Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3)

by Shaun Whittington

  "Pickle?" she cried, and placed the gun on the floor. She tried to move the man over but he was too heavy. She felt for his carotid pulse, but there wasn't one, and he wasn't breathing anymore. She lowered her head and could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

  With the Snatchers coming up the street, and the explosion, she knew she couldn't hang around for long. She placed her hand on the man's head and released a long, sad exhale of breath. She ran her fingers down his back and then suddenly scowled with confusion. His muscular frame had seemed to have diminished.

  The living room door swung open and Harry Branston appeared with a slight limp, and a swollen face. Karen released a gasp and a laugh in unison, and placed her hand over her mouth. She looked at the slumped body, and pulled the head up by the hair to reveal the face of the dead man. It was the remaining assailant, Average.

  Pickle said, "I was just checking on the family hiding upstairs. That explosion's gonna bring a bit o' bother. I think we should go; I think we've caused enough shit for the people in the street."

  "You okay?" Karen was sickened at his battered and bloodied appearance. "Oh shit. Your finger!"

  "I'm fine," Pickle said. "I saw everything from the living room window. As soon as that explosion happened, he," Pickle pointed at the dead body, "turned around. So I just kicked him in the side of the leg and broke his neck. Easy as pie."

  Pickle looked uneasy on his feet, and Karen went to help him. Pickle shooed her away and said, "I can just about walk, leave me be." He then patted himself. "Bastards have took my machete."

  "Wolf has a few more back at the cabin. Let's not waste any more time."

  They both exited the front door and stepped into the pouring rain that was coming from the black, fused clouds from above. Karen had the shotgun in her right hand and Pickle could see that the fire from the car was burning away, but at least the fire from the house was starting to die.

  "Fuck," Pickle said, once he saw Mangy screaming and holding his blood-drenched face. He then saw Wiry lying in the middle of the road, now unconscious, blood still pouring from his large wound and minutes away from death.

  "They were kicking the shit out of me," Karen tried to explain.

  "Oh, I didn't see that bit. I must have been wrestling with the living-room-guy when yer were hacking away. There's one missing."

  "He got away in the car, but we've got bigger problems than that." Karen pointed at the top of the road and saw seventeen Snatchers turning into the street. "There was only seven last time I counted."

  "That was before the explosion," Pickle chuckled falsely. "Come on. We can get to the football field over the back garden. Just let them get nearer." Pickle looked at the wounded Mangy and the dying Wiry. "These two gentlemen might be perfect distractions for our escape."

  Pickle then looked around the street, and immediately felt guilty for the arriving horde. Once he and Karen had escaped, what would happen to the residents in the street? Would these things arrive in their hundreds and end up crashing and forcing their way in through the houses like what happened in Heath Hayes? There were good people living here, children, and elderly people who had no fight in them at all, just fear.

  "In fact," Pickle had changed his mind. "Forget it. Let's leave by going out of the street."

  "In order to do that, we need to go back to the cabin that way," Karen pointed at the horde. "Right through those cocksuckers."

  "Come on, Karen. This is our fault. There's innocent people in this area. If we run through the back garden, we'll attract them to the centre o' the street."

  Karen was exasperated with Pickle's charitable behaviour. "We've just saved these people from those bastard men. Isn't that enough?"

  "Yeah, and brought a shit load o' Snatchers to replace them."

  Karen puffed out her chest and looked at her friend with frustration. "You need to stop this Mother Teresa attitude, Pickle. You mark my words, your kindness is gonna get you killed."

  "And yer mark ma words, young lady, with yer attitude yer gonna be going to hell."

  "I think I'm already there."

  Pickle never responded to Karen and she could see that he even seemed prepared to go this alone if need be.

  "How you used to be a drug dealer, I'll never know." She brushed her brown hair behind her ears and said, "Fine. Let's not waste another fucking second."

