Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry

by Whittington, Shaun

  Out of habit, both men were wearing seat-belts and jolted forward as soon as the steel bumper hit the front of the horde. It felt like it had hit a brick wall, and Johnny kept his eyes open and witnessed dark blood and brain matter hit the windscreen with a disgusting splat. Thankfully the windscreen never cracked, and Jack kept his foot fully-down no matter what.

  The jeep had made it through the crowd and they heard the car behind try and replicate what the jeep had done. It should have been easier because the jeep had caused significant damage through the centre of the group, but the car was just a Mazda with very weak protection.

  The vehicle was stopped in the middle of the crowd, and the surviving ghouls that hadn't been mowed down by the jeep, surrounded the car. Jack stopped the vehicle, once they were in the clear, and he and Johnny stared out the back, looking at the stationary vehicle from fifty yards away.

  Whether it had stalled, or the sheer mass of the bodies had stopped the Mazda from moving, they were unsure.

  The two men in the jeep could not see anything because of the horde. Somehow the things had got inside the vehicle, or had pulled the men out, because Jack and Johnny could hear the screams of the two men as they were being eaten alive.

  "The sooner we get to that place, the better." Johnny looked at his driver.

  Jack never responded to Johnny's comment; he simply used the windscreen washer button to wash the glass in front of him, and then he put on the wipers to move away the debris that had been created by a one and a half tons of metal that had ploughed itself through a group of rotting and diseased beings.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Karen and Pickle weren't far away from the back of the estate, and they began to chat as they continued to stroll along the football field.

  Asked Pickle, "So what would yer be doing now, if this whole end-o'-the-world thing wasn't happenin'?"

  Karen laughed, "You make it sound so trivial."

  Pickle never responded to Karen's remark; he continued to glare at her for some kind of answer. She then pulled a confused face and said, "I don't know. I'd probably be getting out of bed after my nightshift. I usually sleep till late afternoon. Then hang about in my pyjamas and watch crap TV. Then Gary would come in from work; I'd make him a meal that dogs wouldn't eat." She laughed to herself after making that remark, but Pickle could see the melancholy in her face. Karen continued, "I would then get ready and kiss him goodnight, and go to work around eight or nine in the evening."

  "Shit. That routine sounds worse than the one in prison."

  They ambled in a few seconds of silence and Karen took a peep at Pickle's back and scowled in thought.

  "What's wrong?" he queried.

  "You're right earlier. You do seem to be losing a bit of weight. I'm sure that back was a lot more muscular when I first met you."

  "Aw, come on. I ain't lost that much muscle mass."

  "You seem to be a little hunched over as well," Karen began to tease. "This whole apocalyptic scenario is aging you pretty quick."

  "Cheeky bitch. I'm only forty-three."

  Karen pointed. "Here we are."

  They had made the concrete path and had stopped at the end of the familiar street. Karen scanned the area before taking another step, and was satisfied that, once again, it looked reasonably peaceful.

  They both entered the street, and Pickle pointed at a house on the left. "Let's try that one. That's the place that has the greenhouse in the back garden. It seems vacant."

  "What makes you so sure it's vacant?"

  Pickle stopped walking and looked around the small street. "Well, the front door is open, and there's blood smeared all over the front of it. If there's anyone inside, it's o' the dead variety." He pulled out his machete, and Karen copied him. "I'll check upstairs again and yer can start filling yer bag."

  They entered the house with careful footsteps, and with paranoid eyes they scanned the place; their eyes were constantly on the move. Once it was apparent that the ground floor looked uninhabited, Karen went into the kitchen and took more tins, while Pickle mooched about upstairs.

  Pickle reached the landing of the house and could see that all four rooms—three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed—had their doors shut. Because there was little light, it felt like night-time in the place.

