Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

by Shaun Whittington

  Once each girl was placed on one of their parents of the shallow grave that was three feet in depth, George looked at Karen as if he didn't know what to do next, but Karen wordlessly grabbed the shovel they had raided from the family's shed, and began moving the dug-up soil onto the dead family.

  Karen could feel her emotions getting carried away and could feel the lump in her throat and the water filling in her eye sockets. She took a quick peep at George, who didn't seem to be moved by the incident, and felt that his behaviour was a little odd, as well as cold. She was intrigued to find out more about him, and told herself that was exactly what she was going to do once she had seen to Pickle and settled down for the night.

  It was an arduous task, especially as they were both exhausted from removing the bodies. George, seeing that Karen was physically struggling, took the shovel off of her and decided to finish the job off. George had become more puffy and stopped a few times to wipe his brow and have a rest, which was understandable as he dug the grave himself. Karen looked up at the darkened sky and estimated that there were a few hours of daylight left. As George patted the soil with the back of the shovel, Karen looked around the garden and over to the other gardens; it literally looked like the whole village had fled.

  She was aware, from what she saw from over the road earlier, that a handful of people might be present, but she didn't understand how they never came out of their premises. The streets were empty, and there was no sign of any of those things lurking about...not yet. Was there something else the remaining people were afraid of?

  Karen Bradley wanted to go over the road and see if there were any survivors, but her head was telling her that if she did this, she would have extra mouths to feed as well as the responsibility of looking after impossible and hysterical minors. She felt terrible that there could be people in their houses, too frightened to go out, but she wanted to survive, and being close to too many people, only to watch them eventually die, would soften her hard exterior and make her weaker.

  If she wanted to survive, she couldn't afford to be weak.

  Once they were both satisfied that the grave had been patted and looked reasonably smooth, apart from the odd footprint from George and Karen, they both took their sweat-stained backs into the house and opted for a shower. She thought she might as well shower whenever she could, as eventually the national grid was going to die, and she'd be back to bathing in cold streams. This could be her last.

  Karen went first, as George patiently stood in the kitchen, draining the remainder of the blackcurrant juice he got from the fridge. He quickly wiped his face with his forearm, stopping the solitary trickle from running off his face and landing onto his black T-shirt. He looked around and smiled to himself; he had done well. He was aware that most people hadn't survived even the first week, and wondered what would come next.

  He liked Karen; how could he not after giving him a ride? He hadn't met the other member of the household, but wasn't really that bothered so long as he was still breathing, that's all that mattered. He looked around the house and was sure that this time next month he would be somewhere else, as the chances of staying in the house and not coming to contact with any of the creatures looked pretty remote.

  According to the radio report he had heard a few days ago, it seemed that the British public, apart from pockets of London, were left fending for themselves. He wondered about trying to get to the capital, but thought that by now every man and his dog would be descending onto the capital. It seemed one of the few places in the UK that had quarantined areas for the time being, but most other experts were telling people from the city to leave, so he didn’t know what to think.

  He released a muffled belch and sighed to himself, "This'll do for now."

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The jeep whizzed by the last bend; while on the bend, both men knew the village hall was only a matter of seconds away. As the view of the hall materialised, Paul could see that there was nobody on guard; he immediately knew there was something wrong, as there was something in the back of his mind, niggling him. Even before he pulled the jeep up, he could feel Jack staring at him, wondering what was happening.

  Paul dropped a gear and eased off the gas; the vehicle eventually came to a halt, right next to the entrance of the hall. The door was wide open. Jack and Paul looked at one another, and Jack jumped out and ran into the hall without convalescing with Paul. Jack had a son he was concerned about and couldn't care less if there was a hundred of those things in there; he would try and fight them off if he had to, as Thomas' safety was his only concern.

  Paul struggled to get out of the jeep, and once he managed to open the driver's side of the door, Jack had returned from the hall and stood outside by the entrance in tears.

  "What is it?" Paul quizzed, expecting to find a load of bodies and witnessing the aftermath of a brutal and bloody massacre.

  "There's no one there; it's empty."

  "What?"

  Paul and Jack both ran into the entrance of the hall and saw the main hall had its usual untidy and scattered clothes and sleeping bags, but there were no people present.

  "Let's try the back of the hall," Paul suggested.

  Both men walked through the main hall, down a corridor and headed for the back door that led to the back of the place into the woods, where they would sometimes make a small fire and have their dinner. They both gazed at one another as they saw the door already slightly opened, but there was no sound of humans behind it; the omens weren't good.

