Snatchers Box Set, Vol. 4 [Books 10-12]

by Whittington, Shaun

  The sound of the engines grew louder, and Stephen Rowley knew from the sound that the vehicles that were approaching were on two wheels. They whizzed by the three of them as they remained hidden and could all see that they were mopeds, two in all.

  “Can never tell if people are good or bad these days,” said Vince. “Sometimes it's safer to do this, just in case.”

  Once the sound of engines faded, the noise of disturbed plantation came from behind the three of them.

  “Oh shit.” Stephen struggled to get to his feet and Karen and Vince, still crouching, turned to see three creatures only a couple of feet away, advancing towards them, one behind the other.

  Karen took a step forward and drove her blade into the front of the first creature's head whilst the two men watched on. She then jumped back, preparing herself for the remaining two that had now spread out.

  Both dead females, dressed in torn and bloodstained clothes, raised both of their arms in unison and Karen Bradley side-kicked the one on the left, making it collapse to the floor, so she could concentrate on the one that was left standing. It lunged at Karen, taking her by surprise, and she took a swipe at the female whilst Rowley and Vince, now standing up straight, moved back.

  Her blade went into the left side of its head, its milky eyes rolled and it fell to its knees once she removed the blade. It collapsed in a heap and now Vince stepped forward, his machete drawn. Karen was panting and took a step back. He waited for the last beast to get to its feet. She and Stephen watched as Vince held the weapon with both hands, brought it behind his own head as it approached him, and sliced through the centre of the skull of the remaining dead ghoul, the blade stopping inbetween its dead eyes.

  It dropped to the floor with Vince still holding onto the blade, then he wiped the dark blood on its clothing before putting it away.

  “Well, that was fun,” Vince tried to laugh, catching his breath, and turned around to look at a stunned Stephen. “You okay?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Sorry, guys. I don't know what happened. I just froze.”

  “Don't worry about it. I was a bit slow myself.” Vince checked if Karen was okay. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Okay?”

  She smiled. “Just a bit out of practice.”

  “You looked like you were in control from where I was standing.”

  She looked over to Stephen and asked if he was alright.

  He nodded and apologised once more for freezing.

  “Forget it,” Karen snickered.

  Stephen announced, “Right. I'm off for a piss.”

  “Will you be alright?” Vince called after Stephen, as the man disappeared further in the trees to get some privacy. “Or do you want me and Karen to give you a hand?”

  “Piss off,” he called back. “I feel bad enough as it is, chap.”

  Vince and Karen waited for Stephen and stared at the three bodies that were by their feet. They'd never get used to the smell.

  Karen looked over in the direction where Stephen had disappeared. “He seems alright. I quite like him.”

  “He's okay. Needs a bit more confidence.” Vince sighed and added in a whisper, “His twitching gets on my nerves, and that awful grunting noise he makes turns my stomach.”

  “It's just a habit he has.” Karen thought Vince was being harsh and stuck up for Stephen Rowley, a man she hardly knew.

  “And why does he call everybody chap?”

  Karen hunched her shoulders. “I don't know. A term of endearment?”

  “He can be quite boring sometimes as well.”

  “You're being too harsh.” Karen began to laugh. “He's a good guy. There ain't many of them left.”

  “Don't get me wrong ... he's alright. I just wouldn't want to be stuck in a lift with him, that's all I'm saying.”

  “Anyway,” Karen cleared her throat and cocked her head to one side as if she could hear something, “keep it down. I think that's him coming back.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Paul Dickson sat on his lawn and looked up to the murky sky. It started off nice, but the arrival of a few threatening clouds had blocked the sun off now and again. Despite the dark clouds and an unusual bitter August wind hitting his frame once in a while, Paul was enjoying the weather and began to dream of the past.

  Paul's eyes then looked up as he felt a presence and could see John Lincoln towering over him, wearing a big smile.

  Paul continued to gaze up at John and waited for him to say something.

