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

by Whittington, Shaun

  Stephen Rowley was holding his bat in his right hand and was speaking to Stephen Bonser and James Thomson, both men holding bats. All three were nervous, but were trying to hide it from one another. Despite the three men being reasonably experienced when it came to danger, the anticipation of what could potentially happen was affecting their psyche.

  Both Bonser and Thomson kept on glancing over the wall, then back at the main gate, whereas Rowley continually gazed over the wall and down the neglected road that used to be a part of Colwyn Place.

  “I can't believe this is happening,” Thomson huffed and spat on the floor. “All because of those two new pricks.”

  “The reason we're in this mess, chap,” Rowley began, “is because Terry killed one of them. If he hadn't have kept his daughter in the cellar and was straight with us—”

  “I don't give a shit what you think,” Thomson snarled and flashed Rowley a hard glare. “I'm putting the blame of this onto that Craig and that teenager that hangs around with him.”

  “I suppose it makes a change that Paul Dickson isn't getting the blame this time. He usually does.” Stephen Rowley then cleared his throat and twisted his neck. “I wonder where he went. I hope he comes back. I kind of felt sorry for the bloke.”

  “He won't be back,” Bonser scoffed.

  Thomson sighed and gave Bonser a nudge. “Nice one, gobshite.”

  Rowley look puzzled. “What's going on? Do you two know anything about Paul's disappearance? Did he tell you he was going to leave?”

  “Not exactly,” said James Thomson.

  “Not exactly, chap?” Rowley cleared his throat again. “What do you mean ... not exactly?”

  Bonser and Thomson looked at one another.

  “Guys,” said Rowley, “what's happened? What have you done?”

  “He's done this to himself,” Thomson snapped. “We warned Pickle about him before he gave me this.” Thomson held up his left hand. His pinky and ring finger were broken and had been strapped by Karen hours after Pickle had broken them.

  “What the fuck happened to your hand, chap?”

  “Have you only just noticed?” Bonser laughed.

  “I've been busy,” said Rowley. “I've hardly seen the two of you all week.”

  Thomson lowered his head, embarrassed. “Doesn't matter now.”

  “Anyway, back to Paul Dickson,” Bonser sighed and said to Thomson, “We may as well tell him. Stephen's one of us.”

  Rowley huffed, “What?”

  “We snuck into his room last night,” Thomson began. “We took him out of the street and dumped him miles from here. It's for the best.”

  “What? That's mental.” Stephen Rowley scratched his head. “Does Lincoln know?”

  “No. And it's going to stay that way.”

  “Who are you to decide—?”

  “It's fucking done!” Thomson yelled. “Stop going on about it. As far as everybody else is concerned, he's done a runner.”

  “And you think people will believe that, chap?”

  “Of course they will. He was an unstable guy.”

  “So you threatened him and he just agreed to leave?”

  Thomson paused and looked at Bonser, both hesitant to give Rowley an honest answer. “Not exactly.”

  Rowley dropped his head. “Did you beat him up?”

  “He got a bit of a slap, that's all.”

  “And where did you dump him?”

  “What's this? Twenty questions?”

  “Where did you dump him?”

  Thomson was beginning to get tired of all these questions. “Miles from here. And we left him food and drink.”

  “Where, chap?”

  “The other side of Rugeley.”

  Rowley paused for a few seconds and tried to let the information sink in. “You went out on a dangerous four to five mile journey, in the dark, with Paul in the back. Jesus, you must have wanted rid of him badly.”

  “We did.”

  “And what a waste of petrol.”

  “I wouldn't worry about it now,” Bonser spoke up. “We've got bigger things to be concerned about.”

  “True.”

  Stephen Bonser lit up a cigarette and inhaled the toxic fumes. He could feel the looks from James and Stephen Rowley and explained, “I managed to get a few off Joanne. She's running pretty low on the stuff now.”

  “Haven't had a cigarette in years,” Thomson groaned.

  Bonser laughed and said to both men, “Wanna drag?”

  Both Thomson and Rowley shook their heads.