  Both men stopped walking once they reached the opened door, and hesitated on opening it further. Paul swallowed and took a step forward, held out his hand and gently pushed the door fully ajar. The old wooden door cried open, because of the old rusty hinges that were attached to it, and both men peered outside looking into the trees.

  They couldn't see any members of their group, and it appeared that they had fled, and the reason for their fleeing was self-evident to both men. Both Jack and Paul could see in the distance eight beings stumbling around the woodlands; their backs were against the men as if they were heading towards where the group might have fled. The only comfort both of the men had was that there was no sign of a body or any blood on the floor, informing them that the group had ran but thankfully hadn't received any injuries or were killed in the process.

  The two men were surprisingly calm as their numbed brains tried to soak up the information.

  Jack sighed, "We're gonna have to find them. It's gonna be dark soon."

  Paul nodded in agreement. "We'll go now, but as soon as it gets dark, we'll come back to the village hall. We'll just walk in a straight line and look to either side of us in the trees. If we wander too far, we'll get lost in the woods and never make it back to the hall."

  Jack never agreed to Paul's plan with a verbal response, but made a gesture with one nod of the head that Paul didn't see.

  Paul pulled out two of his homemade spears that were leaning against the wall of the building, and handed one to Jack. Without uttering a word, both men walked on, bypassed the smouldering camp fire where they would normally sit and get warm, drink, have chats and eat while the place was under guard, and walked slowly through the long, dry bracken that stroked their knees as they made their quiet, long strides, aware that there was eight of the things not so far away from them. It halted their progression, but spear or no spear; Paul felt that if they turned around and decided to attack, the sheer numbers would overwhelm them.

  Paul and Jack were spaced out ten feet away from each other, but their progression was ponderous and frustrating to Jack Slade, and on two occasions Paul had to wave at him furiously, telling Jack that he was going too fast and was getting too close to the things. Paul could understand Jack's dilemma, as he had a son to think about, but there didn't seem to be any point in putting themselves in danger as well. Paul looked to the darkening sky and released a loud sigh of frustration, and then he stopped walking once he came to a decision.

  "Th
is is hopeless," Paul spoke up. "It'll be dark soon. Let's try in the morning."

  "You do what you want," Jack snapped. "I need to find my boy. I've already lost him once."

  Paul turned round and began walking back towards the village hall, his head lowered, and his overall body language admitting defeat, for the night at least.

  "What are you doing?" Jack scolded in a strident whisper. "Paul!"

  Paul Parker at last spoke as he continued to walk. "It's gonna be dark soon. You go if you want, but you won't be coming back. I need to stay alive for my family."

  Paul could hear the hurried feet hurtling towards him and felt Jack's hand grab his shoulder and attempted to turn him around. Paul helped matters by swivelling around to face him and allowed Jack to have his rant.

  Jack snarled, "What do you think you're doing? My son's out there."

  "We're better off waiting till the next light." Paul looked at the distraught father. "He's out there with his mother, either hiding in a place they've found, or somewhere in the woods."

  "More reason we should go."

  "If we go out there now, it'll be suicide."

  Jack looked frightened, but simultaneously, determined. "I can't just stay here, knowing that he's out there."

  "Fine, but I'm not going with you. Not tonight."

  "Fine."

  Jack trudged off and headed the way they were originally going. All Paul could do was stand and watch the man walk off into the unknown, maybe to his eventual death. Paul shook his head, muttered an expletive under his breath about the determined individual, but he did understand why he was doing it. If it were his Hannah, he would probably have done the same. At least Jack had a rough idea where his son could be, Paul, on the other hand, had no clue where his wife, Jocelyn, and his two-year-old daughter, Hannah, were. All he could do was hope for the best and keep his fingers crossed.

  He sighed, and took a gawp at Jack one last time, who only had one of Paul's homemade spears for protection, and turned around to walk back into the hall. He had a car load of food to empty and store away, and after securing the hall, all he had to look forward to was a night of being locked in the place, alone, hoping that there would be no disturbances, as well as an old Shaun Hutson book for comfort.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Once Paul got back into the village hall, he locked the place up. He knew that all it took was for Jack, or for any other member, to rattle the door and he could open the door within seconds. He didn't feel guilty about locking the door and leaving Jack to his own devices. That was his choice. He was more worried about the rest of the group.

  He opened the book and began reading the paperback that he had read three times before. It was either that or sing to himself, but the words from the book weren’t being taken in. His worry for the people he had known for days, especially for the children, Thomas and Yoler, were too distracting. He lay back and placed the book on the floor and waited for the door to be knocked. He didn't know how long it would take, but as soon as darkness grew, he was certain that common sense would prevail with Jack Slade.

