Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray

by Shaun Whittington

  "Ready to go?" Karen still had her T-shirt over her nose, waiting for Sheryl to answer.

  She didn't. She simply walked out of the room and headed for the front door of the house. Karen followed behind.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Bear approached the barn doors and rattled the padlock once again. He took a look around, and went to the back to see if he could find anything to prise open the doors. A crowbar would have been ideal. Maybe he should have used the shotgun. He had thrown the cartridges in the toilet, which in hindsight was a stupid thing to do, but he could use the weapon's barrel.

  He rattled the doors once again. Even with his strength he was sure that forcing the doors open would be a difficult thing to do, and he certainly didn't want to go back to the Spode Cottage with splinters in his hands.

  He made the decision to go back inside the house for the weapon, but as he turned on his heels he was confronted by the woman who was aiming the shotgun at him once again. Bear laughed out loud. He had emptied the gun upstairs, so maybe she didn't know it was empty. Maybe she thought he was being arrogant, leaving it in the room like that.

  "Go ahead," Bear urged with a smile. He could now see the old man hobbling out of the house and towards them, relying heavily on his wooden walking stick for balance.

  She looked like she wanted to do it this time. She really wanted to kill him.

  She aimed, but was shaking with fear.

  Bear quickly went over to the woman and snatched the gun off of her. "I'll be needing that." He strolled over to the barn, slid the barrel underneath the chain, and began to manically prise the doors open, stimulating the dead inside.

  Once the doors came free, he dropped the gun to the floor and pulled out his kukri, ready for the two dead girls. He ignored the cries and protests from the old couple, who took a few steps back. He took a quick glance, and could see them sobbing and holding one another.

  Two of the dead came out of the barn and their appearance shocked and baffled the former inmate. The two dead were large in the belly, and the two females used to be in their forties when they were alive. He briefly wondered why the women were there, and why they weren't with their partners and children.

  They were the daughters of the elderly couple, and were dressed in tattered and bloodstained dresses. Their hands had been chopped off, and bizarrely a large stone had been placed into their mouths. He got it now. The parents couldn't kill them. They couldn't kill their girls, despite turning into these cannibalistic freaks. The removal of the hands and the lodged stones were a way of protecting themselves. He also noticed that there were long ropes and were tied to the roof of the barn. Were these things occasionally tied up? He had no clue.

  The elderly lady sobbed as Bear front-kicked the first ghoul, making it fall to the floor and onto its belly, and sliced his blade through the side of the head of the other. He pulled out the blade and watched it fall. The old couple held onto each other as Bear approached their other daughter that had been kicked to the floor. It groaned and struggled to get to its feet.

  Helpless, the two of them couldn't look, and Theodore Davidson smiled before bringing his heavy booty down onto the back of her head, revealing some of the contents from inside its cranium.

  He grinned once he saw two plastic ten litre canisters at the back of the barn, but he was expecting more than this. He thought that farms had a huge supply of fuel, but this one was smaller than most. He placed his bloody kukri in its holster and went over to the red canisters, picked them up, and the muscular individual walked out of the putrid-smelling barn and put them into the back of his parked jeep. He slammed the boot shut and went back over to the barn for another look. He noticed that the inside was covered in blood and some bones were present.

  He looked to his right, at the heartbroken couple, and shook his head. "What the fuck are you crying for? They were already dead. They've been dead a while."

  "They're still our daughters!" the old woman screamed at him, engulfed with grief.

  "No they're not. Ever saw the news when the outbreak happened?"

  "We kept them tied up and we wanted to wait until they found a cure." This time the old man spoke up. "You animal!"

  "There isn't going to be a cure." Bear scrunched his face with confusion and said, "Hang on a minute. Have you been feeding these things? Is that what happened to your cattle?" Bear then looked back at the ropes that were tied to the roof of the barn and began to laugh. The penny had dropped. "You mad old bastards. You've been feeding these things. You go into the barn, somehow remove the stones out of their mouths, untie them and feed them. Then after, you restraint them, God knows how, you put the stones back in their mouths and tie them back up."

