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

by Shaun Whittington

  They both took a look at the entrance of the inn and Vince finally spoke. "Just take what we need. You try the kitchens; I'll try the living arrangements upstairs."

  "Okay."

  Vince tried the door. It opened with ease. This gave them the indication that whoever used to run the establishment, wasn't there anymore.

  Claire took out a hunters knife from her back pocket, she wasn't entirely comfortable with a gun, and they both entered the place and skulked around the dark part of the lounge area. It appeared to be vacant. Claire took the sports bag off of her back and went into the kitchen.

  Vince opened a door that led upstairs. He thought about calling out, but instead he crept up the carpeted stairs making no noise whatsoever. As soon as he reached the top, he looked across the landing and could see that there were four closed doors. He guessed that two were bedrooms, one led to a kitchen, and the other door led to a living room.

  He approached the nearest door and placed his ear against it. Not a sound could be heard. He pulled down the handle and slowly opened it. It was a bedroom, but it looked like it didn't belong to anyone. It had no character to it, and Vince guessed that it was a spare room. The owners of the pub had either kids that had grown up and flown the nest, or, they were a childless couple.

  He left the room, still being quiet, and went for the next door. This room appeared to be the main bedroom. It was a typical room with a double bed, a set of drawers, a cupboard, and a dressing table with a mirror.

  He checked the cupboards and it seemed that one was only half-empty. It looked that the male had taken his clothes and fled the place, but the female hadn't. Why?

  Vince took out a couple of black bin liners out of his pocket and began filling up the bags with the clothes that were left in the cupboards, as well as male and female underwear from the drawers. Once he filled the two bags, he went to the top of the stairs and threw them down, then went back to check out the other two rooms.

  The kitchen was small, poky, and he could smell a repugnant smell coming from the now defunct fridge, as if the food inside was rotting. He couldn't get out of the place quick enough and decided to try the final door before going downstairs and giving Claire a hand.

  He placed his ear against the door; he was greeted with complete silence. The whole pub was silent. Even Claire was making little noise downstairs.

  He pulled down the handle and slowly pushed the door, allowing it to swing fully open. His nose was greeted with a dreadful smell, and he should have turned on his heels and walked away, but his intrigue was too strong for him to do that. He kept the living room door open. The room was drenched in darkness; the curtains were closed, and the stench grew so bad that he lifted his shirt up over his nose in order not to breathe in any more fumes from whatever was giving off the smell.

  Vince stepped further inside and gasped a little when he saw a lone figure standing in the corner of the room. It reminded him of the end of a scary film from years back called The Blair Witch Project.

  It never moved, and Vince peered around the couch to see the carcass of an animal, which clearly used to be a German Shepherd, as the head was still present. Vince should have walked away, but with the ghoul's back towards him, he turned his shotgun round, ran at the creature and smacked the back of its head with the butt of the gun.

  Its head squished against the wall and its body dropped like a stone. He looked at its face in the darkness and could just about make out that it used to be a female. The lady of the pub, perhaps.

  It explained why only the clothes in the male's cupboard was taken. Maybe she was the wife, became infected, and he then locked her in and decided to leave. But the dead dog didn't make sense. Why didn't the man take the dog with him? A dog would run through fire for its master; surely he could have saved his pet.

  Vincent sighed and went downstairs to see how Claire was getting on.

  *

  Something had stirred the woman but she had no idea what it was. She rolled over to her side and could see the time on her iPod station telling her that it was 3:14am. She was confused for a few seconds why she wasn't in her bed, and then realised why she was sleeping on the leather sofa.

  There was only ever one reason why she slept downstairs on the leather sofa, and that was on Saturday nights/Sunday mornings, without fail. Every time her husband drank beer on a Saturday night, he would snore like a hog with asthma.

  Sometimes she would go to bed before him so she could sleep before he made his way upstairs, but his snoring was sometimes so loud, especially if he was lying on his back, it would wake her up anyway once they were sleeping together.

  They both worked all week and their treat at the end of the week would be a Chinese takeaway. She would always have the Kung Po Chicken, whereas he would mainly have a Beef Curry. This was then followed by her husband going into the living room to watch the football.

  Her husband was a mad Liverpool fan and would watch Match of the Day every Saturday night, right through to midnight. During the ninety minutes of watching his favourite football programme, he would traditionally drink his six bottles of Perlenbacher beers, his favourite. These beers were the result of her sleeping on the couch. He always snored heavily with a few beers inside him. She didn't know why she just didn't stay up, wait for him to go to bed, and then sleep on the couch.

  It had been a story she had moaned about for years whenever she used to catch up with her close pals. Her friends would argue that the soused individual should sleep on the couch himself, while she remained in her bedroom.

  That would happen on the odd occasion, but sometimes he'd be so forgetful with the alcohol that he would automatically stumble upstairs to bed anyway, where only a crane could move him once he was in his soused, comatosed state.

  On this particular early morning, she had lasted well. She sometimes usually went downstairs to the couch before one or two am, but had lasted till three.