  At last John Lincoln spoke. “You look ... subdued.”

  “I think the word you're looking for is ... bored,” Paul responded.

  “I hope you're not thinking about going for another walk.” John began to laugh.

  Paul looked up with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. He was unsure whether John knew that he had been over twice.

  Paul shrugged his shoulders petulantly. “Maybe if you stuck me out on a run, I wouldn't get cabin fever. Then maybe I wouldn't feel the need to escape this place once in a while.”

  “You lived at Vince's camp and Sandy Lane.” John was baffled by Paul's statement and couldn't understand what was wrong with him. Maybe he was mentally deteriorating. “So what's the problem with this place?”

  “It's a lot smaller. It's quite claustrophobic.”

  “I know your problem.” John pushed his spectacles up and added further.

  “Oh, you do, do you? And what's that?”

  “You don't have enough jobs to do.”

  “So send me out on a run once in a while.” Paul stood up and brushed his backside with his hands.

  “I tell you what you can do.”

  Paul raised his hand and said, “No more water filtering, please.”

  “You can go and see if Terry's in. He was supposed to have been on the gate five minutes ago.” John pointed over at the gate where James Thomson stood. “I want James to get a well-earned rest.”

  “What's wrong with your legs?” Paul stared at John, making him feel uncomfortable, knowing that he wasn't joking.

  “Look, if you don't want to be a part of this community—”

  “Fine. I'll go.”

  Paul walked over the road to 1 Colwyn Place and knocked on Terry's door. He turned around and briefly looked at John Lincoln and shook his head. Paul muttered, “Lazy bastard.”

  He waited a few more seconds. There was no movement from the main door, so he was about to try again, then hunched his shoulders and said, “Fuck it.”

  He tried the handle and the door opened. He stepped inside into the deathly silence and headed for the kitchen.

  He decided to call out. “Terry. It's Paul.”

  Nothing.

  The kitchen was bare; he decided to go to the bottom of the stairs and called on Terry again. There was no response.

  Maybe he was elsewhere. Maybe he had gone for a nap and overslept.

  Paul walked out of the kitchen and saw a door to his right that he hadn't seen before. He knew it was a door to the basement as every house had one. Only this one had a bolt across it.

  Paul placed his hand on the bolt, unsure whether to pull it back and try the door, and hesitated. What could be down there? He then jumped when he heard movement behind the door and immediately slid the bolt back. He looked to the side and saw Terry had come from upstairs and was running towards him. His face was full of rage and grabbed Paul with both hands and threw him into the kitchen, making him fall to the floor.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” snarled Terry.

  As Paul slowly got to his feet, Terry went over to the basement door and bolted it. He then returned to the kitchen, his body language suggesting that he was about to assault Paul Dickson further.

  Paul took a step back and side-kicked Terry Braithwaite in his left knee, making the man collapse in pain to the ground.

  “What the hell is going on?” a voice bellowed from behind the two men. Stephen Bonser had entered the house and stood in Terry's hallway, baffled at what he was wit
nessing.

  Wincing in discomfort, Terry pointed at Paul and said to Stephen, “He was trying to rob the place. And then he attacked me for no reason.”

  “Don't be ridiculous.” Paul laughed at Terry's lies. “If I wanted to rob anywhere I'd go to number seventeen.”

  “Explain yourself,” demanded Bonser.

  It was no secret that Bonser didn't like Dickson, and Paul thought that this could be the chance to get him thrown out. The only problem with this was that Bonser liked the rest of them that had turned up days ago. He liked Karen, Pickle and especially, The Murphy slayer himself, Vincent Kindl. He wasn't sure if kicking Paul out would make the others leave. Paul Dickson didn't seem too close to Vince and Pickle, but Karen adored the man. And if Karen went, Vince and Pickle would surely follow.

  “John Lincoln sent me here,” Paul tried to explain to Stephen Bonser. “Terry is late for his shift and Lincoln told me to go and get him. I came in and heard a noise from the cellar, so I unbolted it.”

