suddenly swivelled his head in that direction.
He stood up straight and looked at the individual that was ten yards from him, holding a shotgun. He didn't know whether to laugh out loud or not at the surreal situation.
Holding the gun was an old woman. She was five-feet in height; she shook as she held the gun, and her face quivered in fright. Bear smiled at the woman's frailty. She had short, white candy floss-like hair that stuck up, and her face was wrinkly like old porridge. He guessed that she must have been at least in her early seventies.
"What are you after?" she cried.
Bear put the blade back into his holster, slowly, and held both hands up with a smile on his face. "Relax," he spoke. "You know what's going on, don't you?"
"Of course I do," she said with impatience. "I'm not a bloody idiot. Just because I'm old—"
"Alright," Bear laughed falsely. "Calm down."
"What are you here for?" She raised the gun an inch higher, and was now pointing the damn thing at his head. "Food? Water? Fuel?"
"I take it by all the questions you've had visitors before?"
"Only the one."
"And what happened?"
"He left," she then nodded to the shotgun, "with a little persuasion."
"I haven't come to harm anyone." Theodore Davidson slowly lowered his hands, with no protest from the old woman, and put them by his side. He told her the truth. "I need some fuel to get me north. Well, I have enough to get me north, but you don't know what's around the corner, so I need more for insurance, shall we say."
"We have none." The woman stiffened up and cleared her throat. "So I suggest you leave."
Bear didn't believe her, and was beginning to get frustrated with the situation he was in. He didn't have time for this shit. He took a slow step to the side, grabbed the padlock of the barn and rattled it. "So what's in here then?"
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