"Keep away!" she yelled out.
Bear then scrunched his eyes in confusion and could hear the unmistakable sound of dragging feet from inside the barn, but there was no groaning coming from within. "You've got the dead in your barn?" Bear looked surprised.
"They're not ... the dead," the old woman looked to be fighting back the tears. "They're my daughters."
"Is that where the fuel's kept?" He pointed at the barn.
"I told you before..."
"Yeah, yeah." Bear shook his head and walked towards the woman, certain she wasn't going to shoot. "You have no fuel. I get it."
"Stay back!" she cried, as the large man advanced towards her.
Ignoring her frail warning, he grabbed the old shotgun off of the woman, and she cowered as soon as he did this. He opened it up, took a look inside to see it was loaded, then snapped it back shut. "Who else is inside?"
She shook with nerves and stammered, "Just-just me and my husband."
"Where're your dogs? All farms have dogs."
She lowered her head with sadness. She gulped hard and said, with a quiver, "They were killed in the first week."
"Do you have a stove? teabags?"
She nodded, thinking that it was an unusual question. "Yes, we have both."
"Good. Before I leave with the fuel, that you apparently don't have, you're gonna make me a nice cup of tea."
The old woman turned around and staggered to the main door of her home. She constantly peeped behind her, expecting to receive a blow to the back of her head, but it never happened. Bear was two yards behind the woman, and as she opened the main door, he said with a serious tone. "I hope you've got biscuits."
She never responded.
*
He slurped on his second cup of tea, and looked around the rustic-looking living room. It was like something from Victorian times, but he liked it. It had character. He was sitting in the armchair, and on the three-seated couch sat the lady and the man of the farmhouse. There was never any introductions, but Bear knew that the frail old man that sat at the opposite end of the couch from the woman was the husband.
Bear never felt sorry for them; he envied them.
They had lived a long and full life, and the end of days had happened at the tail end of their journey. Whatever happened to them now didn't matter. At their age, in the old world, what would they have to look forward to? Cancer? Endless hospital appointments?
He was surprised that they hadn't killed themselves like some people had.
He looked at the plate that was sitting on the oak table, and saw that it had one chocolate digestive left. He took it, dunked it in his tea and put the whole biscuit into his mouth.
"What happened to your cattle, your sheep?" Bear took another slurp of tea, washing the remains of the biscuit down. "Stolen?"
"Most of them were stolen by people, leaving us with nothing," the old woman replied. Her husband sat and stared at the carpet. He wasn't so much nervous that somebody had bullied their way into his home, he was more disgusted, and was certain that thirty years ago he could have given the man a run for his money, despite his size.
"So ... now I've had my tea," Bear smiled a devilish smile that sent shudders down both of their frail spines, "you can now tell me where you keep your fuel."
"We don't have any," the old man spoke up. "We told you."
"Fuckin' bullshit!" Bear snapped, making the old woman scream out in fright.
"What fuel we had, my son took before he left." Her wrinkly old hands shook as she wiped the tears from her worn face.
They never mentioned a son before.
Bear stood up and told the old couple that he was going to check the house before opening up the barn—the only place that he could think of that stored the fuel. There wasn't really anywhere else the diesel, if it was there, could be stored.
He took the shotgun and searched upstairs. He wasn't a big fan of guns, so once he checked out the first floor had nothing, he emptied the gun, and threw the cartridges in the smelly toilet.
He returned from upstairs, left the shotgun by the armchair where he was sitting, then clapped his hands together. "Right. The barn next."
"No!" the man and woman cried in unison.
Bear ignored their begging as he left the premises.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Pickle marched towards the barrier, with Bentley next to him, and opened the door to the cab to get through to the other side. Henry Winter was sitting inside the cab, whilst the other two guards were on top of the lorry, and Pickle asked him politely to move.
"Look," Henry knew what was happening and looked uncomfortable what he was about to say, "People can't just keep leaving, coming to and fro as if the world is back to normal now. This never happened before you lot came along."
"Move yer arse." Pickle bit his bottom lip. "Yer beginnin' to get on ma nerves."
"Unless you're on an official run—"
Pickle grabbed Henry with both hands and dragged him out of the vehicle, throwing him to the floor. Henry closed his eyes and yelled out in panic, expecting the former inmate to inflict further harm to him, and curled up in a ball, on the floor, guessing that he was going to get some kind of beating. He stopped his wailing, slowly opened his eyes and looked up to the top of the lorry. He squinted as the evening sun tortured his retinas, and could see the other two guards gazing at him. Henry quickly got to his feet and brushed himself down. He looked to see that both doors, driver and passenger, were open. He could see through the cab, and clocked the backs of Bentley Drummle and Harry Branston.
They had already left. They were already on the other side of the barrier and heading for the Pear Tree Estate.
He looked back up to the guards who were both now grinning, amused that Henry Winter panicked just for being dragged out of the lorry, and the young-looking guard sarcastically said, "Well, you certainly told him."
Henry spat to the floor. "Fuck off!"
*
"I'm surprised you didn't give him a slap," scoffed Bentley, "considering they did little to stop Karen from leaving."
