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

by Whittington, Shaun

  His walk was non-eventful until he came to a small village. He passed the entrance of the village as well as the Bull and Spectacles pub that was near the entrance. His walk continued and knew that he needed to change direction; otherwise he was going to end up in Stafford. He needed to avoid Stafford and thought about where he could go. He could go to a large town like Stone or Cannock, or a small place like Gnosall or Brewood.

  He had no idea how he was going to survive being on the road. He had only been walking for thirty-seven minutes and was already thirsty. He put his hand in the carrier bag, took out the knife and water, and then tossed the bag away. He put the knife into his pocket and took a couple of gulps of water. He held the bottle as he continued to walk and closed his eyes as the cold breeze tickled his face. He went round a curvy part of the road and could see a residential area up ahead.

  On either side of him were fields, and a large oak tree stood on the right side of the road, twenty yards up ahead. Jez stopped and gulped as his eyes spotted two mopeds, on their stands, next to the tree. He then turned three-sixty, but there was no sign of life.

  “Hello, Jez,” came a voice from behind the teenager. “We thought we heard footsteps, so we hid and...”

  Jez gasped, “We?” He turned around to see a man with a long straggly beard, mostly grey.

  “Well, well, well,” another voice from behind said, making the youngster turn around again. Jez recognised the men. They were the same men that chased after Craig when Jez was a new recruit of the gang. Their other colleague, Hardy, had been killed by Craig, and Jez begged him afterwards if he could go with him. It was also the same guys that had butchered the family in Slitting Mill.

  Both men pulled out knives and Jez turned to his left, looking at the field ahead of him.

  “Don't even think about running, young man,” the bearded man growled. “Don't make things worse for yourself.”

  Jez shook with nerves. How could things be worse? He tearfully said, “Please, I don't wanna die.”

  “Bit late for that,” the man with the beard released a belly laugh.

  Jez climbed over the picket fence and ran as fast as he could across the field. He threw the bottle away and looked over his shoulder. Both men had cleared the fence and were running after him.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Jez panted.

  The young man tried to increase his speed, but it just wasn't happening. The faster he tried to run, the heavier his legs felt. He was going as fast as he could, but he winced whenever he could feel the knife in his pocket pricking his thigh.

  The knife!

  Jez put his hand in his pocket whilst still running and pulled out the knife, only to cry out as he dropped it in the grass. He stopped to pick it up, but couldn’t see it, and then looked up to see that the two men were a matter off yards away. Knowing that he was fucked, the teenager dropped to his knees and put his hands in the air, closing his eyes.

  “Leave me alone!” he wailed.

  The men stopped running and began to giggle inbetween their panting.

  “Let me tell Drake how sorry I am,” Jez cried out. His eyes were still closed and was expecting a punch any second, but the punch never came. He looked up to see the two panting men standing over him.

  “Too late to explain yourself,” the bearded man puffed. “With some of our guys dying, because of that fucking street where you now live, Drake just wants you dead.”

  “What?” Jez shook his head. “No, please. I'm just a boy. I don't want to die.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “Please, give me another chance,” Jez cried. “Take me to Stafford and let me see Drake. I'll tell him that I'm sorry, I'll—”

  “There's no point taking you to Stafford, because Drake's not there.”

  “Wh-wh-what? Where is he?”

  “Drake and the rest of our crew are on their way to your place. They're only five minutes behind us. We're ahead of them to make sure that there're no nasty surprises along this road. We see anything bad, then we turn around and let the convoy know.”

  Jez placed his hands over his face and began sobbing. He cried, “Is Drake going to kill the people in Colwyn Place? There's a family there; some good people.”

  “Drake is coming here to talk to the leader of the street. He also wants to pick up some guy, some prick that killed some of us on his own. He also wanted you to be handed over, like what we originally asked before your lot turned nasty. We thought we'd find you in the street, not out here. Making it easy for us, eh?”

  “I don't want to die. Please.” Jez dropped his head and continued to cry like a baby, his shoulders shuddering as he bawled.

