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

by Whittington, Shaun

  “Mind if I sit down, chap?”

  “Of course.” Vince patted the kerb.

  Stephen Rowley sat down next to him and released a heavy sigh. He had changed his clothing, Vince noticed. Stephen had on a blue shirt with white stripes, a pair of khaki shorts and a pair of sandals, no socks.

  “What's up?” asked Vince.

  “It's been a stressful day.”

  “You can say that again.” Vince rubbed his hands over his face. “In times of stress, you can't beat a bottle of booze or the loving of a good woman. Or both.”

  “Not much chance of that round here, chap.”

  “I dunno. I think there's a few lookers here. Have you tried?”

  “Not really.” Stephen cleared his throat. “I don't think the women are interested, to be honest.”

  Vince cackled, “I suppose the apocalypse is hardly an aphrodisiac, is it?”

  “And I'm not the best looking guy in the world.” Stephen smiled and patted his large belly.

  “Well, that's true,” Vince said without thinking. “But I'm hardly a catch myself.” He pointed at his face. “But if you try, show them your personality, then there's always a chance. I don't think women are as judgemental as men. Although, let's be honest, men would shag anything.”

  “Speak for yourself, chap.”

  “I remember when I started my job as a fork lift driver,” Vince began with a smile. “I pulled this girl from the office. She was a heavy girl. When I took her back to my place, I pulled her pants down and her arse was still in them.”

  “That's not nice, chap.” Stephen shook his head. “But you still made love to her?”

  “Made love?” Vince guffawed. “Guys don't make love. Making love is what a woman does while a man is screwing her. Anyway, she was a nice enough woman, and it was her that dumped me. She said I was too selfish in bed.”

  “You know what I miss more than sex?”

  “What?”

  “Beer.”

  “I hear you, brother.”

  “I miss a cold Bud.” Stephen closed his eyes and smiled, trying to remember what a cold beer tasted like.

  “I don't mind a cold Bud, but I'd prefer a warm bush.”

  Ignoring Vince, Stephen said, “I suppose it would be nice to meet somebody, chap. But it's that fear.”

  “And what fear is that?”

  “The fear of losing them.”

  “Well, this has always been a problem, back in the old world.”

  “Even more so now.” Stephen tried to joke, “At least my hands work. They sort me out when I'm feeling frisky.”

  Vince nodded his head in agreement and said, “Tell me about it. I mean, I'm no expert on masturbation, but I hold my own.”

  Stephen grunted and twisted his neck. “You said you used to be a fork lift driver?”

  “That's right. I had other jobs before that. Many.” Vince leaned his head back and closed his eyes as a soft breeze tickled his face.

  “Oh yeah?” said Stephen. “I've had one or two.” He then puffed out his chest, forcing Vince to ask what was wrong.

  Stephen said, “Have you ever imagined what'd it be like once the dead are gone and some kind of order is restored?”

  “Not really.” Vince shook his head and smirked. “Have you ever imagined a world with no hypothetical questions?”

  “I don't know what you mean, chap?”

  Vince smiled. “Forget it, Steve ... Stephen,” Vince corrected himself.

  Vince then saw Pickle coming out of his house. He gave Vince and Stephen a wave and then he went over to Terry Braithwaite for a chat. Terry was one of the men that wasn't keen on Paul Dickson, and Vince wondered if the chat was related to Paul.

  Pickle then walked away and went by the solar panels. He then strolled by the wall and took a peep over. He stopped, and the look on his face made Vince get to his feet.

  “Now, what's up?” sighed Vince. Not more of the dead, please.

  Stephen also saw it and stood up also. Both Vince and Stephen walked over with hurried steps and both men stood either side of Harry Branston. Vince stood by Pickle's right and Stephen was to his left, both expecting there to be more of those freaks from the abbey. This wasn't the case, and a different kind of threat could be seen as they stared out.

  “Oh shit,” Vince muttered.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” said Pickle.