  "We had help from Bernie," the old man spoke up. "We haven't fed them for days. We're too old to overpower them."

  Bear exclaimed, "And who the fuck's Bernie?"

  "A guy that used to help us round the farm. We haven't seen him for days. He went out to look for supplies, but never came back."

  Bear laughed and nodded down to the two bloody corpses. "So your two poor girls have been starving for days. You do realise, you pair of stupid old cunts, the dead can't digest food." He pointed at the two corpses. "Look at their swollen bellies."

  "Why do they eat then?" the old man questioned, tears streaming down his face.

  "I don't know. Maybe it's an instinct thing. I don't really give a fuck."

  The woman tried to compose herself and said, "I should have shot you when I had the chance."

  "You didn't know who I was at first."

  "I meant the second time round," the woman cried. Bear could now see the anger on her face. It was scarlet.

  "I threw away the cartridges, upstairs, in the toilet." Bear wore a conceited grin on his features. He then thought for a second and lost his smile.

  Bear screwed his face and walked over to the shotgun. Despite the gun being used to open the barn, it still looked in good condition. He picked it up, opened the gun and saw that it had been reloaded.

  Bear shook his head. "You old cunt!" The realisation that he could have been shot had hit him. "You could have shot me."

  The Bear was raging, and just the thought that he could have been wiped out by an old lady embarrassed and incensed him. He took out a cartridge, and snapped the gun shut. He growled at the couple, "Before I go ... we're gonna play a game."

  Both persons shivered in fear, and never verbally responded to Bear's strange comment. He stood the shotgun up and allowed it to lean against his front, barrel pointing to the sky. He put the cartridge in his hand and put both hands behind his back. It looked like he was swapping the cartridge from one hand to the other. With both hands shut, making a fist, he placed them in front of him, and said to the old man, "Pick a hand."

  "No," he immediately responded.

  Bear said, with menace in his words, glaring at the senior citizen, "It'd be in your best interests if you do what I say."

  The old man looked at his wife, who nodded at him to do what he was told, then her husband picked one. It was the right hand that he had picked, and Bear turned his hand over and opened it, revealing the cartridge. He handed it to the confused old man. "That's for you."

  "What do I do with it?"

  "Do what you want with it. You can throw it away, even use it on yourself if you're desperate enough." Bear picked up the gun and took a step backwards, aimed it at the old woman's stomach and snapped, "And this one's for you."

  He squeezed the trigger, dropped the gun, then bent down to tie his shoelace. He stood straight and casually made the slow walk back to the jeep, with the male cries of the old man behind him, crying for his dying wife who had been ravaged by the gun blast.

  She had lost her colour in her face within seconds, and her midriff had been mutilated by the vicious blast.

  She had a minute left to live, if that.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  David McDonald and Charles Pilkington dragged their feet around Cross
Road, tortured by boredom. They were both fourteen years old and, despite the place being on high alert, the two of them were considered to be too young and too untrustworthy to do guard or perimeter duty. They enquired about it to Daniel Badcock, but Daniel was sure that they wanted to do it for the wrong reasons. Being close to the dead, hold a gun, or even a blade, were the reasons why Daniel and Lee thought they wanted to do it. They were too young. Too immature.

  With the rotund Pilkington holding a football under his arm, he puffed out a sigh and cussed, "This is so fucking boring."

  "Tell me about it." David McDonald was lost in reflection, his eyes were blurry with emotion as the saltwater began to build.

  Charles Pilkington looked to the side of him, noticing that David was upset, and asked. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing," snapped David.

  "Your dad?"

  "It's everything." David stopped his thin frame from moving and added, "It's my dad, this world, and what happened to Kyle Dickson."

  "We're okay now. Daniel said that the place is all clear."