  He reached for the bathroom door and, with his machete at the ready, he pushed it open and had a quick peep inside. The bath was filled to the brim, suggesting to Pickle that there were, or used to be, people inside during the beginning of the outbreak. 'Filling the bath with water' was one of the many tips that had been broadcasted on the radio in the first days of the disaster.

  Staring at the three closed bedroom doors, and now thinking that they may be people inside, Pickle closed the bathroom door very quietly, and went to the first door to his left.

  He knocked the door with his middle knuckle and awaited a response. He didn't know why he was doing this. He didn't need to do this. If there were people hiding, then they were obviously scared, so it wouldn't make a difference if Karen and Pickle looted the house or not.

  Pickle cleared his throat and began to speak, "If there's anyone in here, or yer can hear me from the other rooms, I'm just passing through. I mean no one any harm."

  Pickle paused and felt a little foolish. What if there was no one inside?

  His presence remained by the frame of the door, as he was aware that if there was people inside, there may not necessarily be hiding in a corner, shivering with fright. They could be aiming a shotgun at the door, waiting for Pickle to go in.

  There was no verbal response from behind it, and Pickle was in two minds whether to just go back downstairs and help Karen out. But what if there were children in that room?

  "Okay," Pickle said. "I'm coming in. Just remember, I come in peace."

  He pushed down the handle and tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked or barricaded.

  Suddenly he heard a male's voice from behind the door. "Leave us alone."

  "Who's in there?" Pickle gently questioned. "Yer alone, pal?"

  "No, I'm not alone." The man added, "I'm in here with my two daughters. Please, don't hurt us."

  Pickle was confused with the man's pleading. "Why would I hurt yer?"

  There was silence from behind the door, and the man finally spoke. "I heard from a frightened resident that, a few streets away, four men in a pick-up truck had been raiding houses, regardless whether there were people in there or not."

  "Did this...resident happen to know what they looked like?"

  "All she said to me was that there was one of them with greasy, black hair, tied in a ponytail, with a horrible grin."

  Pickle was convinced it was the same four men that had attacked them a while ago, the same men that had shot dead the middle-aged man and woman that had kindly gave them a ride a few days previously, and the same men that were responsible for the splitting up of his group when he and Karen ran for their lives one way, and Paul and Jade ran the other way to avoid a shotgun cartridge.

  Pickle said, "Do me a favour. Open the door."

  "I-I can't do that," the man stammered.

  "Let me talk to yer, face-to-face. I have a machete, if I wanted to come in and hurt yer, I could anyway."

  "You might be one of those men."

  "I'm not one o' them. I'm with a woman. We're here to get food, but if I'd known there were people in here..."

  "Take what you want. We have enough in here...for now."

  Pickle remained by the door and could hear movement coming from the room.

  "Okay," the man spoke out. "I'm letting you in."

  "Good man. I swear to God I'm not one o' those idiots."

  The man began to remove furniture from the door. Pickle then heard speaking and a little girl asked him what he was doing, in a frightened voice. The father appeased his daughter and slowly opened the bedroom door to be greeted by Pickle's warm smile.

  "May I come in?" Pickle asked.
>
  The man was in his thirties, dirty-looking, and small in stature with blonde hair. Pickle stepped into the room and saw his girls, sitting in the corner. The place wasn't a mess; it looked like any kind of bedroom with the curtains closed.

  Pickle looked at the man, then looked at his scared girls.

  "This is ridiculous." Pickle couldn't help himself. "What are yer doing, hiding in here?"

  "I'm trying to protect my girls."

  Pickle then heard Karen shout up from downstairs, "I'm done!"

  Pickle bellowed back, "Be down in a minute. Wait outside for me."

  He then turned his attention back to the father. With his forefinger, Pickle beckoned the man to follow him. "Come with me. Yer girls will be fine for a moment."

  Both men left the bedroom and Pickle shut the bedroom door. He and the man were now on the landing. Pickle quickly checked the other two bedrooms, that were thankfully vacant, and then stared at the man and shook his head at him.