  “What are they doing, chaps?” Stephen asked, then gulped hard.

  “They're spying on us,” said Vince.

  “They're not exactly discreet, are they?”

  Pickle added, “I think they are spying on us, but it could also be a kind o' intimidation. Maybe they want us to know that we're being watched.”

  All three continued to look.

  In the distance, there were four men in No Man's Land. Each one was sitting on their Vespa moped, all gazing, staring at the wall, staring at Pickle, Vince and Stephen.

  Rowley asked, “What do you think they're after?”

  “Could be anything,” Pickle sighed. “They could be just curious, they could be after what we have in 'ere. Or they could just be psychotic. Or all o' the above.”

  “Didn't you run down one of their girls, a week back?” Stephen asked. Vince could see that the man was now shaking.

  “Aye, but I don't think they've been spying on us long enough that they recognise me, Vince or Karen. Those four might not even be the same men that were with that group when we hit that woman.” Pickle tried to remember the name of the woman he had accidentally knocked down. Ina.

  “Anyway,” Vince intervened, “they killed Sheryl and stole our pickup and supplies as compensation, so it's not revenge that they're after, even if we have been recognised.”

  “Then what is it, chaps?” Stephen grunted.

  “I don't know,” Pickle released a heavy breath and looked at Stephen and Vince, “but it doesn't look good.”

  All four strangers started the engines of their mopeds that could be faintly heard in the distance, and Pickle, Stephen and Vince continued to glare. One by one, the mopeds turned around and rode away, slowly, in single file.

  Stephen puffed out his cheeks. “I better tell John what we've seen.”

  Pickle agreed. “He might want to keep it a secret, just in case the other residents get frightened.”

  “Maybe it's best if they are told.” Vince looked at Pickle for a reaction. “I think it'd be best if everyone stays indoors until this problem is sorted.”

  “Sorted?” Pickle asked, “And how are we supposed to sort this?”

  “We can talk ... or we fight, if they leave us no other option.” Vince turned to Pickle and asked him with a stern look. “What do you think?”

  Harry Branston tucked his bottom lip in and raised his eyebrows in thought. “What do I think?”

  Stephen and Vince nodded, waiting for a verbal reaction from a man they both greatly respected.

  “Yer say that everyone should stay indoors until this problem is sorted, but how do we know we have a problem? They may never come back. We may never see these guys again.”

  “Do you honestly believe that, Pickle?” Vince asked.

  Pickle exhaled noisily. “I don't know. It could be nothing.”

  Pickle was still thinking and began to pick his ears. His ears were getting better now. They had been flaky for days, and Karen told him that he should try some hydrocortisone cream. Fortunately, even before the medical run, there was some that was available and was given to the former inmate. He applied the steroid cream on every other day and it seemed to be improving.

  “They seem to be everywhere these days.” Vince narrowed his eyes in thought and added, “We should send a team out and if ever they come anywhere near this place, we should sort them out.”

  “By killing them?” Pickle was unsure what Vince meant.

  Vince shrugged his shoulders. He didn't look sure.

  “I think we should calm the fuck down.” Pickle smiled and placed his hand on
the shoulder of Vince and Stephen. “Maybe they're just intrigued. We don't want to be starting something if that little visit of theirs was perfectly innocent.”

  “Perfectly innocent?” Vince scoffed. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Maybe they're friendly,” Stephen tried to put a dampener on the paranoia that was being felt.

  “Oh yeah?” said Vince. “Then why didn't they come over and introduce themselves, instead of staring at us from a distance?”

  “Because, Vince, and yer should already know this,” Pickle began and stared at Kindl. “Every stranger in this new world can be a potential danger.”

  The men and their bikes were now nowhere to be seen and not even the sound of their engines could be heard.

  “Yep.” Pickle moved away from the wall and headed down the street. “Probably came across us by accident and were just curious.”