  Bonser could see Gareth Broadgate by the side of his house and called him over. Gareth was a quiet guy; he was thirty seven years old and lived with Vince. He had blonde hair and was hardly seen by the Colwyn residents. He had only ever killed one of the dead before, so this situation was extremely frightening for the man.

  “What are you doing out here?” Thomson asked him.

  “Sick of hanging about in my back garden,” said Gareth. “Have you seen anything?”

  All three men shook their heads.

  Gareth smiled. “Maybe they won't come back.”

  Nobody responded.

  Bonser took another drag from the cigarette and gently blew out the smoke whilst asking Gareth, “How are you feeling? Nervous?”

  “Not sure I have it in me to kill a man,” Gareth admitted.

  “Well, if you don't, chap,” Rowley grunted and twisted his neck. “This could be your last day on this earth.”

  Gareth Broadgate was physically shaking and all three men could see that his weapon, a worn baseball bat, was shaking in his hand. “I don't have your experience,” he addressed the three of them. “I never went out on runs.”

  Thomson said, “Killing the dead is part and parcel of being out there. If you can't put a knife through a Creeper's head, you're no good out there. But this scenario is new to most of us.”

  “I don't know.” Gareth shook his head. “People attacking people? It's not right.”

  Thomson sniffed, “It is what it is.”

  “I wouldn't say people attacking people is a new thing, chap,” said Rowley. “Don't you remember what the Murphys did? But it's new for us.”

  Gareth said, “I know that people have being doing bad things to each other since this thing started, it's just that we've been hiding in here and haven’t experienced much of it. I've heard stories about Pickle and Karen—”

  “Those stories are exaggerated by them themselves,” Thomson groaned. “It's just to make them look like hard cases.”

  “Well, aren't they? Pickle used to deal drugs, went to prison ... and he sorted you out no bother.” Gareth nodded to Thomson's broken fingers. “He sounds like a hard case to me.”

  “He got lucky,” Thomson growled.

  “Pickle and Karen have also killed people when they had to.”

  Nobody responded.

  Gareth looked at the three of them and released a short laugh. “So, how many men have you killed between the three of you, you know, when you've been out on runs and stuff?”

  Rowley, Thomson and Bonser slowly looked at one another and dipped their heads.

  “That's what I thought.” Gareth smiled.

  “Are you taking the piss?” Thomson gripped his bat tighter with anger.

  “No.” Gareth shook his head. “But for all that you don't like Pickle and Karen, I feel safer with those two here than with you three by this wall.”

  Bonser took a threatening step forward. “Why don't you go back to your garden?”

  Gareth smiled and said, before walking away, “I think I'll just do that.”

  Bonser took one last drag of the cigarette and flicked it at Gareth's back as he walked away. The cigarette struck him, making Bonser and Thomson snicker like a couple of schoolboys.

  “I felt that,” Gareth moaned.

  “You were meant to,” said Bonser. “That's for your fucking cheek.”

  “Little twat,” Thomson huffed.

  “Forget it.
”

  Thomson turned around to face the wall, unzipped himself and announced, “I'm going for a piss.”

  Stephen Rowley moaned, “For fuck's sake, chap. Not here.”

  James Thomson laughed, “I don't want to leave my post, do I?”

  Bonser joined in on the laughter. “Relax, Steve. It's only piss.”

  “Don't call me Steve, chap,” Rowley groaned.

  Rowley turned away from Thomson as he urinated, and looked at the back of Gareth as he was making his way back to his garden.

  Rowley then gasped when he saw two figures climb the wall from ten yards down, both donning leather jackets. The first one to jump over grabbed Gareth from behind whilst the other man pulled out a knife and began to repeatedly stab Gareth in the stomach.

  “Shit,” Rowley and Bonser said in unison, and raised their bats with their shaky hands. Thomson had quickly zipped himself up and was now behind the two, unsure on what to do.

  Rowley and Bonser remained staring in shock and were seconds from reacting, but a scream from behind them now made the two men twist their necks to the right, and they witnessed their friend James Thomson collapsing to the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest.

