"I'll think about it." Stephanie smiled. Now it was her turn to tease.
Vince raised the crowbar as he reached the beast, but paused when he clocked the face of the dead man. Even though the face was rotten and decayed, it looked familiar. Whilst Vince was still, the creature made a lunge for him. He dropped the crowbar to the floor, grabbed the thing by both shoulders and pushed it over. It staggered backwards and fell to the floor. Vince then bent over and picked up the crowbar, and as he brought the crowbar back to strike, an arrow struck it right in the middle of the forehead.
Perfect shot.
Vince turned around, in shock, and shook his head. "That could have hit me."
"Well it didn't." Stephanie walked over to Vince and took out the arrow from the corpse's head, wiped the dark gunk on the clothes of the deceased and placed it back into her bag.
"I had it under control," Vince protested.
"You hesitated." Stephanie Perkins gave Vince a curious look and asked her middle-aged companion, "What happened?"
"I thought I recognised the face." Vince looked down at the dead body's features and wondered where he had seen the face before. It suddenly clicked. "I know who he is ... was."
"Who?"
"Last month, when we all stayed at the camp, we robbed his shop."
"That was nice of you," Stephanie remarked with sarcasm.
"He had a sword and his family were upstairs. Stupid fucker had left his shop door open. Me, Claire and Jack took stuff from the shelves, and this man," Vince pointed at the corpse, "pulled a sword on us. So I went outside and returned, holding a shotgun."
"Then what happened?"
"Soft-arse Jack. That's what happened."
"What do you mean?"
"A companion of mine, Jack Slade, told him that he could keep some of the stuff."
"He sounds like a nice man."
"He was." Vince looked up at Stephanie, smiled, but she could see sadness behind his smile. "He was a good guy. We buried him at the back of the camp. Claire was nice as well."
Making Vince snap out of his reminiscing, Stephanie asked him, "So which one is your caravan? My feet are killing me."
"Come on, I'll show you."
Chapter Fifty Two
With her head still sore from her slap earlier, she decided to take a trip to Paul Dickson's house to see how he was doing. Karen was worried if David McDonald couldn't keep his mouth shut about what had happened. If Jimmy Mac returned and Pickle knew about the slap she had received, she wasn't sure how he'd react. Killing the intruder and losing his temper with Jimmy Mac, in just a couple of days, would make Lee James and the rest of the residents have serious thoughts about Pickle's position in the camp. It was under scrutiny with some as it was.
Karen could see a female figure in the distance and knew straight away who it was. As she got nearer, she saw Sheryl Smith carrying a large knife, and Karen gave her a friendly wave.
"I'm off to Paul's. Are you off anywhere exciting?" asked Karen. After their little trip together on the Pear Tree Estate, Karen had warmed to Sheryl a little and her abhorrence for the woman had disappeared. She was a hard character to work out, but at least now when Sheryl spoke to Karen it was civilised, and not insults like it used to be. Sheryl stopped walking and was standing next to Karen.
"Oh yeah," Sheryl said sarcastically, in her usual robotic, monotone voice. "I'm off to do the barrier for a few hours with Rick and Daniel. I'm looking forward to that like a kick in the gash."
"Daniel and Rick's alright," Karen laughed at Sheryl's deadpan remark.
"Daniel think he's a bit of a player, but I don't think he could satisfy himself." Sheryl said sharply. "And as for Rick... the engine's on, but there's nobody behind the wheel."
"He's okay. A bit dense now and again." Karen shook her head and smiled at some of the sayings that Rick Morgan would mix up. Sometimes he annoyed her, but other times she'd find his mixed up sayings quite humorous. Her favourite was from four days ago when he told Daniel: If you can't stand the heat, get out of the smoke.
"Anyway," Sheryl put her knife into her belt and began heading to the barrier, "I'll see you in a bit. Give Paul my regards."
"I will."
Karen headed for Paul's house and gently knocked the door once she was there. There was no answer, and she thought that maybe he had gone for a nap. The last couple of days must have emotionally drained him.