  She sighed as usual, grabbed her dressing gown, and left her partner. She then looked in on her seven-year-old boy who was dead to the world, with his Phineas and Ferb quilt covering most of his body. He was sleeping like an angel as usual, legs wrapped around the quilt, lips puffed out, and snoring slightly with the mild cold he had picked up from primary school.

  She then crept downstairs, turned off the fish tank in the kitchen, because the noise from the water filter drove her nuts when she was on the couch, and went into the living room that was situated below her own bedroom. She then pulled out a brown blanket from inside the leather footrest and threw it on the couch.

  Then it was time to sleep.

  But as soon as she got herself prepared for a night on the sofa, she was disturbed once again. For fuck's sake! This time, in the early hours of the Sunday morning on June 10th, she could hear a stumbling coming from upstairs. She shook her head, thinking that her husband was getting up for a pee, and was still drunk.

  Before they were married, he had got so drunk before that he walked into a cupboard, had a pee, then walked out of the cupboard and went back to bed. On another occasion when they visited her mother's, they both went out and she woke up to find her future husband, sitting on her mother's stairs, naked, and peeing all over them. He was completely oblivious what he was doing, and at two in the morning, she had to use towels to soak up the wetness, use lots of spray, and had to put the towels in the outside bin.

  She crept upstairs, and was hoping that she could catch her husband before he made a serious faux pas. But he only had six bottles of beer, she told herself. It wasn't as if he had gone out with the lads on an all-day bender.

  She then thought, maybe it was her son, Spencer, that had got out of bed.

  She reached the landing and suddenly stopped on the edge of the last step of the stairs. Her body refused to go any further, and she couldn't understand why.

  She could hear, coming from her seven-year-old's bedroom, a slopping noise. It was a weird predicament. She was supposed to be his mother, somebody that would
do anything for her child, but her legs were refusing to move.

  She finally called out, "Spencer. Baby, is that you?"

  The slopping had stopped, and she could now hear shuffling noises coming from the room.

  "Honey?"

  The landing was in complete darkness, and a silhouette of a tall man slowly shambled out of her son's opened bedroom.

  "James? What were you doing?"

  She received no answer from her husband.

  Oh God, you didn't pee in Spencer's room, did you?

  She reached for the light switch. Once she had found it, she flicked it to see the landing fill with light. Her eyes were blinded for a few seconds, but once they could see properly, she released a terrifying scream.

  Her husband was naked, covered in contusions and was littered with blue veins, as if he was ill, or...dead. Around his mouth was blood, fresh blood. And whatever he had taken a chunk out of, he was still slowly chewing.

  "Spencer!"

  *

  Shaz woke with a startle, and crouching over her was Karen. Although it had been a dream, what she had dreamt about had really happened just over two weeks ago, and this had been the seventh time she had to re-live the nightmare once again.

  "Sorry for waking you. Bad dream?" asked Karen.

  Shaz nodded. "You could say that." Shaz slowly sat up and began to rub her eyes. "What is it?"

  "I want you to come with me before it gets dark," Karen said. "Pickle's asleep. Wolf's snoozing in the living room."

  "Where?"

  "Back to the street; we need fresh clothes. We all do."

  "I..."

  "This is the last time, I swear. Then we stay up here for as long as we can." Karen spoke with conviction.

  "But after what happened with those guys—"

  "Don't worry. They're gone; we'll be straight in and out. Pickle and Wolf may want to smell like shit, but I need new gear."

  Shaz sighed, "Okay. Give me a minute."

  Chapter Fifty

  The truck slowly reversed back, giving the jeep just about enough room to squeeze through the gap that had been left. Once Jack had drove through the opening, he put his foot down and never looked back. There was no sign of Claire when he left, and he assumed she either wasn't told of his leaving, or she wasn't giving a shit.

  Vince had one of his guys to check over the jeep to see if Jack had taken food and water with him before leaving, supplies that belonged to the camp. To Jack's credit, he had never stolen as much as a water bottle, and this impressed and surprised Vince. He wished he stayed, but he knew that Jack had a moral compass that wouldn't allow him to be as ruthless as the rest of them. In a certain way, Vince admired Jack's principles, but was convinced it was going to get him killed one day.

  Jack was still a little drunk when he went over the brow of the hill, and looked in his rear-view mirror to see that the blockade and the camp was no longer in sight. He thought about Claire and that kiss.

  Was Vince behind it?

  Did Vince think that if Jack developed some kind of love interest he'd find it more difficult to leave?

  Or was it for real?

  Did Claire really like him?

  Jack shrugged it off and bypassed The Ash Tree pub to his right and knew, looking at the sky, he was going to have to find a place to stay because the night wasn't far away. He decided that he would try and pull in on a country lane, away from a residential area and also away from the woods. He knew it'd be dangerous whatever he did, but if he left the keys dangling in the ignition and went to sleep and one or more of those things came to the jeep, Jack could get out of the danger area within seconds and drive somewhere else. The jeep was a tough vehicle, Jack had Johnny to thank for that, and could easily ram through many persistent ghouls if need be, which was something that had already been successfully proved.

  With his crowbar sitting on the passenger seat, Jack veered left and went through a country lane that led into the small town of Brereton. Knowing that the alcohol could have an effect on his concentration, he drove at a steady twenty and looked at the fuel gauge. Half a tank. Not bad.