  Karen handed Pickle her machete and she held the shotgun, knowing that after just two cartridges, the butt of the gun was going to have to be the weapon to finally get them out of there.

  As they got nearer to the horde, Karen made two blasts with the gun, the kickback taking her by surprise. The blasts from the gun had managed to damage three heads, and the remaining walking dead continued to stumble behind, with some of them decorated in brain debris from the ones that Karen had just killed.

  An exhausted and wounded Pickle swiped one in the side of the head, almost severing it, and it fell. Karen then turned the gun around and smashed two in succession, right in the forehead, sending them to the floor. The remaining eleven almost quickened their pace and Pickle's soft and weak swipe slashed the cheek of a ghoul that was once a female.

  Noticing that Pickle was weakening, Karen was like a woman possessed and smashed at anything that came near. "Give me the machete; they're circling us."

  Pickle did what he was told, and Karen threw the shotgun to the floor and used the last of her strength to take them out one-by-one, while Pickle remained behind, uneasy on his feet. Brain and skull flew through the air as Karen made swipe after swipe at whatever came near, and with just the four left, she was feeling the adrenaline wearing off and knew that there wasn't much left in her tank to keep her going.

  From out of nowhere, a female with short brown hair, came out of a house and rammed a huge knife into the back of one of the heads of the things. She then drew her cleaver and smashed it into the back of the skull of another, giving it six blows as it fell in a bloody mess. The two that were left were still unaware that this new human predator was around, and continued to stumble towards Pickle and Karen.

  With almost the last of her strength, Karen brought the machete down with both hands and it travelled to the centre of the skull of one of the fiends. It split the head in half, and blood flowed out as the embedded weapon had made its way down from the top of the cranium to the jaw.

  The remaining one had now grabbed Karen, but she was too tired to fight it off and Pickle was in a worse state. The new female grabbed the thing by the back of the hair and threw it to the ground. She took the machete from the Snatcher that Karen had just killed, and rammed it into the skull of the one that she had just thrown to the floor; she then withdrew it once the thing stopped wriggling.

  Karen looked at the small massacre around her and staggered as if she was drunk. She then looked at the girl that looked a few years older than her.

  An exhausted Pickle slowly walked over to Karen and pointed at the brown-haired woman. "Karen, this is Shaz." He then pointed at Karen. "Shaz; Karen."

  Both girls gave each other a single nod of the head, and Karen wondered how they had met, and guessed correctly that it must have been when Pickle had to go it alone the last time. She never asked, though. She was too tired to be standing around, listening to mundane stories that could keep. She needed to rest.

  Pickle said, "Good to see yer again."

  "You too." Shaz smiled, then clocked the blood on his left hand, noticing his small finger was missing. "Shit."

  "It's okay. It stings a little."

  "Stings? Is that all?"

  "Once it's wrapped up, it'll be fine."

  Karen sighed at the small talk and moaned, "Is this really necessary?" She then tugged on Pickle's T-shirt. "Come on, let's go. I need to get that hand of yours seen to, and I'll make sure you get plenty of painkillers down your neck. I don't want Wolf munching on those things like they're sweets because of his bad back."

  Pickle then looked at Shaz and asked, "Yer wanna come with us?"r />
  Shaz looked around the street. She saw the smoked-out house at the end; two men lying on the ground with blood pouring out of them, a car on fire, and a pile of dead, infected creatures around the end of the street. "I could do with a change of scenery."

  Pickle noticed Shaz glaring at the damage to the street. She had changed her clothes since he had last seen her, and she looked to have had a wash as well. "It's not all our doing, yer know."

  Karen nodded to the floor and said, "What about the shotgun?"

  "Leave it," Pickle responded. "Too fucking loud, plus, machetes don't need reloading."

  Karen walked over to the pavement and leaned over behind the wall and brought out the canister and stove. "We're taking these."

