He heard the thud again and stepped toward it. It was a wooden door, but had a rectangle window about a foot long in the middle of it. He tried the door but it was locked. He peered into the window but he couldn't see anything, it was too dark. So he stepped closer, and gulped hard as his curiosity overcame his cowardice. His face pressed up against the glass, but like before, the darkness tried to persuade him that there was nothing to see.
He took a step backward away from the door and saw to his right a light switch. Convinced that the switch was for the room he couldn't see in, he reached for it and flicked it.
The bright light rapidly filled and drenched the room with its yellow glow, and Jack could see one of the things on its knees eating what was left of a human. The thing looked up at the bulb and covered its eyes and made an awful cry; it seemed to despise the light, like a human would if they were drenched in darkness for a while.
Jack pressed his face against the glass and could see that the thing on its knees was wearing a uniform, probably someone who worked in the forecourt. It was unaware of Jack's presence, and continued to feast. All Jack could see was a huge dark pool on the floor, entrails strewn around like spaghetti, the legs were intact and hadn't been touched, but the head lay separate in the corner of the room. A uniform of some sort was also seen on what was left of the person that had been devoured. Jack thought that it might have been a work colleague.
Jack turned the light off, leaving the creature to eat his meal in peace. He had seen enough and was proud of himself that he never threw up his pre-packed sandwiches, although his stomach was performing cartwheels.
He couldn't understand how the two individuals were in that situation; the only conclusion he could fathom, was that the two workers were working nightshift and a creature attacked one of the workers. Maybe they then hid in the staff room, not knowing that one was infected.
With his cleaver in hand, he decided to leave the kiosk and headed back outside. He looked out to the car park once more and could see two of the things that weren't there previously; they were about five hundred yards away. He saw the revolving doors to the mall, and decided to check the place out.
The place had only been built five years ago, and was just what the community needed, not just for the shops but for the jobs it created as well. It had over eighty shops and restaurants and attracted people from afar to visit the place.
He was going to need more clothes eventually as the weeks went by, and thought of a few stores that he could walk into and take a bag full of jeans, shirts and underwear to stick into the back of the car. The extra clothes didn't cross his mind back home, it didn't seem important, but he was here now, and if the place was empty then he was going to take the opportunity.
It was an idea that was quickly quashed as he trotted toward one of the entrances of the mall. There were three entrances in all, and his heart galloped as he saw a grisly sight.
The mall was packed; there were hundreds of the things moping around inside and some noticed Jack, standing, watching aghast. Some of them stumbled toward the glass and clawed at the windows, sometimes vomiting dark blood onto the pane. Also, the revolving doors, thankfully, appeared locked, and some of them were trying to get out via the revolving doors, but they weren't budging. It was like a prison for the dead.
Like the kiosk incident, Jack tried to guess what had happened in there. He assumed that either security had locked the place down to contain the incident, or it had been locked down by accident by the things entering the security office. The place opened at 7am, which was roughly around the time the breakout was being broadcasted, and Jack's theory was that the place, under instruction, had been locked down to stop other potential attackers from coming in. But unbeknown to them, a massacre was taking place on their own shop floor as people inside already had the virus, and may have already began attacking unsuspected shoppers that hadn't been affected.
Jack thought that all it took was one shopper to be bitten or scratched and then to walk into the mall, be taken to a room by security if they were not feeling well, and then for the thing to attack security and cause a biting epidemic to rapidly spread among the confused shoppers. According to the BBC, the bitten ones took between anything between an hour or longer to change, depending on the severity of the bite, as the virus from the mouth of one of the creatures would infect the bloodstream.
Jack was sure that it was all guesswork. No one knew a damn thing! Each theory contradicted another and he certainly didn't believe it was God's work. Had the big man had finally tired of our selfish and greedy ways?
He shook his head like a parent's disapproval of a naughty child. The clothes would have to wait. He was then surprised to hear a female voice coming from above him.