She tried the door again, and again the result was the same. She stepped onto the lawn and peered through the window to look into the living room. The room had no life, and now she was beginning to worry. She went back over to the front door, tried the handle and gave it a nudge.
It opened.
She then stepped inside, and opened her mouth to call out his name, but decided against the idea. If he was sleeping, she didn't want to wake him.
She walked through the living room and into the kitchen. He was nowhere to be found. Maybe he had gone for a walk. She walked back through the living room, and noticed a white piece of paper sitting on the coffee table. She never saw it the first time she'd walked through, and picked up the piece of paper and read the letter that had been written in pencil:
Karen, or whoever else is reading this letter, I'm so sorry that I have given up so soon. Without my boy I don't have anything left to live for. The truth is that I'm a coward, always have been, and the pain I'm feeling right now is unbearable. It hurts too much. I'm so sorry.
Paul.
Karen dropped the paper, panic running through her frame, ran upstairs and burst into Paul's room.
She found him on the bed.
She gulped and stood motionless.
Her eyes widened as she saw the man curled up on the mattress, and at first she remained near the doorframe and didn't go in any further. She was speechless and didn't know what to do. She took a deep breath out and now stepped further into the bedroom. She made slow steps at the side of the bed and crouched down. Her eyes filled, she placed her tremulous hand on his face and began to stroke his cheek.
"It's okay, Paul," she said with a soft voice. "It's okay."
Paul Dickson's right hand was still holding the box cutter that he couldn't use, and he looked up to Karen with his soaked eyes and sobbed, "I couldn't do it, Karen. I just couldn't do it."
*
James McDonald had broken into the third house at the end of Queensway, and after checking the place out, and finding that it had no supplies at all, he went into a bedroom and blocked the door using a side-table. He wasn't hiding from the dead. He was hiding from Pickle.
After what Harry Branston had done to the intruder, Jimmy Mac feared what his own punishment was going to be once Pickle found out that he had cracked Karen—Pickle's best friend and a pregnant woman—across the side of the head. Pickle wasn't going to let that go. That's if Karen had told him at all. Maybe Karen had kept it to herself.
Hanging around the camp to see if he had been told wasn't an option. The best thing James could do was disappear for a day or two, then return once the dust had settled and everybody had calmed down. He never gave a thought to his son, David, and knew he'd be able to look after himself. The boy hated his father anyway; any fool could see that.
For half an hour James McDonald sat on the first floor of the house with his head inbetween his knees. There was no food in the house, but he needed to at least find some kind of liquid if he was going to stay there for a day or two. He raised his head up slowly, as he heard a bang from outside, and the middle-aged man stood to his feet, listening and feeling both knees crack, then took a slow walk over to the bedroom window. He peered out onto the back garden and saw the shed's door rattle. He could see that a small branch was put through two hooks to stop the door from opening. He guessed that somebody or something was in there, and had been locked in there on purpose.
He crept out of the bedroom and took the stairs. Once he was on the ground floor, he went for the back door, that would take him into the garden, and was surprised to see the key in i
t. He unlocked it and stepped into the warm air and saw the door of the shed rattle once more. Noticing the shed had a window to the side, he planned on going over and peering in. He walked through the long grass and hesitated before putting his face to the window. Once he did, he could see a dog in the shed. It was a mangy-looking mutt and it looked like a Golden Retriever.
"Cruel bastards."
The dog looked distressed.
Whatever people thought about James McDonald he was a dog lover. He cried for two days when his last dog had to be put down, due to old age. It was a black Labrador called Henry. Jimmy Mac loved that dog more than anything, and still hadn't got over Henry's death from nearly two years ago.
Jimmy Mac removed the branch, from the two hooks that went across the door, opened the shed and took a few steps back. "You poor thing." He was a few yards from the entrance of the shed, and went on his knees to beckon the dog out. The animal staggered out of the hut and growled a little. "Come on." McDonald patted his thigh. "How long have you been in there, you poor bugger?" The dog must have been put in there a day or a few days ago, he thought. Any longer than that and the poor mutt would have been dead by now. Unless...