  Thomson's attacker had climbed over the wall, whilst the two Stephens were staring at the quick demise of Gareth Broadgate, and had leaned over and shoved his knife into James. Both men quickly turned around and struck James’ killer with their bats, forcing the man to yell out as the bats came crashing down on his head, arms and shoulders. Knowing that he didn't stand a chance, James’ killer began to retreat and jumped back over the wall.

  That was three that they had seen, but Bonser and Rowley knew that there were going to be more. Many More. And they weren't wrong.

  It was now a minute after nine.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Lynne Smithers and Sandra Roberts stood nervously. Neither one spoke to each other as the two twenty-six-year-old students stood, both shaking with fear. They both agreed to stay near the house, rather than hang near the fence and peering over, like some folk.

  Their back door was open, ready for them to flee inside in case of the arrival of danger. They both spontaneously volunteered and were now regretting it. They weren't fighters, never had been, but decided to stay in the garden with their bats that Lincoln had given them, just so that it looked like they were contributing in some kind of way.

  Lynne and Sandra were aware of the criticism over the last few days that they, amongst others, had never contributed outside the street and the two females wanted to do this to shut their 'critics' up.

  “What time is it?” Sandra turned to Lynne, but could see that Lynne wasn't wearing a watch.

  “Nine, I think.” Lynne sounded unsure. “It's gonna be dark soon.”

  “Can you hear a noise?” Sandra asked her friend.

  Lynne shook her head. The bat was being held with both hands of the inexperienced female now, but the weapon was still shaking.

  “I-I-I can't hear anything.” Lynne finally answered with a stammer. “What did it sound like?”

  “Running.” Sandra shrugged her shoulders, unsure herself if that was what she had heard.

  “Shall we go inside?”

  Sandra shook her head. “I want to do this,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I'm sick of the sniping and criticism, especially from the new people, that we do fuck all.”

  “It's the new people's fault that this is happening in the first place. If it wasn't for that Jez and Craig bloke, they wouldn't have come here and Terry wouldn't have killed—”

  “I know. You don't need to tell me about it.”

  “I wonder if—”

  A male yell, filled with anguish, made both females gasp.

  “What the fuck was that?” Sandra cried. “I think it came from the wall.”

  Lynne never answered, and watched with widened eyes as two men quickly climbed over their fence.

  She looked to her right and saw the fences from the other back gardens being climbed. Sandra stood in aghast, whilst Lynne stood still in shock and had dropped the bat. Two men landed in their garden, both dressed the same, but different in appearance. They ran at Lynne; she fell to her knees and began to beg for her life, pleading with the two males not to touch her.

  The two men ran by her and seemed more interested in Sandra, who had now decided to flee and went inside her house after her.

  Lynne was punched in the chest as they ran past, or at least she thought she had been punched, and collapsed to the side. She lay on the floor, struggling to catch her breath, and placed both hands where the dull sensation was coming from. She closed her eyes and tried to ride the pain out. Unbeknown to her, she had been stabbed in the chest and those eyes of hers never opened again.

  In the house of 19 Colwyn Place, Sandra Roberts tripped over the sofa as she tried to make her way to the front door and out into the street, but by the time she got to her feet, she was pulled to the ground by the two men and stabbed repeatedly in the back by both males. She died whilst they continued to stab her.

  *

  She thought she was about to have a panic attack once Pickle had left her garden. He had left her alone and Joanne Hammett was frightened. She looked at her watch and could see that it was 9pm.

  “Jesus Christ,” she huffed “What am I doing?”

  It didn't seem that long ago that she was in her second year studying Law at Keele University, and now here she was, in an apocalyptic world, holding a bat and not sure she was going to live to see another day. Her third year at Uni was never going to happen now.

  She took in a deep breath and released it as slow as she could. This was something she had tried years ago whilst she was taking her driving test. She had failed three times before and had tried everything to keep her nerves in check.

  She went for a breathing technique throughout the test and this seemed to have done the trick, but it wasn't working in the scenario that she was in now.