Both men were walking briskly, coming towards the end of Sandy Lane, and were about to turn left onto Queensway. "Not ma style, yer know tha'." Pickle turned to Bentley and winked. "I'm a nice guy."
Once they turned onto the road and were now on the Pear Tree Estate, Bentley asked Harry Branston, "So what's the plan?"
"Dunno."
"We can't be checking every house."
"Even if I wanted to," Pickle looked up to the skies, "It's gonna be dark soon."
"You don't look too worried."
"Oh, I'm worried. But Karen has got Sheryl with her, so that's something. How's the mouth?"
Bentley smirked and rubbed his chin. "Still sore. That tooth had to go. At least the bleeding's stopped."
The two men strode with scissor-like strides, knowing that time wasn't on their side, and had made decent progress in such a short time, and most of it was done in silence.
Trying to break the monotony, Bentley cleared his throat and said, "Okay, here's a question."
"Oh no," Pickle began to laugh. "This reminds me o' the prison days. Yer always used to do this."
"Would you rather fuck a goat or do a sheep?"
"Er ... neither." Pickle shook his head at Bentley's ridiculous question.
"But if someone had a gun to your head—"
"Then I'd say: Shoot me now." Pickle began to snicker. "I've noticed yer usually do this in tense situations, to lighten the mood."
"I did it when me and Paul were on the way to the supermarket, when we were looking for his wife and daughter. It was just to perk him up."
"And did it work?"
"No."
Pickle smiled, and he thought about Vince being swept away by that river. How many more lives had to be lost? His mind wandered back to that day, but was soon pulled out of his daydreaming once a crow flew and cawed above him. He looked up and winced as it flew away. He hated those t
hings.
The two men bypassed Hardie Avenue and decided to stick with the long road, Queensway. Although Pickle had been here before, when they were leaving Wolf's cabin all those weeks ago, he had little knowledge of the area, as he and Bentley were not from round these parts.
They went past some dilapidated garages that had seen better days, and up the road was a youth centre, and they could also make out a church.
"Up there?" Bentley asked. He looked at the sign of the road. It was called Hislop Road.
Pickle shook his head and pointed ahead of him. "Carry on. I've got a feeling the girls will stick to the main roads. We're gonna do the same."
Pickle looked down the remaining part of Queensway and could see that the place was still in ruins. Houses were burnt out, and bodies scattered along the road. That was the place he had first met Shaz and when he had the run-in with four undesirables. He smiled to himself, looked at his missing finger on his left hand, and said with derision, "The good ole days."
"What are you doing?" Bentley looked confused.
"Just reminiscing," cackled Pickle, then pointed to his right where a steep road was. It was Coppice Road. "Come on. Let's see how fit yer are."
Chapter Thirty
The chatter between the two women had been absent for a couple of minutes, and as they turned right onto Hislop Road they were greeted by the remains of a body on the pavement. Next to the remains was a Snatcher that had been destroyed. Karen could see it was one of the dead. She could tell by its face. The fact that it had received many blows to the head, and that its mouth still had some bloody flesh hanging out of it, was the biggest giveaway.
Without exchanging words, the girls went around the mess and continued to walk and could see the church up ahead.
"As soon as we pass that church, there's a decline that'll get us back to the middle of Queensway." Sheryl spoke aloud. She had her left hand down her black combat trousers and was scratching her privates. She needed a wash. "We'll turn left and leave the estate."
Karen nodded reluctantly. It didn't make sense to hang around too long. She had no idea where Paul was, and the evening was drawing in. It appeared the outing had been a waste of time.
Sheryl could see that Karen was downhearted and said, "It was worth a try."
Karen never said anything, and twisted her neck to the right. She stopped walking, and continued gazing at the house that made her twist her neck in the first place.
"What is it?" Sheryl stopped by Karen's side. "What did you see?"
"Movement," Karen said in a whisper. "The curtains twitched."
"We're not on a scouting or saving mission." Sheryl grabbed Karen's arm and gently pulled her, urging her to keep on moving.
"That could be Paul in there," said Karen, refusing to move.
"It could be anyone."
"I'm going in." Karen took a step forward, but Sheryl held her back. Karen flashed Sheryl an evil glare, but Sheryl glared back, slowly shaking her head, urging her not to go in.
"If you have to go to the house," Sheryl sighed in defeat, "try and call him out. But don't be too loud."
Karen crept to the front door, leaving the machete tucked in her belt, bent over, and grabbed some gravel from the front garden. She threw the gravel at the bedroom window, but the curtains never opened, neither did the ones at the bottom window when she gave it a knock. She went to the front door and opened the letterbox. She called Paul's name a couple of times through it, then walked back over to Sheryl. They stood and glared at the house, then they both saw it. The curtain from the bedroom window moved, and Karen gave off a small smile.
"It could be anyone." Sheryl didn't want to dampen Karen's enthusiasm, but she was right. It could be anyone. "We can't try every house on the estate."
"No we can't." Karen was in agreement. "But there's movement in there."