The canine launched itself at James and sank its teeth into his nose. James McDonald screamed out, stood to his feet and staggered back to the house. McDonald locked the door behind him and inspected his injury. The teeth had broken the skin, but there didn't appear to be too much damage. He took a couple of sheets of kitchen roll from the side and used it to soak up the blood from his injured nose. He looked out of the window, and could see the dog still staggering about, like it was an old dog on its last legs.
Jimmy Mac then saw the dog turn around and hobble to the side of the house, as if it was leaving the premises. Then he saw it. The animal looked to have received wounds at the top of its back legs. He glared at the animal's wounds. "What the..?"
James became dizzy and began feeling nauseous. He gulped, and immediately went over to the sink to throw up. Realising the dog was infected, he was aware that he needed help, and the only help he was going to get was back at the camp. Engulfed in panic, he left the house and fell over in the middle of the road. His body was burning up, and his head pounded so hard that he thought he was about to have an haemorrhage.
He got to his feet, as soon as he saw two of the dead coming down Coppice Road, and could see that the pair of them were under the age of ten. With no time to wonder what their story was, he staggered and could feel the world spin. He leaned back, feeling that he was losing his balance once again, then fell back to the floor. He cried out, trying to give himself a boost to move his arse, but getting on his knees was all he could manage. He was aware that the two dead were gaining on him, and to the other side of him was the infected dog that he had released from the shed. He got to his feet once more, made an unsteady jog towards the end of Queensway, and then onto Sandy Lane. He was like a drunk after a Christmas party. He fell over once more, but got up straight away this time, using most of his energy up.
He could see the barrier up ahead and was aware that his presence had been noticed. He could see that Sheryl Smith was standing in front of the barrier, by the HGV, and noticed her holding a knife in her right hand. His presence had now also been spotted by Daniel and Rick, and all three recognised him straight away.
"Help me!" he screamed, and was a matter of yards away from the HGV. "Please, help me!"
Sheryl grabbed Jimmy Mac and sat him down against the articulated lorry. She told Daniel and Rick to keep a watch on Jimmy Mac. They stood next to him and did what they were told. Daniel could see that Sheryl was heading out, and he had to ask, "And where the hell are you going?"
Sheryl pointed up ahead, and both Rick and Daniel could see two of the dead, both male children, heading to the barrier. Daniel sat next to Jimmy Mac, giving him words of support, whilst Rick stood and stared at the small injury to McDonald's nose. "What happened to you?"
"I was attacked," was all they could get out of James McDonald.
Sheryl checked out the two dead characters, and even though she felt pangs of guilt about what she was about to do, she knew that they would tear her apart if she let them.
She front-kicked the smallest one, sending it flying backwards, then stabbed the eldest through the front of its head. It ceased its movements as soon as the blade went in, then Sheryl pushed it away, onto the floor, with a thrust of her knee. As the blade dripped with the dark blood, she walked over to the one that she had kicked over and stabbed it through the eye as it sat up. She pulled out the blade and watched the little body fall backwards. She then wiped the blood on the worn Ben 10 T-shirt that the youngster was wearing, and was about to go back and see Jimmy Mac, but something stopped her from moving.
Coming out from Queensway, and getting onto Sandy Lane, was a clumsy-looking dog. She gazed at the dog, then looked back at Jimmy Mac, and thought about the injury to his nose. She then went over to him, still sitting up against the lorry, and asked him, "How did you get that injury to your nose?"
"A dog bit me," he answered.
"That dog?" she pointed up ahead.
He nodded with sadness scrawled over his face.
She marched over to the canine and could see it was gnashing, but its movement was slow and lumbering. She knew straight away that it was an infected animal. She continued to walk with large strides and, once she had reached the animal, she swung a boot to its face, making it stagger a little, then stabbed it multiple times to its head until it fell.
She gaped at the poor mutt, turned on her heels and strolled over to a sitting Jimmy Mac, with Daniel and Rick either side of him, and said to him, "That dog was infected. Which means you're now infected."