  Vince turned around to look at the back of Pickle, but Stephen remained staring over the wall, looking down the old part of the street that used to be a part of Colwyn Place, but was now No Man's Land.

  “And what if you're wrong?” Vince called out, forcing Pickle to stop walking. “We've seen what they did to Sheryl. Jez and Craig told me a story about them earlier. They butchered a family for no reason. Jez was briefly a part of their crew, and I heard that name Drake being mentioned again. What if they're more than curious and want to take what we have?”

  “Well,” Pickle turned around and ran his fingers over his stubbly chin, “If it's something more sinister, then we have plenty o' storms ahead o' us, gentleman. Plenty o' storms.”

  Pickle headed for the gate and asked Stephen and Vince to follow him out of Colwyn Place and over to the field. They still had bodies to bury.

  Book Eleven: The Dead Don’t Knock

  Chapter One

  August 18th

  He had managed six and a half hours of sleep. It was a personal record for Terry Braithwaite since June, and felt refreshed as he swung his legs to the side of the bed as soon as he sat up.

  He stood up, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts that had seen better days, and shuffled over to his bedroom window. He stroked his ginger beard and peeked from behind the curtains, letting out a sad moan.

  The street was clear.

  The only person he could see in the street was Stephen Rowley, with his bat in his right hand. It was rare to see Stephen at the gate. It was usually Terry, Stephen Bonser or James Thomson that went on gate duty, with the Fergusons doing the nightshift. Sometimes Gareth Broadgate would also do a stint during the night.

  Terry pulled back the curtains, a little too forcefully, and opened the window, dressed in only his shorts. Spotting him straightaway, Stephen Rowley waved at Terry with his right hand, the hand still gripping onto the bat, and roared 'Good morning' to him.

  Terry smiled and raised his hand, acknowledging Stephen, and was about to disappear, but Rowley bellowed, “Are you on guard duty today, chap?”

  Terry couldn't be bothered with Rowley, but he didn't want to be rude to Stephen. Stephen was a nice fellow, unlike that Paul Dickson bloke.

  Terry called back, “Not sure! What about you? How long you got left?”

  “Another hour, chap.”

  “Nothing to report?”

  “A couple of grey squirrels scurried by about half an hour ago,” Stephen laughed. “Apart from that ... not a lot.”

  “Non-stop action, isn't it?”

  “Oh, Pickle and Danny are gonna go out later on, with the two new blokes.”

  “Again?” Terry shook his head. “Hasn't Danny had enough experience now? A bloody waste of petrol, if you ask me. I don't know why Pickle and Danny don't go on foot. I mean—”

  “Actually, they are going on foot,” Stephen interrupted Terry's mini rant. “They're going to go over to No Man's Land. I think Pickle is hoping they come across some strays. More practice for Danny and the other kid.”

  “Oh.” Terry looked to his left and glanced at the vehicles that were parked up, all four of them. The black Range Rover, the red Ford Focus, the silver Vauxhall Zafira and the motorhome hadn't seen any action for a while.

  Terry smiled and told Stephen that he was going to get dressed and that he'd see him later on. Rowley twisted his neck, grunted, then looked up at Terry and playfully saluted him.

  Terry walked away from the window, leaving it open, and put on clothes that he had worn the day before. The clothes were strewn in the corner of the room, and he bent over to pick them up, groaning as he did this. He sat on the edge of the bed as he put on his white dirty socks, followed by his creased grey V-neck T-shirt and his black combats.

  His throat was dry, and he knew that the temporary cure for the dry throat was sitting in his kitchen: a half-litre of water in a plastic bottle. He put his boots on and stood to his feet.

  It was time to go downstairs.

  Terry descended his stairs, rubbing his hairy chin, and stopped once he was at the bottom. He gazed at the front door and released a heavy sigh. He was bracing himself for another mundane day.

  Finally moving away from the door, he progressed through his damp-smelling hall, passing his living room and into his kitchen. He could see the plastic bottle of water, went over and grabbed it and downed the liquid within a minute. He needed more, but knew that he'd get more once Beverley did her morning water rounds.