  Pickle smiled and looked around the street. "Well, we survive another day, Bradley." He then looked at Shaz. Her emotions were nil; she seemed cold, and almost looked prepared and dressed for this new world that had been forced upon mankind. But every person had a story to tell. Everyone was normal three weeks ago. He even looked at Karen now, and couldn't believe this tough fucker was a soon-to-be-married nurse who used to look after peoples' needs.

  The three of them staggered out of the street while being attacked from above by the pouring rain, and Shaz gave an injured Pickle a shoulder to lean on while Karen struggled with the canister and stove.

  The walk across the football field was going to be hard work, but the hill was going to be even more of a struggle, especially for Pickle who had bruising to his body, a severed finger and a broken nose.

  Karen took a sniff of her shirt and exclaimed, "We need fresh clothes."

  "All in good time, Karen," Pickle said.

  But Karen didn't want to wait.

  Chapter Forty Six

  Jack was sat in the caravan and was cupping his hot cup of coffee in his hand, smelling the wonderful aroma of the beverage.

  He looked out of the window and saw that the day looked darker than it should have been in June. The weather was atrocious and the rain lashed down hard. He had left his new watch in the bathroom, given to him by Vince, and guessed that it was about five in the evening, but it seemed a lot later.

  He remained sitting alone, cup in hand, dressed in just a blue dressing gown that he had found hanging on the bedroom door. He took a slurp and felt great after a shave and a warm shower.

  He wasn't sure of Vince, and he thought the whole caravan set-up seemed a bit weird, and a little quick, considering the virus had only been officially announced just under three weeks ago. It seemed that some people were happy to hide, others had no choice but to be on the move, while a small few were totally organised, as if they knew or were aware that this thing was already coming.

  But he knew that Vince wasn't a one-off; there were others like him, and that was proved when Jack had passed the Globe Island to see that Sandy Lane had been closed off. It looked that people had decided to block it off themselves and take matters into their own hands, considering there was no help from the government, if there was still one left.

  To a lesser degree, the ill-fated stay at the village hall was a kind of sanctuary or a camp for folk, which included small looting from Paul Parker and a trip to the supermarket that ended in disaster, especially for Gary. But back then it was looting places that were already vacant. It was proving with Vince's trip that people were now robbing from one another, and Jack wondered that if he hadn't have been present at the newsagents, Vince could quite easily have gunned down the shopkeeper, whether he had a family upstairs or not. That was going to be the future; Jack was convinced of it. The brutality of man-against-man was going to grow worse as time ticked by.

  He was aware that being in such a camp with mercenaries like Vince was a recipe for a good living, but Jack was still uncomfortable about taking from other people on the outside, especially family-people who were still too scared to venture outdoors. It seemed wrong. And Jack wasn't ashamed to admit that.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and Jack asked who was it.

  "It's Claire," a female voice came from outside.

  "Come in."

  Claire walked in with a black waterproof jacket on, the hood completely covering her face.

  "Raining, is it?" Jack's tiredness made his banter a little below-par, but he made an attempt at humour anyway.

  "Just a tad." Claire took off the waterproof jacket and hung it over a chair, and sat down, opposite Jack. She gave him a smile, and he immediately responded back.

  He had never noticed before, but he thought she was quite attractive. She never turned his head at first, and maybe he thought that it was simply because he hadn't been sexually active for a while. He kind of guessed that not many people were sexually active, as they had had more pressing matters, but this was the first time in a long time that Jack had looked at a member of the opposite sex and generally fancied them.

  Claire sighed, "About what happened back at the newsagents."

  "Ah," Jack said sceptically. "Has Vince sent you round to try and win me over?"

  Claire looked at Jack blankly and shook her head.

  He believed her straight away. Said Jack, "Then what is it?"

  "I know what you think we're doing is wrong, but in the long-term, if you stay with us, you'll have a good life."

  "For how long?"

  Claire gaped at Jack as if he had just pissed her off and didn't like his negative tone. "How do you mean?"