Jimmy Mac stared at Rick, then Daniel, then back to Sheryl. He nodded. He already knew. Jimmy Mac then looked at Daniel with pleading in his eyes. "Kill me."
"What?" Daniel looked aghast.
"Kill me. I don't want my son to see me like this, and I certainly don't want to turn. I was bit only five minutes ago, and already it's unbearable."
"I'm sorry." Daniel shook his head. "I can't do it."
"Don't ask me either," Rick said and gulped.
"I'll do it," Sheryl said.
Jimmy Mac smiled and nodded.
Sheryl walked over to James McDonald, crouched down so she was eye-level with the man, and put her hand over his eyes. She then rammed the blade into his right temple. She looked at a shocked Daniel and Rick as she pulled the blade out, and Jimmy Mac fell to the side, blood pouring out, down the side of his face.
"Right," Sheryl stood up and nodded to Daniel. "Better get the pickup and get him dumped at Market Hall car park. Tell Lee what's happened. I'll go and tell his son the news before you move the body."
Daniel cleared his throat and said to Sheryl, "I think you need help."
"I'm fine," she responded immediately. "You just need to grow a pair. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. The world has changed."
"I know the world has changed, you patronising cow." Daniel snarled and took a step closer to Sheryl, but soon backed off when he saw that she was still holding the knife. "But you never even hesitated."
"Stop your crying and stop acting like a bitch," she responded back in her usual cold manner. "He wanted to be killed, so I killed him. He didn't want anyone to see the way he was. Weren't you two shagwits listening?"
Rick said defensively, holding up both hands, "I haven't said anything. What're you picking on me for?"
Ignoring Rick's protests, Sheryl Smith combed her black hair with her fingers and said, "Now, I have PMS and I'm holding a knife. Anything else you two want to say?"
Both shook their heads.
"That's what I thought."
She went through the cab of the vehicle and left Rick and Daniel alone with Jimmy Mac's body.
"Jesus," Daniel placed his hands on his head at the surreal episode that had just taken place, "William Congreve wasn't wrong."
"Who?" Rick loo
ked baffled.
"The Mourning Bride by William Congreve," Daniel tried to explain, then looked at Rick's blank expression. "Forget it."
Chapter Fifty Three
August 1st
Considering he had only two gulps of water before going to bed, Vince Kindl felt good once he woke up. It was strange going back to his old caravan, but the sleep he had was almost as good as the one he had back in Little Haywood. With two good night's sleeps he was beginning to feel like his old self, and pulled back the curtains of his old place and looked out of the window.
The day had started murky, with the threat of rain in the air. It was the first day of August. Soon, it'd be September, then October. The thought of winter sent a shiver down his frame.
He walked into the old living room, and decided to leave Stephanie where she was and give her the lie-in that her body deserved. He guessed that it was around 6am, maybe later, and decided to go out and see some old friends. He had waited days to get back to the Sandy Lane camp. A few hours wasn't going to make much of a difference.
He looked for Stephanie's bag to see if he could get one of her energy bars, but he couldn't find it. She must have took it into the room with her, as well as the crowbar and bow.
He opened the door and stepped out onto the grass. It was unusually cold, dull. Maybe it would brighten up later in the day.
Aware that he had no weapon on him, Vince felt comfortable walking around the old place. He walked past the caravans, passing the burnt out one that May Worthington and Gina Harrison had perished in, and passed the last few and could see that more evidence of the massacre was still present. Blood could still be seen on the lawn, the tampered part of the hedge was still there in the corner, and some old entrails were present on a patch of grass to his right. But what caught his eye more than anything were the two graves at the left of him.
He walked nonchalantly over and smiled. Two graves were side-by-side one another, with Jack Slade's on the left and Sharon Bailey's on the right. Vince crouched down and was overcome with sadness as the memories of being with Jack for a few weeks came flooding back. He was a good guy. Maybe too nice for this world. The story of Jack Slade was heartbreaking.
Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Page 23