  “Why are you out here anyway?” the bearded man asked Jez.

  “Had enough. Just wanted to go ... I don't know.”

  “Anyway, it doesn't matter now.” Both men raised their six-inch blades. “The only thing we do know is that he wants you dead.”

  Jez looked up at the men with his blue soaked eyes, his lips trembling. “Please.”

  The bearded man nudged his partner and told him to go behind Jez and hold his arms. He did as he was told and put the knife away. The bearded man smiled, and then raised his blade.

  “You ready?” the bearded man grinned and waved the knife in front of the nineteen-year-old, taunting him.

  Jez never answered him.

  The man released a sigh. “I said ... are-you-ready?”

  “No, I'm not,” Jez blubbed, his face was now saturated in tears. “Please, don't do this. Tell Drake you did it. You'll never see me again.”

  “Too late, sunshine,” the man feigned regret and nodded to his pal who was behind Jez. “Hold him tight. He might wriggle a bit.”

  Once he could see that his pal had a hold of Jez, the man took a step forward, crouched down to Jez's height and giggled, “Okay, here we go.”

  The man began to stab Jez in the stomach, and Jez cried out as he watched in horror, seeing the blade going in and out of his midriff. The bearded man stabbed and stabbed at the youngster, and his grin grew the more he did it. Jez began to lose consciousness after being stabbed for the seventh time, and continued to be mutilated even when he took his last breath. The bearded man only stopped once he became tired.

  He stopped, lowered his head to get his breathing back to normal, and looked up at the dead boy that was still being held. He stood up straight, nodded to his friend to let go of the boy and was satisfied with the mess he had created, looking down on Jez's mutilated stomach. He had been stabbed twenty three times.

  “Happy?” the bearded man asked his buddy.

  His comrade nodded and said, “When we tell Drake that we killed this little traitor, I reckon we'll be given a job on guard duty. I'm sick of going out on runs and scouting for other folk.”

  The bearded man said, “I wonder if Drake is really going to just talk.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Or ... he's got something else planned,” said the man with the long beard. “I know there's a lot of upset people back at our base. Even Drake himself has lost his cousin.”

  “I know. Gerry was a good guy. And his twelve-year-old son was in bits when he was told about his dad.”

  “Right,” the bearded biker said, still panting. “Let's go back before the rest catch us up.” He wiped his bloody hands on Jez's trousers and stood up straight. He looked down on the boy and could see he was on his back; his eyes and mouth were open, and the bottom half of his T-shirt was covered in blood and rips from where he had been butchered.

  “Wait a minute,” the other biker said. “I need a piss.”

  He took out his penis and began to urinate on Jez's body, mainly on his face, trying to get the urine in the opened mouth of the deceased teenager as if he was having some sick game of target practice.

  He started giggling and said, “Ah, that's better.”

  The bearded man shook his head and snickered, “You're a fucking animal, Thommo, you know that?”


  The man called Thommo shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” He zipped up, then booted Jez in the side of his head and walked away from the corpse.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  The surviving residents of Colwyn Place had been asked to retreat to their homes and stay there. Every adult, as well as David MacDonald and Stephanie Perkins, were armed, but all were hoping that their weapons wouldn't be needed. Only Pickle, Vince and Karen were to be present in the street.

  “Is everyone inside?”

  Pickle had asked the question to Vince. All three were standing by the main gate. Their freshly cleaned machetes were tucked in their belts and wanted to keep them there, but it depended on what Drake had in mind.

  “Kind of,” Vince eventually answered.

  “Kind of? What do yer mean ... kind of?”

  Vince pointed over at 13 Colwyn Place. The bearded Paul Dickson sat on his doorstep and was the only individual, apart from Karen, Pickle and Vince, that wasn't inside.

  “What the fuck is he playing at?” Pickle gritted his teeth.

  “It's Paul Dickson,” said Vince. “So who the fuck knows?”

  “You want me to have a word with him?” asked Karen, but Pickle ignored her and took a step forward.