  "Look, once this thing is another month or so old, this camp isn't gonna last long. There're others out there just like Vince, possibly a lot more brutal. And there will be many other groups getting formed as a means of protection."

  "What's your point?"

  "I'm just saying, that when supplies run out, camps will start attacking other camps to survive. I know you think Vince is some kind of tough hotshot, but there's tougher out there. And believe me, I've met some of them, briefly. I mean, what did he do before this happened?"

  Claire shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. He doesn't really talk about his life."

  "I just worry that it's going to be a bad ending for all of us eventually."

  "But hasn't that always been the case, even before all this? Whatever success you become during life, the final outcome will always be death."

  Jack glared at Claire and managed a smile. "You should do stand-up, you know. You're a cheery cow."

  "That's a fact, Jack. You, on the other hand, are the negative one. Stay with us."

  Jack gave Claire a confused look.

  Continued Claire, "I can see you're having second thoughts being here. I'd like you to stay. Even give it a few months."

  Jack was lost in thought and asked, "Why does Vince want me to stay? Is it because of what he saw when I put those things down? You had three men with a couple of shotguns standing by a blockade; I've got a feeling that you're a bit low on numbers in the old soldier department, am I right?"

  Claire never answered him; she just glared, waiting for him to get his theory off his chest.

  Jack added, "I might have pissed Vince off back at the newsagents, but he can see I have no hesitation in putting those things down."

  Claire finally spoke out and cleared her throat before doing so. "So what are you saying? Vince is trying to gather some kind of army together?"

  "I'm just saying that Vince may have already thought about my camp-fighting-camp theory, and is preparing himself for something that may or may not happen in the near future." Jack stood up to pour more hot water into his coffee and remained standing in the kitchen. "You see, these...runs, these trips outdoors that he goes on, are they really for food and gas?"

  Claire nodded.

  "You seem to have more than the average person, as far as water and animals are concerned, and then there's the huge vegetable patch. I think you lot will do just fine. But maybe he's out there to recruit as well. If that shopkeeper was alone, he could have been recruited and on this camp right now, standing by the blockade, holding that stupid sword
of his."

  "I don't understand."

  "Think about it, the camp's only weeks old. I think Vince is out there in hope to come across a house with a tormented and disgruntled man who has just lost his family, because it's obvious the rest of the residents on this camp don't have it in them. Vince then asks the father to join the camp; the father agrees, as he's attracted to the idea of food and water, and is thrown into a situation that me and Johnny was in, proving to Vince if they would be worthy and useful to him."

  Claire shook her head, mocking his theory. "Vince is quite picky who he chooses. He wouldn't just pick anybody. Most of the people on here are too old to fight anyway."

  "So I'm right?"

  She giggled and this was the first time Jack had seen and heard her laugh, and he grinned back at the fact that something as simple as a giggle could enhance one's attractiveness.

  Claire stood to her feet, and said with sincerity, "I was checking to see if you were okay, that's all."

  Feeling twangs of guilt, Jack walked over and gave her an apologetic look. "I've been through a lot in the last few weeks," Jack confessed, and placed his hand on her shoulder as a way of apologising. "So I'm a little messed up at the moment."

  Claire leaned forward and kissed Jack on the lips, and he responded. He quickly broke away from the passionate embrace and gaped at Claire suspiciously. "Did he tell you to do that as well?"

  There was hardly a response from Claire. She should have been insulted, but instead, she kept her emotions in check. "No," she said calmly. "I kissed you because I wanted to." She then put her waterproof jacket back on and left Jack's caravan, leaving the door wide open, signifying to Jack that she wasn't entirely happy with his paranoid outburst.

  Jack shut the door to stop more rain getting in and soaking the carpet, and looked around where he was staying. It had been the most comfortable he had been since his stay in the Glasgow hotel, but to remain this comfortable and to have an abundance of food made him feel guilty, especially now that he knew that the leader of this camp was happy to be living in a comfortable way due to the stripping of others.