  The water had been collected at the Trent the day before and had been purified during yesterday evening. It had been the same routine since the community had been set up, after the death of Jason Murphy.

  Ideally, a solar powered pump or even a wind powered pump at a well or water hole would have been ideal, but the Trent was the nearest place to get water. Carrying and transporting water was a pain in the arse, but he knew that they were better off than most folk.

  Terry decided to go out into the street and get some air. He could see from his kitchen window that the day looked murky; a whole blanket of grey clouds covered the sky above him.

  He went through the hall and heard a sound that forced him to stop in his tracks. He looked to his right, at the cellar door, and listened out for anything else. He heard another noise from down there, from behind the door, and hesitated on what to do. He slowly slid the bolt back, but he paused and held his breath.

  He lowered his head as if he was praying, took in a deep breath, and then opened it. He took a long peep down the concrete steps and walked down into the dusky cellar, having only the light from the hall to guide him; he went down with wary feet.

  He was greeted by snarling as usual, and said with sadness, “Morning, princess.”

  His reanimated daughter had rope tied around her waist and the other end was tied to a beam. She had freedom to move, but she couldn't move far. She was still dressed in the clothes that she had on when she was first bitten, and Terry had noticed the smell was getting worse as the weeks went by.

  But she was all he had left.

  He wasn't stupid. He knew she was dead. He knew she was gone, and the real Kayleigh wasn't there anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to kill her.

  He stared at her rotten face, her milky eyes, and knew that a light bulb would reveal the true horror of what her face truly looked like.

  It was her birthday last week. She would have been eight years old.

  His eyes remained transfixed on the person that used to come to his side of the bed and in for a cuddle whenever she had a nightmare.

  There were no tears. He knew the real Kayleigh was gone, she had been gone since June 9th. If his wife and son had reanimated on that day, he was pretty sure that his feelings would be the same, but his son and wife were eaten so much that they had died because there wasn't much left of them too reanimate.

  In the beginning, in the first week, he had informed his concerned neighbours that he would 'take care' of the injured Kayleigh and told them all to leave his home. He announced later that his wife and son, who were already wrapped up by some of the neighbours,
had been buried and Kayleigh had also been buried with them after he had put her out of her misery.

  In truth, he buried what was left of his wife and his son, but couldn't bring himself to kill his little girl. He just couldn't do it.

  When she had slipped into a coma, on that mad June weekend, she was tied up on the bed. Once she turned, Terry dragged her body gently downstairs and into the cellar. The rope was then untied and he placed it around her waist, whilst she was face down and he was kneeling on her arm, then he tied the other end to the beam.

  He glared as she continued to gnash and snarl, then turned his back and released a heavy sigh. “My baby girl.” Terry left the cellar and went up the steps, muttering, “My beautiful baby girl.”

  Terry shut the cellar door behind him, and once again the little girl was drenched in darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Vince Kindl was minding his own business and sitting on the kerb. He had seen David MacDonald hanging around the house he was staying at. He looked lost and bored, so Vince urged the youngster to sit next to him and have a chat.

  Vince had known David for weeks. At first, Vince didn't like him when he was at Sandy Lane, especially the way he and Charles Pilkington treated little Kyle Dickson at the beginning, and his dad, James MacDonald—or Jimmy Mac—was detested by Vince and most of the others.

  But David had redeemed himself, especially after Kyle's death, and Vince had warmed to the fourteen-year-old since he had been found at the side of a road.

  David strolled over to Vince, produced a thin smile, and then sat on the kerb next to Kindl.

  “It's a weird kind of day, don't you think?” Vince looked up to the heavens, then gazed at the youngster.

  “Weird?” The fourteen-year-old shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat. “In what way?”

  “Just...” Vince hunched his shoulders. “Dark, murky ... apocalyptic-looking.”