  “Paul!” Pickle called over. “Get yer arse in the ‘ouse!”

  Paul looked over and stared, then stood to his feet and began to head over to the three of them.

  Vince shook his head and moaned, “What is this cockwomble up to?”

  Once Paul had reached the three of them, Pickle could see that the man was clasping a knife in his right hand and his eyes looked distant.

  Pickle moaned, “What is it, Paul?”

  “Why don't I stay here with you guys?” he suggested.

  “Not a good idea,” Pickle spoke up.

  “Why? Four people is better than three.”

  “This could be a delicate situation, Paul,” Pickle began to explain, “and your presence would not be welcomed.”

  “Why, because you think I'm unstable?”

  Before Pickle could answer, Karen tried a softer approach and placed her hand on Paul's shoulder. “Remember when you turned up in that pickup and you pulled out a shotgun?” She pointed over at the red pickup that was parked with the other vehicles. “Some of those guys that fled and jumped over the wall may turn up today. If they see you it might raise temperatures. Also, didn't you tell me that you had a run-in with two of them last week? What happens if they also turn up with the others?”

  Paul smiled. “Nice try, Karen.”

  “Just get inside.” Pickle was becoming impatient with Dickson. “And watch from yer window like everybody else is doin'.”

  “Now there's gratitude for you.” Paul stared at Pickle coldly, forcing a shiver down Pickle's back. It wasn't often Pickle would get that feeling, but Paul was changing, and the former drug baron was certain that it was for the worse.

  Pickle said, “Look, we appreciate what yer did yesterday, but this situation needs to be handled with care.”

  “And if they come here to butcher everybody?” queried Paul.

  “I don't think that's their intention. They might not even turn up.”

  “But if they do?”

  “Then, like I mentioned before, I want people to run and jump the fences o' their back gardens and run like hell. Only me, Karen and Vince will perish if that's what they plan.” Pickle looked at a concerned-looking Vince and gave him a reassuring wink, telling him that it'd be fine.

  “You're such a fucking hero,” Paul laughed manically. “Aren't you, Pickle?”

  “Paul, what's wrong with you?” Karen was taken aback by Paul's extreme behaviour. “Go back to the house, please, before you say or do anything else.”

  “Do as she says,” said Vince. “This isn't the time to be picking fights with your friends.”

  “When I was at school,” Paul began, his right hand still holding the knife tightly. “There was this guy called Simon Kempshaw. He was a nasty bastard and had three pals that used to knock about with him. I was about fourteen at the time.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Pickle sighed. “The clock is ticking.”

  “One day, Simon Kempshaw and his three pals cornered me in the drama room. Kempshaw told me to hand over my dinner money or he was going to beat me to a pulp. I'd had enough, so I nutted the bastard. He went down, clutching his face, screaming, and his three pals backed off.”

  “So what are yer saying?” Pickle said. “Take Drake out, then the rest should fold?”

  Paul nodded. “Why not?”

  “Too much of a risk,” Vince intervened.

  “Let's see what he has to say first.” Pickle tried to settle Paul.

  Paul snickered, “If he has anything to say.”

  “But I'll need yer inside.”

  “Why?”

  Pickle didn't want to tell Paul the other reason why he wanted him out of the way. There was a good chance that Paul could be recognised by some of the gang, and like Karen had already stated this could raise temperatures. But there was another reason why Pickle wanted Dickson out of the way. He was unpredictable, unreliable, a loose cannon, and totally different to the cowardly man he had met nearly six weeks ago.

  Instead, Pickle told Paul politely to go inside and that he would speak to him later. Paul smiled, nodded, and walked back to his house, to Pickle’s relief.

  Dickson looked over at Joanne's place. He could see that she was in her living room, peering out from the curtains, and gave her a wave. She waved at him, and with her hand she beckoned him over to her place.

  He strolled over and chapped her door. She opened it, but no words fell out of her mouth as she could hear the same noise Paul could now hear, as well as the three at the gate.