  The whole of her frame rattled with fear, and she released a short gasp when the sound of a male voice yelled out in pain.

  It was obvious from the scream that it was pain. Joanne Hammett couldn't take any more. She felt terrible for being such a coward, but she wasn't ready for this. Clubbing people to death wasn't her. She wasn't Karen Bradley. She had lived a privileged life since the apocalypse, and her inexperience with dealing with danger was clearly showing. She turned on her heels and headed back inside.

  *

  Pickle took a look at his Omega Speedmaster watch and could see it was 9pm. He had checked on Danny Gosling at number five, then went over the empty garden of 7 Colwyn Place where Rowley stayed and checked on Brenda Hatchet at number eight. Brenda was forty two years old, a large woman, and used to run her own cake shop before the shit hit the fan. She was one of the residents that didn't volunteer to help, and was too scared to open her door to Pickle. They communicated briefly with Pickle by the main door and Brenda in her bedroom with the window open.

  Pickle left Brenda alone, urging her to get into her attic. He departed the premises of 8 Colwyn Place, and went to the next house. He could see Freddie's mum in the living room. He asked her where Freddie was and she told him that her son was in the garden by himself.

  Good lad, Pickle thought.

  Freddie wasn't everybody's cup of tea, but at least he was standing his ground. At least he was trying.

  Pickle went round the back garden of Freddie's house and could see the nervous youngster. Freddie stood with his bat and breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Harry Branston standing in his garden.

  “Just seeing how yer are,” Pickle said with a smile.

  “Shittin' myself, Pickle. If I'm being honest.”

  “That's normal. Yer not on yer own.”

  “Do you think they'll come?”

  “I don't know.” Pickle sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “If they don't come tonight, they'll probably come tomorrow. I'm not sure, to tell yer
the truth. I've come across some bad folk since this shit has started. I just don't know how bad these guys are, how bad this Drake fellow is.”

  “I don't think I've been so terrified in all my life,” admitted Freddie Johnson. He then looked over at his kitchen window where his mum was. “My mum wants me to stay inside, but I have to do this.”

  “She's just worried about yer, that's all.”

  “What about that young kid that used to be in your old camp?” Freddie asked Pickle. “David?”

  “He's inside his house at number seven.”

  “What's that noise?” Freddie cocked his head to one side, and Pickle ran over to the fence to have a look over. Three men were already climbing and were nearly over the fence, making Freddie gasp and forcing his mother to exit the house, screaming for Freddie to get inside.

  His mother grabbed Freddie's arm, but the young man was standing his ground, trying to shrug his mother off.

  All three men pulled out long knives once their feet landed in Freddie's back garden, and Pickle inflicted damage to the first one. With little hesitation, Branston pulled out his machete and swiped at the nearest man, almost severing his arm.

  The man fell on his front, groaning, but not for long. Pickle rammed the blade into the back of the man's neck and was hoping that this would make the other two assailants turn and leave.

  Pickle's barbaric action only spurred the men on and one plunged his blade into Freddie's mother's stomach. Freddie cried out and went over to his mum as she fell to the floor, but he was knifed repeatedly in the back by both men, receiving fifteen stab wounds. The youngster fell to the floor and died slowly, making his injured and conscious mother sob as she watched her baby die before her eyes.

  Both leather-wearing men then made their way over to Pickle who was now in the corner of the garden with his bloody blade raised. Pickle's machete was a much more fearsome sight than the blades these guys had, but the sight of the machete never stopped the two bearded middle-aged men stroll towards Pickle.

  There were no vicious words exchanged between the men. The two intruders were wearing small smiles on their features, and both ran at Pickle at the same time. Pickle side-kicked the man on the left in the knee, making him collapse to the ground. The man on the right then lunged at Pickle with his knife, scratching Pickle's left arm. Pickle rammed his blade into the man's stomach. Pickle let go of the machete and watched as the man fell to the floor on his front, pushing the blade further and through his back. Pickle took a quick peep over at Freddie and his mother. Both were now dead, bleeding out onto the long grass.