  “Just leave me alone!” Terry yelled and hobbled over to the cellar door and leaned against it.

  Paul was suspicious of Terry's behaviour. His manic reaction was all because Paul had unbolted the cellar door. It didn't make sense.

  “What have you got down there?” Paul queried with suspicion.

  “Nothing!” Terry snapped. “It's private, sentimental stuff. Things belonging to my family.”

  Bonser asked Paul to step outside.

  Once the door was shut and both men were outside, Stephen said to Paul, “Are you doing this on purpose?”

  Paul had no idea what Stephen Bonser was talking about. “What?”

  “Are you trying to piss everybody off in one week?”

  Paul was unsure whether John had said something to Stephen. He hunched his shoulders and asked Stephen to explain himself.

  Said Stephen, “There's a lot of dislike for you here, and most people want you gone.” Stephen wasn't sure if this was entirely true, but he couldn't stop the hurtful words from leaving his mouth. “If it wasn't for Vince and the others...”

  “I'd be out on my arse.” Paul smiled. “I know.”

  “Yes, you fucking would.” Stephen was becoming irate with Paul's not-giving-a-shit attitude and added, “I certainly want you gone.”

  “That hardly comes as a surprise.”

  “Terry has lost his family and buried them himself in his back garden. You have to respect his privacy.”

  “How the fuck was I supposed to know that he kept memorabilia, or whatever it is, of his family in the cellar? I heard a noise. I decided that I should go down. As for robbing the place...”

  “Okay,” Stephen nodded. “That was bullshit, I accept that. I think Terry was just upset.”

  “You accept that the robbing theory is bullshit?” Paul sighed, “You sound disappointed.”

  Stephen released a breath out and scratched his grey hair. He was exasperated with this man and wanted to punch his lights out. “Your cold attitude isn't winning you any friends. And now you've gone and assaulted a fellow resident.”

  “He went for me first.”

  “I don't wanna hear it.” Stephen walked away and headed back over to his digs. “Just keep away from me in future. Got it?”

  “Aye, aye captain,” Paul guffawed falsely to wind Stephen up further.

  “Prick.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Craig Burns had to walk half a mile into the woods before he came across bushes of blackberries, and began to pick them, putting most of them straight into his mouth and not in the bag. He had never been in this deep before. Mushrooms from the ground were also picked, but there was no sign of anything else.

  He now came across a place he had heard of.

  In the woods was a Gruffalo Trail, something that was designed for children, as well as a large park. Most of the apparatus in the park—swings, roundabouts and climbing frames—were made from wood and the whole area on the ground was covered in wood-chipped bark.

  He wondered how many people were here on that weekend when the announcement was made. Not a sign of a single dead body could be seen. It appeared that there had been no fatalities in this area, and people must have fled because the car park was empty.

  He took a stroll into the park that was surrounded by trees, and scanned the floor. No blood. He placed the carrier bag and hockey stick on the floor, sat on one of the swings and lost himself for a few minutes, thinking about his last three months.

  When Craig Burns lost his family, he had lost his mind for a few weeks. In the third week he had made his first human kill. It wasn't something he wanted to do, but he was in a kill or be killed situation.

  He was staying in an abandoned house, in a street called Plovers Rise, and saw a pickup pull up. Two big men, sitting in the back were the first to get out. A guy with slick black hair stepped out of the driver's side. He was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt that had tour dates on the back, and his passenger got out the other side. This individual was female, ugly-looking with ginger hair, and looked a right vicious cunt. It looked like that the four of them were going into people's houses and taking what they wanted, mainly food. On seeing this, he ran downstairs and bagged the little food that was left and ran back upstairs.

  Eventually, they came into the house that Craig was staying in. Out of pure stubbornness he never left at first, but he did hide because there were four of them. He could handle himself, but these guys were armed with bats. He hid in a walk-in cupboard with the food and was relieved, and a little surprised, that these individuals had checked the house, yet the cupboard was never opened. Maybe they didn't think there were people inside and wanted to check solely for food and drink. And most food and drink in any house would be kept downstairs, in the kitchen. Craig had given it a few minutes, then decided it was time to leave the stuffy cupboard.