He looked up to see two young girls, no older than twenty, looking out of one of the windows about four floors up. There was a series of windows across the building quite high up, and Jack guessed that they were staff rooms, canteens and storage rooms.
"I can't stop," Jack informed the two frightened girls apologetically.
"Please!" the blonde girl begged. "A woman collapsed, then got up and started attacking people. I only live up the road, just take me to see my parents. They're okay, I've been speaking to them by phone."
"I can't get up!" Jack protested. "There're hundreds of them inside, it's impossible."
She placed her hand over her mouth and began to cry, she looked behind her to the room she was in and announced to someone, "He said there're hundreds of them downstairs."
The other girl also broke down and pleaded to Jack to help her. He knew why they were still where they were. They couldn't possibly escape by jumping, as the height from the window wouldn't necessarily kill them, but it could at least sprain an ankle or break a leg. And an individual with a broken leg would be an eventual limping meal for the determined man-eaters.
"Look." Jack was being suffocated by the quilt of emotional blackmail, but his son was his top priority. "Just sit tight, and someone will come and rescue you."
"Who?"
"I'm sorry. I've gotta go."
Jack Slade jogged away from the complex and tried to hum in his head to drown out the desperate pleading and screams that were coming from the window. He turned around to see another three people hanging out of the window. The further he went away from them, the more the begging turned to vociferous verbal slandering. It went from: Please help us! We're begging you! to You fucking pig! You're going to hell for this!
Jack shook his head. It's like being verbally assaulted by a group of schizophrenics.
There seemed to be dozens of people trapped, but he couldn't help them. He took a look behind him to see the two beings in the car park following him.
He never panicked, as they were too far away. He took hold of the cleaver and thought of striking them for a second, but changed his mind.
They were now ten yards away and he quickly opened his driver's side, threw the cleaver onto the passenger seat and drove out of the forecourt. One of them slapped the rear of his car as he sped off, and that was the nearest they got.
He drove the car out of the car park and once he got on the main barren road, he pulled up at a bus stop once he was clear of danger and took another look behind him and then broke down.
Once he got himself together, he reprimanded himself for being so weak and shook his head at himself.
You shagwit, Slade!
Chapter Twenty Three
"Just stop here," came Pickle's instruction.
Jamie adhered to the clued up inmate and pulled on the handbrake of the van. The street had only one of the things moping about, but the main road they had turned off to get into was swarming with at least thirty of them shuffling around not knowing where to go, and clumsily bumping into one another.
Pickle jumped out of his van, confident that they wouldn't drive off without him as he had the guns, and kicked his own front door in. He called out to see if his cousin was in, but there was no answer b
ack. The fact that the door was easily kicked in, suggested that the lack of barricading meant that his cousin who was staying there had fled to go elsewhere once the news filtered through. Most probably to his mum's, Pickle thought.
He ran upstairs and went into the main bedroom. His cupboard had been ransacked, making him aware that his cousin had hurriedly packed a bag before leaving.
He got to the bottom of the bed and squatted with his hands underneath it. He lifted the bed and forced it to stand upright against the wall. Assured that the bed wasn't about to topple over him, he pulled out a piece of cut carpet and easily lifted three of the floorboards, where a small, yet, heavy bag hid.
He pulled out the sports bag, and tossed it round his shoulder. The space in the floorboard area was almost empty, apart from one object. He pulled out his prized possession, a weapon he had only used for practice. It wasn't something that had used against another human being, the handguns dealt with that.
He pulled out his Browning B725 sporting shotgun, and blew the little dust that sat on the black barrel. In the bag over his shoulder were Browning hi-powered semi automatic pistols, nine millimetres, with cartridges for his shotgun and eighteen magazines for the pistols, excluding the ones already in the gun. Pickle was now ready to leave. He heard the hooting of a horn coming from outside; it came from the van and he knew something wasn't quite right.