  This had been the first time he had been on this main road that led into the town of Rugeley, and the place, eerily, looked reasonably clear. There were no bodies strewn along the streets, no bloody limbs, crashed cars or burning properties.

  It was all a little bizarre.

  Jack made a decision and turned the jeep another left. The quiet main road had given him goosebumps, and he wondered if it possessed hiding looters that were ready to strike, and that was the reason for the lack of life.

  He was aware of two camps in the one town. There was Vince's and the Sandy Lane area, where the main road had been blocked off, probably to create a small village of their own like the one Vince was running. It wasn't inconceivable that Jack could be carjacked if he had kept on driving on the Brereton road, and these potential bandits could be members of the Sandy Lane camp.

  The whole road could be some kind of trap. Or was he just being paranoid?

  Going up a street, of name he had forgot, he came to a three-way road and drove by Ravenhill school and went straight on into an industrial estate where there used to be businesses, before people turned and began to eat one another.

  He slowed the vehicle down and could see movement in the windows of a factory. The jeep came to a stop and Jack wondered if there were any kind people left in the world and, if there were, would they put him up for the night? Jack stepped out of the vehicle and walked round.

  Apart from the factories to the right, the country road was surrounded by farmland. Jack took a few steps forward and before crossing the road, he took a gape to the left and right. Some habits were hard to break.

  As soon as he reached the other side of the road, Jack heard a voice call out, "Don't fuckin' bother!"

  Jack looked up at the factory window that appeared to be a paper recycling place, and saw five figures, some holding baseball bats. "Ye come in 'ere, an' we'll knock fuck out o' ye," the same voice warned.

  "Charming," Jack muttered.

  He turned on his heels and went back to the jeep. Before he could get in, he heard another voice call out from the window. "It's alright, mate. You can stay if you want. Just bring yourself and tha' beast to the side o' the factory, and we'll let you in."

  Why the sudden change of heart, Jack thought.

  He ignored the comment and went back into the vehicle. He drove away and smiled to himself. He had no idea if he was being mistrustful and that the second guy was being genuine. Was it the vehicle they were after?

  "Fuckers," Jack mumbled. "Seeing the jeep probably had changed the groups' mind. They'd probably beat me half to death and take the vehicle."

  Jack moved on and hit thirty as he drove around the windy lanes, and went past a farmhouse. He thought about stopping for a second, but decided to look for accommodation in the morning, when he had all day to do so. The sky was growing darker, and he guessed that in another hour it would be pitch black.

  He turned left and the vehicle went up a steep road, and once he reached the top of the hill to a flat part of the road, Jack suddenly realised where he was. If he followed the lane for another two miles, he'd be entering the village of Hazelslade. He decided to head for Hednesford, as he knew of a place that was well-hidden and away from the main road.

  As he continued to drive along the road, he looked up to the spectacular site of Stile Cop. The huge hill was a beauty spot and one of the highest points in the area. He briefly remembered taking Kerry up there one night for a passion session, but their session was short-lived.

  After two minutes, when he and Kerry were making love in the back seat of the car, Jack had realised that eyes were watching him, and saw two men and a woman looking into the vehicle. Their presence frightened the shit out of him and caused a tussle once he got out of the car, half-dressed. Unbeknown to Kerry and Jack, Stile Cop was a hot spot for dogging on an evening, but the naive pair had no idea.

/>   His reminiscing came to a halt as he reached the crossroads. He reduced his speed and wanted to continue ahead to get to his destination, but a speeding car from nowhere came out from the right of the crossroads and smashed straight into the side of the vehicle.

  The airbag failed to inflate in front of Jack's face, and the jeep halted once it had swerved to the left and hit a tree.

  *

  He had no idea where he was going, but knew that in a matter of hours, the Ford Focus would soon run out of petrol. He adjusted his glasses and winced when he pressed his foot down to use the foot pedal. His knee was still smarting from the assault a few days ago by the large man they called Pickle, who was with three others in the back off the pick-up truck. Even though the farm that he and his three colleagues were staying at was only another mile away, it scared him that he was going to be staying on his own, now that the other three had been attacked.

  He knew they were being greedy by going into the street for more supplies; they had enough back at the farm, but Gordon, his greasy, pony-tailed friend, convinced the leader of the small mob that the nearest populated place of Rugeley, the Pear Tree Estate, would be easy picking for them.

  It was going perfectly; people hid in their houses and it was a simple task of walking in with little resistance, but it had suddenly gone pear-shaped. Gordon had made suggestions that once that particular street was cleaned out, they should search through the dozen or so more, before finally going back to the farm on a permanent basis.

  He was as surprised as any of them when the huge man, that had fucked his knee up, had returned, and even more surprised when he was loading the car and saw that crazy bitch running across the road with a machete and then swiping at Gordon before hacking the arm off of his other friend. Panic had kicked in and he jumped into the Ford Focus and never looked back. He knew if any of his colleagues had survived and eventually found him, especially if it was Gordon, they'd kill him for sure. So was going back to the farm really the wise thing to do?