  The man, who never introduced himself, asked nervously, "What is it?"

  "This is yer home, right?" Pickle interrogated.

  The man nodded, but had no idea where Pickle was going with this little talk of his.

  "Then take it back, for fuck's sake, before somebody else takes it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Pickle looked exasperated and spoke in a passionate rant. "Those things are out there, and there're looters out there, and yer hide in a bedroom and claim yer protecting yer daughters, seriously? Yer front door was wide open; yer have a greenhouse in yer back garden with all kinds o' vegetables yer could live on—"

  "I have no idea where you're going with this—"

  "Grow some fucking balls, man! Yer got two daughters to think of. This house should be a fortress."

  "I have no weapons, I—"

  "Yes, yer have," Pickle growled. "Do you have a set of knives downstairs?"

  The man nodded.

  "Then yer have weapons. Yer got a hammer?"

  The man nodded.

  "Then yer got weapons. Yer got a wooden handled brush or mop?"

  The man nodded.

  "Right," Pickle sniffed. "Tape a screwdriver or a steak knife to the handle o' one o' them, and yer have a spear that could gouge out one of their eyes from five yards away. Think!" Pickle placed his forefinger to his temple and began tapping it.

  The man cried, "I was just scared. My wife was killed in the first week—"

  "Well, I'm sorry about yer wife, but there're two other girls that need yer now. You've got a bath full o' water in yer bathroom, that's a brilliant start, because I think that the running water is ceasing up now. So whatever yer do, don't drain it."

  "Okay." The tears ran down the man's cheeks, and he shivered in fright. Like most people, he wasn't adapting to this new world. Even though he had two little girls that were relying on him, he was falling apart.

  Pickle added, "I'm gonna leave now, and I'm gonna shut the door behind me. I expect yer to block off yer doors and downstairs' windows. Then yer can take yer daughters out o' that stuffy bedroom and give 'em a different change o' scenery before they lose their fucking mind." Pickle pointed his finger into the man's chest and added, "This is yer house; keep it that way."

  The man wiped his tears away and accepted his reprimand. "You're right."

  "Right," Pickle sighed. "I'm gonna go for a piss in yer downstair's toilet, and then I'll be on ma way."

  "Don't flush," the man pleaded. "Apart from number twos, we've been avoiding flushing in case it attracts those things."

  "Well, with the lack o' water, I'm not sure that's gonna be possible anymore." Pickle turned and winked at the man. "I hope yer got plenty o' buckets."

  Harry Branston then walked down the stairs and began whistling.

  "Will I see you again?" the man called out.

  The back of Pickle's head nodded and he responded, "I might be back later, just to check on another house or two. You and yer daughters, stay safe, my friend."

  "You too."

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Thirty-year-old Sharon Bailey awoke from her nap; she could feel a draft as if a window had been left open or had been broken. She could then hear them downstairs. Fuck!

  She had no idea how they managed to get in, but they were in! She had only killed eight of them since the outbreak, but was certain she'd feel no hesitation in destroying more if that was the only option she had.

  For the last two days she had stayed in the house, fed off the scraps of food that were left, and lived on the two-litre diet coke bottles to put some kind of fluid in her body. It was now time to move on.

  Even with those things loitering on the ground floor, she had a couple of options to explore. She could either jump out of the bedroom window to escape, or climb down the drainpipe of the house to reach the clear back garden. The problem with these options were that there was a high risk of injury.

  If she damaged her leg, foot, ankle, or anything else, it could result in her spending her days walking through the streets with an injury—a handicap that could be detrimental to her survival.

  The other option would be to peer down the stairs, wait until the front door area was ghoul-free and make a run for it, out into the street. The trouble with this option was that it was also a risky one. She had no idea why and how many of those things had crashed through the living room window. There could be just the one, but there could be many more.