He looked out of his bedroom window and saw eight beings surrounding the van; there was more pouring into the street. The hooting of the horn didn't help matters, but Pickle was sure that Jamie only did it out of anguish.
Pickle quickly took off his prison jumper and T-shirt and picked out a plain black V-neck, he then doused himself with deodorant and ran down the stairs to the front door. He opened the door to be greeted by a street full of the things, at least thirty of them, and half of them scampered toward the front door aching for a piece of his flesh. As he shut the door, they began to smack the palms of their hands against the glass of his broken door, which swung open. Pickle ran back upstairs into his bedroom. He opened his window and made a circular motion with his finger, ordering Jamie to turn the van around and back it up so he could jump onto the roof, as there was no way in hell he was going to get in it leaving through the front door.
Jamie knew exactly what Pickle meant, gave him the thumbs up and reversed the van around, crushing some of the hapless things underneath its seven and a half ton weight. None of them showed any facial expressions of pain, as their legs and chest were crushed. Those that had damaged limbs continued to move and dragged themselves toward the house. Pickle opened the window once the van gained nearer, and once it had reversed onto the front garden, he crouched onto the window ledge in preparation for his jump.
He was only going to have one chance at this, and knew if he messed it up, it could cost him his life. Holding his shotgun and with the bag around his shoulder, he jumped onto the roof of the van and was thankful he never slipped or rolled off onto the hard pavement. He banged the top of the cab to inform Jamie it was safe to go. Pickle lay on his front and held on in case there were any sudden movements or jerking.
He had a vision of the van jolting forward, and throwing him off into the crowd of the hungry scavengers. He knew that that kind of death had happened to many a people, but he couldn't think of a worse way to go than being eaten alive.
The van slowly drove off; Jamie, being aware that Pickle's position was rather dangerous, never slipped the van into anything higher than second. The things grabbed desperately at the van, the windows were clawed by the walking corpses, a wiper was almost ripped off as one desperately tried to climb onto the front.
The van shook from side to side as it slowly ran over some of the resolute barbarians. Bones continued to be crushed and on three occasions, heads popped like crushed grapes from the weight of the hefty vehicles' wheels, temporarily decorating the van's wheels with their mashed infected brains.
As soon as they exited the street onto the main road, which was now more congested than the street they had just left, Jamie increased the gas and put the gear into third to finally rid himself from the monsters. He frowned in his right wing mirror to see the last of them, slowly fading into the distance once they got onto the country road. They were now only a mile away from the town of Rugeley.
As they approached the Wolseley Arms public house, Pickle, who still clung onto the roof like Colt Seavers, banged on the roof of the van. The van turned right at the roundabout and pulled up on the country road. Pleased that there wasn't a soul in sight and with the bag around his shoulder and the shotgun in his right hand, Pickle slid down the front of the van and jumped onto the road. He gave Jamie and Janine the thumbs up, and both officers exited the vehicle. The van was parked up in the pub's car park that was yards away from the River Trent.
"That was fucking mad!" Pickle exclaimed; his adrenaline was clear for all to see, as his body shook with excitement like a five-year-old child on Christmas day.
"There were loads of them." Janine shuddered. "Makes you wonder how places like London and Manchester are coping if that's what can happen to a little village."
"I'm sure the survival rate would be the same," Pickle expressed. "At least in the cities there're high up places, apartments and offices to hide in for a few days."
"Not much use if those things are already in your office or apartment," Jamie snickered falsely, the same way someone would politely laugh at a bad joke in order not to offend the storyteller.
Pickle went to the back of the van and opened up the vehicle; the three inmates spilled out of the back and groaned as they were introduced to sunlight once again.
"That was scary shit," Laz spoke, running his trembling fingers through his greasy grey hair. "Was that noise what I think it was?"
Pickle, Jamie and Janine all nodded simultaneously.
"Are you okay?" KP asked Pickle.
Pickle nodded and appeared a tad embarrassed, which baffled Janine.