  They could all hear the faint noises of engines.

  They were coming.

  Chapter Forty

  Vince gulped as the engines grew louder, and he took in a deep breath when a black Audi turned up. The vehicle wasn't alone. The car had tinted windows, looked spotless and gave off one flash of its headlights.

  Vince turned to Pickle and Karen. The pair of them were ten yards from the main gate and Pickle nodded at Vince to let the vehicle in. Behind the black Audi were four pickup trucks, all black in colour, and ten bikes with a man on each. There were four men in the back of each truck, and Vince guessed that there could be at least over thirty people present.

  Vince glared at the windscreen of the Audi as he slid open the steel gate. He stood to the side and was surprised that only the Audi drove in. The four trucks and the ten other individuals that were on mopeds that faced the entrance never entered. Driving one of the trucks was a guy with a grey moustache. This same guy leaned out of his vehicle and said to Vince that he should close the steel gate.

  Confused, Vince did as he was told. The gate was locked and the Audi parked up in the middle of the road, yards from the presence of Karen and Pickle. Vince was unsure whether he should move or not, but Pickle politely called him over. Vince walked over and stood next to Pickle and Karen. The three of them looked unusually nervous, and the doors of the blacked out vehicle seemed to be taking forever to open.

  Eventually the driver's door opened.

  A man that Pickle recognised straight away stepped out. He had a grey beard and shoulder length hair that looked like it needed a good wash. It was the same guy that was present when Pickle had accidentally knocked down that woman in the red pickup. The man had ordered a teenager to shoot one of them with an old-looking shotgun, and it was Sheryl that was killed. All three of them recognised the man, but his name escaped them.

  The driver smiled thinly at Pickle, Karen and Vince, then walked around the front of the car and opened the front passenger door.

  Out stepped a man, wearing black combats, a white T-shirt and a black nylon jacket. There was no WOE letters stitched on his clothing like the other men; his attire was slightly different t
o the guys and girls he arrived with. He had dark features, brown eyes and brown hair that had been recently shaven. He was thin, stood at six-four, and was clean-shaven. He seemed more presentable than the rest of his crew.

  Like the driver, he looked to be unarmed, and two more men stepped out from the back passenger side, and stood at either side of the passenger door. Both men were dressed like the other guys with untidy facial hair.

  “You must be Drake.” Pickle decided to be the first person to speak up.

  The tall, clean-shaven man responded by saying, “And you must be...?”

  “Harry Branston, but most people call me Pickle.”

  Drake nodded and said, “Harry will do.” He then turned to his right and pointed at the driver. “This is Mac, and the two behind me are John and Bill. Bill is my second in command.”

  Pickle nodded at the other men and thought that the Bill fellow was an unusual choice for a second in command. He was average in every way and just looked like the rest of the crew ... nothing special.

  “Yer come in here with just the four o' yer,” said Pickle, “and unarmed, or at least yer look unarmed. Why is that?”

  “I'm unarmed because I'm here to talk,” said Drake. “I appreciate you letting my brother go. Stupid shit.”

  “I’m glad he passed on the message.”

  “Stupid cunt took the vehicle without my knowledge and drove here all by himself, just to make a point. Can you believe that?”

  Pickle looked confused. “He told me he volunteered, and said something about a sign if I didn’t let him go.”

  “Lying bastard,” Drake laughed. “He’s my kid brother, but I wouldn’t trust him with a brush. Originally the van and the dead inside it were going to be driven by someone else, with a few guys on mopeds to accompany it. The stupid bastard just took off, trying to prove that he could do it on his own.”

  “Feel free to bring more men in here, if yer want,” said Pickle. “I want this to be as friendly as possible.”

  Drake sighed and said in his husky voice, “I don't need thirty cunts in here if all we're going to do is talk, do I? There's only you three here, so I take it you asked the rest to go inside. No point a load of people talking over each other. That cunty shit ends up in arguments, leading to violence, and then an unnecessary massacre.”