  She couldn't see from looking down the stairs from the landing, and being spotted was something she was trying to avoid. She had noticed that climbing wasn't their strong point, but if she was spotted and they began to group together at the bottom of the stairs, she'd have to forget about the option of running out of the front door.

  She was hungry and thirsty, and didn't want to wait another day longer.

  She then paused for breath and crept halfway down the stairs; she could see the curtains blowing out and shattered glass on the carpet, sitting underneath the window, and it appeared that one, or some, had forced their way through the window and had fallen in. Two other creatures were outside trying to get in, but were struggling.

  She had been waiting there for long enough now, and knew that her hesitancy could be her downfall. She checked to make sure she was still carrying her cleaver; it was still there.

  Seeing there was just the one ghoul in the living room, she galloped down the stairs and made a run for the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it hard. But it wasn't moving. This had alerted the lone ghoul from the living room and the female could see that the thing stumbling towards her was reaching out, and was now only yards away.

  She drew her cleaver and smashed the weapon into the front of its cranium. It fell forwards, with the cleaver still embedded, and fell on top of her. She released a shriek as the they both fell together and her consternation was doubled when she saw another two emerging from the kitchen area that she hadn't seen before.

  She had very little time to get the thing off her, as well as remove the weapon from its head. The two things walked towards the panic-stricken woman and she had finally managed to get the fiend off her. As she got to her feet, she was grabbed by the first creature and she swiped at its legs, making it fall and giving her valuable seconds. She went back over to the defunct body and pulled the cleaver out with both hands. She then kicked the second one that was making its way over, and it fell as her sidekick smashed into its knees.

  She went back over to the door and realised she had the lock on, which was the reason why she couldn't open it in the first place. She gave the lock a twist and shut the door behind her as she fled the house. The two ghouls in the house began to smack their hands against the door, unhappy that their 'meal' had escaped.

  There was another two on the front garden, and they quickly went for her. She knew that a house in the next street was vacant, as she saw the family flee in their car, but she knew that if she didn't remove these two problems, they'd follow her and probably could
potentially cause problems for other people in the area.

  She pushed one of them over, which gave her time to concentrate on killing them separately. While the fallen creature was now slowly crawling along the floor, she took out a knife from her back pocket and rammed it into the right temple of the other ghoul. It fell to its knees and went face down onto the concrete drive.

  The other creature continued crawling towards her, as if getting to its feet was an action too hard for it to perform, and this made it easier for her to kill it. She went around it, grab its hair and pulled its head back with her left hand, and hacked at it with the cleaver until it stopped moving.

  She wiped the few specks of its blood from her face and wiped both sides of the cleaver on the lawn. She then tucked it into the belt, that was holding up her green combats, and Sharon Bailey walked out of the front garden and headed for the abandoned house she had her sights set on. She constantly twisted her head from side-to-side and was pleased, and surprised, that no more dangers lurked around, for now.

  She then looked down at the bracelet hanging off her wrist, and released a smile. But there was pain behind that smile.

  *

  Once the black jeep passed a place called The Ash Tree pub, Jack and Johnny reached an incline in the country road. Jack dropped a gear and was now a matter of minutes of reaching the tiny village of Armitage. The blockade could be seen up ahead, half a mile from Armitage, and Jack began to slow down.

  At the left hand side of the road was The Plum Pudding pub, with the canal behind it as well as a few barges. To the right hand side was The Spode Cottage, a pub/restaurant, and further on, behind the area, was the caravan/trailer park.

  The road into Armitage was blocked off by a HGV parked across the road, twenty yards in front of the two pubs, and another three cars were parked lengthways in front of the HGV. Standing on top of the HGV, all holding shotguns, were three men, and the same set-up applied fifty yards away so there was a two-way block in case they were attacked on either side.

  Once Jack stopped the vehicle and turned the engine off, he slowly got out of his means of transport, but Johnny remained inside. Jack raised his hands and was impressed, but more surprised, that neither men pointed their weapons at this strange man who had appeared from nowhere.