KP sauntered over to the car park of the Wolseley Arms and stroked his short beard. He looked around at the pub and saw the sight of the River Trent that he hadn't seen in years. "Why don't we stay here for a night?"
"Why?" Pickle asked, and looked over at the pub. "So we can spend all night getting drunk?"
KP beamed. "And what's wrong with that? Besides, there should be plenty of food in there. I quite fancy a rib eye steak myself. In the morning we can put whatever's left in the back of the van."
Jamie looked to Pickle. "He's got a point. We could stuff our faces for a night on good food, before we move on and have to eat what's in the back of the van."
Pickle stroked his chin, and a thin smile emerged on his face. "I think it's fair to say, I haven't had a decent meal in years." Pickle turned to Jamie and then said, "You do realise that four inmates who haven't had a proper drink in years and being allowed in a pub, isn't the greatest idea in the world? It's gonna be messy."
"That's all right," Jamie tittered. "We're all on the same side now, as long as they don't do anything stupid and attract unwanted attention. The pub looks solid enough, just make sure we lock up and we'll be fine."
Pickle took out his Browning shotgun. "Let me check the place out first."
"Erm...and where're our guns," KP joked.
Pickle patted his sports bag. "You'll get them as soon as I've taught yer how to shoot 'em."
"And when will that be?"
"After I've checked the place out. This is the plan: Jamie and Janine have been on nightshift, so we should let 'em sleep for a few hours. Then we do a bit o' shooting practice, I'll show yer how to load, reload and take yer pistol apart, as it needs to be cleaned. We won't shoot much, don't wanna waste the bullets or attract too much attention. Then we can lock the place up, eat and get drunk. Then we head to Stile Cop in the morning."
"I'll cook," KP chipped in.
Laz looked at Jamie. "KP worked in the prison kitchens, he's a great cook."
Jamie nodded his head. "I d
o know. I used to work there."
Janine, who was standing next to Jamie, said to Laz. "He doesn't say much," she spoke, referring to Grass, who was propped against the van chewing on his fingernails.
"Nah," Laz responded. "He's a quiet one, he's just a boy really. Probably just frightened; we all are."
Pickle left the group to stretch their legs; he tried the main door of the pub and was pleased that forcing it open was unnecessary as it was already unlocked. He walked alone into the establishment and entered the lounge. It was an old-fashioned country pub that sat next to the bank of the river, and there was a fireplace at the end of the lounge, and all the seats and tables looked heavy and made from oak.
He looked into the barren bar area and was pleased to pick up a set of keys for the place as well as some menus. He put the shotgun down and looked through the menus. Everything that wasn't available in the prison was on the menu. Burgers, steaks, pizza, ribs, the more he read, the more he salivated and his stomach growled impatiently.
He carefully took the stairs and went to the first floor and checked the living arrangements. He checked the living room and bedrooms, and was satisfied—although a little baffled—that the owners had decided to leave once the crisis had been announced. There was no car in the car park to suggest that there was any sign of life inside, but he needed to be sure.
There was one more place to check.
The cellar.
Every pub had a cellar.
In the bar area there was a small wooden door; it was padlocked. Sure that the door led to the pub's cellar, Pickle placed his ear against it. He could hear faint groaning, and sighed as the moans told him that at least one of them was inside.
How did it get in there? Was it a worker?
He used the butt of the gun to break the lock, and after three attempts, it began to give way, but he felt the noise he was making probably enticed the thing to the door. He was correct, as the noise that he had made seemed so severe that he could hear thuds coming from behind the wooden door. He had attracted the attention of the creature and with no hesitation he opened the door, which revealed a former young girl dressed in waitress attire. It immediately raised its arms reaching for Pickle; its face was grey, the eyes were lifeless and her mouth was almost purple. She looked more like a victim of domestic abuse more than anything else.
Snatchers (A Zombie Novel) Page 13