  He went over to the bedroom window that looked out onto the main road and could see three of them returning to the truck empty-handed. There was one missing. He went into the other room, a girl's room once, and gasped when he saw one of them going through the drawers. He was looking in the cupboard and clocked Craig straightaway. Craig had nowhere to go. There was only one place he could flee, and that was out the main door which would lead out to the three in the truck. He never hesitated.

  Although the man that was left in the house was a big fellow, almost sixteen stone, Craig began to rain blows. There was no other option. Both men grabbed one another and rolled along the bedroom floor. Craig took a few blows to his face and was losing the tussle. He fingered one of the man's eyes and had bitten into his cheek. The big man fell to the side, clutching his face, screaming. Craig panted and turned around, noticing a hockey stick in the corner of the room, next to a table that had a collection of hockey trophies. He grabbed the stick as his assailant struggled to get to his feet and brought it down on the man's head, killing him instantly. Craig never hung about.

  He opened the bedroom window and went down the drainpipe, taking the stick with him, and ran across a series of back gardens before the other three found the body of their friend with his head bashed in. He then headed for Slitting Mill and stayed at an abandoned house.

  He had killed three others after that. All self-defence.

  Only a week later, he killed an aggressive individual who ambushed him as he walked along a main road. The man looked desperate, and to a certain degree Craig felt for the man, but he wasn't going to give up his bag that he had worked for.

  The knife-wielding ambusher had been given countless opportunities by Craig to flee, but he made one lunge at Craig too many and was beaten to death.

  The other two that he had killed were on the same day.

  Two weeks ago, Craig came under attack again, after a month of no incidents, and nearly lost his life this time. He had managed to come across a car with the keys already in the ignition. He was excited to finally have a set of wheels. Not only could he travel, but a sheet of metal around him made him sa
fe from those freaks. He didn't realise at the time that being in a vehicle would attract attention from other survivors. Looking back, he had been naive.

  He was driving along Power Station Road, looking for petrol. Suddenly, his windscreen was smashed by a thrown rock. He lost control and crashed the car into a building, then was pulled out of the vehicle by two men and beaten. They jumped into the vehicle, ready to make off with it, when Craig pulled out a knife, something he had taken from his last accommodation, and plunged the blade into the passenger's throat. On seeing this, the driver left the vehicle and began to run away whilst his passenger sat with his throat emptying out on his shirt.

  Adrenaline and rage took over, and Craig grabbed his hockey stick from the back seat and ran after the man. The man tired quickly and Craig hit him twice across the back of the head, killing him. He decided to leave the car where it was and went back to his house in Slitting Mill on foot.

  A few birds tweeted their merry tune, forcing him to snap out of his daydreaming and could see them gliding over him with little effort. He then looked to his left and saw a wooden building, like a shack. He had never noticed this before.

  He got off the swing, picked his stick and bag up with his left hand, then took a stroll over to the shack that was now looking like a kiosk for visitors. He could see a visitor centre behind the wooden hut, but knew there'd be nothing of value in there, and went round the back of the kiosk to try and find a door. The front part had metal shutters that had been pulled down, so going that way was a no-no. He found a door at the back of the small establishment and gave it a try. It was predictably locked. He dropped the hockey stick and the bag of blackberries and mushrooms to the floor, and looked around before charging at it. It gave way, flying open on Craig's second run at it.

  He rubbed his sore right shoulder and had a quick look around. The freezer had leaked and had defrosted, but there was chocolate confectionary available, and he quickly began to fill his bag with an assortment of Cadbury's bars such as Twirls, Wispas and Dairy Milk. He could see in the now defunct fridge that there were many sodas to choose from and helped himself to some Irn-Bru and Tango.