  "That's not the point." David allowed a tear to fall from each eye. "We were mean to him, to Kyle, then he dies in a way that I have nightmares about."

  "I blame the new people," Charles said. "This never happened before. Not on the camp."

  "Don't." David wiped his tears away, embarrassed that he had a mini breakdown in front of his friend. "You sound like my dad. You've lived here all your life with your parents. Me and my dad have been here for a month or so, since we left the Springfields. So we were new not so long ago."

  "True, but we took in thirty or so people from Vince's camp, all at once. That's a lot. And that Pickle used to be in prison."

  "So what?" David didn't really know what Charles was getting at.

  "We don't know these people, and some are criminals."

  "Bentley used to be in prison, and he's alright, isn't he?"

  Charles struggled for an answer. Eventually he murmured, "I suppose."

  There was a silence between both teenagers, and they began to walk once more, this time turning onto Hill Street. David McDonald cleared his throat, and with his head lowered, he confessed, "I nearly killed him today."

  "Who? Your old man?" Charles Pilkington didn't know if David was genuine or not.

  David looked at the darkening sky and said, "He's doing perimeter duty now, but a few hours ago he was out for the count. Drunk."

  "What happened?"

  David McDonald could feel his throat tightening and he struggled for words. He shook his head, telling his friend, who he he'd known for a matter of weeks, to forget it.

  Charles took a look at his face and asked, "Does he hit you?"

  "Now and again."

  "How long has he been doing it?"

  "As long as I can remember."

  "My dad never touched me." Charles began. "If I misbehaved he'd just take away my Xbox or TV."

  "My dad said it was good for discipline." David lowered his head sadly and rubbed his watery eyes. "Don't know why my mum needed the discipline though."

  "Did he used to hit her?" Charles Pilkington asked.

  David nodded. "Every other day."

  "I don't know what I'd do if I lost my mum." Charles gaped at David and was growing fond of his friend. He was the only friend he had left. "You don't talk about your mum much."

  "Nothing to talk about." David paused for thought and was about to tell Charles a secret, but he stopped himself.

  "If it gets too bad..." Charles paused and scratched at his large belly. "You can ask to stay with someone else. You can stay with me, if you want."

  "Thanks." David smiled at the only friend he had left in the world, and added, "I'll ride it out for now."

  "But if it gets too much..."

  "Maybe once the camp has completely ran out of booze ... things will get better." David snapped out of his morose state, smiled at his friend, and smacked the football from underneath Charles' arm. "Come on. Let's have a kick-about before it gets too dark."

  Charles ran after the ball as it bounced down the road, and gave it a huge kick. Both boys watched as the ball flew in the air and hit a bedroom window. The window cracked and the ball fell and bounced in the front garden.

  "Who lives there?" asked David, paranoid that he was going to get into trouble.

  "Mad Old Pete," said Charles. "But don't worry about it. The house is empty. He's dead now."

  "Dead? How?"

  Charles gave David McDonald a strange look. He never had his friend down as naive. Charles giggled, "How do you think?"

  *

  "What would you rather have? A vagina on your forehead? Or a row of pricks on your back, like a Stegosaurus?"

  Pickle held up his hand, telling Bentley he didn't want to play his little game. "I'd rather not do this, if it's all the same to yer. Anyway," Pickle pointed up ahead, "we 'ave some company. Stand back. I'll take it."

  "Manage on your own?" Bentley mocked and began picking his nose.

  "I'm sure I'll be fine." One ghoul was up ahead, and Pickle laughed, "Not much o' a challenge."

  It walked towards both men in an unsteady manner, and they could see that this male was dressed only in his briefs and socks. Pickle continued to walk as Bentley held back and watched his friend head for the solitary creature, finger still up his nose.

  The beast's body was ashen; its hair looked to have fallen out in clumps, and its dark green face was bloated. As it got nearer, Pickle could see and hear flies buzzing around the dead creature, and could see a handful of excited maggots inside its mouth once it opened it. It went to grab him. Pickle took a look to the left wrist of the creature and his eyes widened. He then side-stepped to the right, almost playing with the thing, and kept his machete in his belt.