Sheryl pulled out her ten-inch blade and Karen did the same, pulling out the machete. Sheryl gently pushed Karen to the side and said, before Bradley had a chance to speak, "You're carrying a life, I'm not."
Sheryl gave the front door a nudge, but it never shifted. She tried hopelessly once more, and said to Karen, "Let's try round the back."
They crept by the side of the house, and noticed that there was nothing that was untoward around this area. There was no sign of carnage anywhere. Karen looked at the end of the garden, and the only thing that caught her eye was the length of the grass on the lawn. It probably hadn't been cut since this disaster started out in the second week of June.
They were at the back of the house and looked at all the windows. The back door had frosted glass, and the girls could see that it wasn't barricaded.
Karen pointed at the back door with her machete and said, "See if it's open."
Sheryl gave it a budge. Nothing.
"Fuck it!" Sheryl gave it a harder nudge with her shoulder, and the door gave way to their surprise.
The two women hesitantly went inside the house and checked out the ground floor first. The living room and kitchen were vacant, and both females turned to look at one another once they heard the thud from upstairs. It wasn't a loud thud, like somebody had fallen out of bed, but it was definitely movement from an individual. And Karen hoped that it was her friend, Paul Dickson.
They crept upstairs, Sheryl leading the way with her Eagle Handle Hunter Bowie Knife in her right hand.
"That room." Sheryl pointed to a door on the right of the landing.
Karen was unsure whether to call out Paul's name, but by the time she came to a decision Sheryl had already opened the door. The door swung open slowly, and in the corner of the bedroom, sitting on the floor, was a man. But it wasn't Paul.
The man was in a dishevelled condition. His dark hair was greasy, as if it hadn't been washed since the beginning of the disaster—which it probably hadn't. His face looked dirty, and his beard, that was full of grey hair around the chin area, was overgrown. Karen guessed that the man was in his early fifties, and he was either a naturally skinny man, or he had been starving for weeks.
He held his hands up when the girls entered the room, with their blades in hand, and he jokingly yelled, "I give up, I give up!"
Seeing that the individual was no threat, they put their weapons away and both girls' noses twitched when the smell hit them. It wasn't the pong of death that was torturing their senses. They knew what death smelt like; it's something they'd never forget. This was faeces, and the evidence was in the opposite corner of the room.
"When you've gotta go, you've gotta go," the man laughed with no shame. "Have you got any food on you?"
Both women shook their heads, and pulled their T-shirts up and over their noses.
"How long have you been here?" Sheryl spoke up.
"This is my house," he began to laugh manically, and it was clear that this guy had lost his mind. "I've been here since the beginning. Have you got somewhere better to go?"
"No." Karen never hesitated, and her short, snappish answer told the man that they did have a place better than the one where he was staying. They looked well-kept, he thought. The younger one was attractive, but old enough to be his daughter.
The man said, with a disturbing cackle, showing off his yellow teeth, "I don't believe you."
"I don't give a fuck what you believe," Sheryl snapped. "We're here because we're looking for somebody."
"Who?"
Karen tried to explain in a calmer manner, "His name is Paul. He's in his forties, clean-shaven, and has dark hair."
"Wow." The man shifted on his bum, but still remained sitting on the floor. The girls didn't mind this. He would be more of a threat if he was on his feet, but he wasn't, and looked unusually relaxed in their company. "Clean-shaven, eh? You lot must be doing alright if your male folk are still clean-shaven."
The male reached for a plastic bottle that was at the side of him, unscrewed the top and took a swig. The fluid inside the bottle was a strange orange colour. Noticing the girls were staring at him, he handed th
em the bottle. "Wanna try? I made it myself."
Convinced it was piss, Sheryl shook her head. "No."
Karen swallowed her impatience. Still with her T-shirt over her nose, she puffed a breath out and said, "Have you seen him, or not?"
The man smiled, knowing that the girls, especially the good-looking one, was desperate. He playfully shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't."
"Have you, or not?" yelled Karen.
"Who the hell are you yelling at, girlie?" He ran his fingers through his thick, untidy beard and asked, "What do you have for me for the information?"
Karen struggled to answer. Both girls had no food on them; they weren't even carrying their small water bottles anymore. They had been ditched once they were drained.
Getting bored of the situation, Sheryl growled. "Just fucking tell us."
The man cackled, shook his head and wagged his finger at the two females. "It doesn't work like that."
Sheryl took down her T-shirt from over her nose, marched over, grabbed the man by the ears and pulled his head forward. He screamed out, but that was soon stopped when she drove her right knee into his face. She then released him and raised her blade. "We'll ask you one last time." She pressed the knife near his right eye and spat, "Have you seen anyone of that description in the last few hours, or not?"
"I saw something," the man cried out, now lacking the arrogance that he had before. "An hour ago. A man going into the church."
"Church?"
He nodded his head in the direction of his bedroom window. "The one over the road."
Both women took a peep at one another. It made sense. Paul had lost his son and maybe he wanted to be in the House of God. Paul Dickson had never expressed an interest in religion before, but what he had lost over the past few weeks may have changed that. A family death can sometimes make a grieving relative turn to God, but it could also have the opposite effect.
Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Page 12