  Bentley stood a few yards away, arms now folded, and wondered what the hell Pickle was doing. Pickle took another look at the creature's left wrist, and this time pulled out his blade with his right hand. The creature lunged for him once more, and this time Pickle grabbed its left arm, took out his blade and rammed his machete into its forehead. The dark blood slowly ran down the blade and Pickle pulled it free. With Branston still holding onto its arm, the creature dropped to its knees, released a small moan, then hit the floor, face-first.

  Bentley then saw that Pickle had put his blade back and was now crouched down and messing with the ghoul's arm with both of his hands.

  Finally, Bentley asked, "What the fuck are you doing, Pickle?"

  Pickle had stopped messing with the Snatcher, stood up, and turned around, holding up a wristwatch.

  "What is it?" As soon as the words fell out of Bentley's mouth, he knew it was a stupid question.

  "An Omega watch." Pickle said with a wide smile, and began to put it on. The watch's face was scratched a little, but it was in good condition, considering that it was worn by one of the creatures for God knows how many weeks or months. "It's a speedmaster chronograph with a black dial. Used to have one o' these before I went inside."

  "Whatever," Bentley sighed. "Shall we just keep moving?"

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Karen Bradley and Sheryl Smith walked across the road to get to the already-opened steel gates of the church. The building was called 'The Church of the Good Shepherd' and the girls decided to walk around the building, through the overgrown grass, and was satisfied that the area around the church was clear of danger. Now that the area was checked, they could go inside.

  "What if it's locked?" asked Karen.

  "Er ... then we can't go in," Sheryl sarcastically remarked. "Anyway, didn't that man say he saw someone go inside."

  "A man?" Karen scoffed, now reaching the double oak doors. "Is that what it was?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Sheryl said with a straight face. "With that beard shaved off and a bit of a wash, he might be a half-decent looking bloke."

  Karen reached for the brass handle of the door and pulled out her machete with her other. She looked over at
Sheryl, who was standing next to her, and laughed, "A half-decent looking bloke? He was drinking his own piss."

  "Okay, okay," continued Sheryl, still keeping a straight face and enjoying the fact that she was winding Karen up. "So maybe he needs to brush his teeth."

  Karen stared at Sheryl for a few seconds and she thought she'd seen a sign of a smirk on Smith's features. "Fuck off. You're trying to wind me up."

  "I think you'll find that I am winding you up."

  Karen twisted the door and gave it a small nudge. It opened. She nodded to the door and said, "Ready to go inside?"

  Sheryl took out her ten-inch blade and put her other hand on Karen's chest. "Let me go in first."

  "Okay." Karen never argued with Sheryl. She didn't see the point.

  Sheryl pushed the door open further until she could poke her head through the gap. It was like any church. There were wooden benches—or pews—on either side, and small black bibles sat on some of the seats. The windows were plain, unusual for most old churches, and it could be seen that the wooden floor of the place had blood spilt on it. At the end of the church was a stage with a reading stand where the pastor would preach the word of God to his audience, but this was something that hadn't been done in many weeks.

  The two women were now inside, and Karen shut the door quietly, trying to make little noise, just in case. With Sheryl leading the way, they crept along the floor, avoiding the blood, and as soon as they were halfway Sheryl held up her hand and stopped walking. She pointed at two doors on either side of the stage. They had no idea what was in there. Was it the pastor's office? Or did the pastor live in there?

  Sheryl whispered to Karen, "Shall we call out Paul's name? Or try a door?"

  "I have no idea," Karen said with a murmur.

  Sheryl made a decision and headed for the door on the right. She tried it, but it wasn't budging. She turned to Karen and shook her head. She made a gesture to suggest that she was going to try the other one, but both women were certain that that was also locked. Sheryl crept over to the other side of the stage and tried the other door. It was locked.