  He'll come back, Paul thought. Unless something gets him first.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Both Karen Bradley and George Jones took a seat on the leather couch with the curtains drawn; they were almost sitting in silence and both noticed that the contrast from outside was dimming by the minute, making the living room darker.

  "Should we put a light on?" George queried.

  Karen shook her head. "There're a couple of candles in that drawer you can use."

  George stood to his feet and went into the kitchen, only to come out a few seconds later. After searching through a drawer for a lighter, he lit both candles, and went over towards the television.

  "Don't bother," Karen snapped. "It ain't working."

  She looked at George; he had a big frame and looked like he worked out like Pickle used to. She noticed tattoos on his arms. It looked like gang tattoos, but there was one on his forearm that stood out from the rest of the ink designs. It was a black and blue nautical star on his right forearm, but she didn't ask him about its relevance. "Why don't you sit down," she suggested. "You can tell me about yourself."

  George shrugged his shoulders. "There ain't much to tell, really."

  He slowly sat next to Karen and gently drummed his knees with the palm of his hands; he seemed anxious. He could feel Karen's stare urging him to open up a little to her, and as if he knew why she was staring at him, he cleared his throat and said, "In short," he began. "I used to be a labourer, mainly working in Uttoxeter. I worked for various companies, basically moved around from job to job. I'm not married, I never have been. Like most people, I woke up one morning and found the world a different place. I thought the woods was a safe place to go, but I don't think anywhere is."

  "It's probably safer than any city right now, but you're right, nowhere's safe."

  George lowered his head and placed it into his cupped hands. He rubbed the hands up and down his worn out face, and once he released his hands and rested them on his thighs, Karen could see that he needed a good night's sleep and decided to suggest it, as he was clearly not in a conversational mood, at least, he wasn't prepared to reveal his life and his experiences over the last week. She put it down to tiredness.

  Jones said, "You never said where you managed to get that van from."

  Karen smiled. "No I didn’t, did I."

  "You don't give too much away."

  "Look who's talking."

  They both sat in silence, supping on their hot beverages; George got back up to his feet, which annoyed Karen. He was like a jack in the box.

  With the cup in his hand, he walked towards the curtains and peered out into the murky street.

  "Anything?" Karen called out.

  He shook his head without turning to face her, and continued to gawp out for a solid minute. With his grey joggies and his black T-shirt, Karen thought that the pair of them looked like assassins as she looked at the dark clothing. She was also wearing a black T-shirt and dark blue jeans. Her shoes had been replaced with trainers she had found upstairs, as this wasn't the kind of world to be walking around in shoes with thin soles.

  Sitting in the silence, she sat back and rested her head against the couch. Her head swirled with images of how her short life had so far panned out. She had been through a lot at the mere age of twenty-three, but she felt a lot older. Despite the craziness of the last week, to her, each day dragged its heels. Last weekend seemed like an age ago and couldn't believe that only a week ago she was working in the hospital where people were being brought in with bites, and where she was nearly attacked herself. She thought about her workmates who she had left behind to go home.

  Were they still alive? Probably not.

  Without facing Karen, George remained transfixed on the darkened road of the street. The streetlights were refusing to come on. "I wonder when all this chaos is gonna finish?"

  "What are we gonna do when it does?" Karen asked a question of her own.

  George turned around and moved away from the window. "If it's global, I see eventually a modern version of the medieval era, kind of like the Middle Ages, but with guns and science. Not necessarily castles and moats and such, but walled colonies, the return of functional mechanical arts like blacksmiths, farriers, etc, horses instead of cars, stuff like that."

  "You think?" By the tone of Karen's voice, it was apparent she disagreed with George's statement.

  "These creatures might be here for a little while, but eventually they'll die out, probably before we've managed to suppress the uprising, and we'll be back to a more or less pre-industrial society and have to rebuild practically everything to regain some semblance of our way of life today."

  "I think you underestimate humans," Karen said with confidence. "I see a slight step back, but we have the ability to get back on track fairly quickly with the right survivors. I expect most of the major structures to still be intact, so
getting power and water up shouldn't be nearly as bad as starting from scratch."

  "I wish I had your confidence."

  "I do agree that they'll all die off eventually. These things don't necessarily have to eat to survive, since they're just reanimated corpses. The whole eating-people is just an extension of the base instincts that are left in their brains. Since they're just dead bodies, eventually they'll all decay into nothing. We're better off staying indoors for as long as possible. Trust me."

  "And what happens if this is just a UK problem? What happens then? Do the powers that be, in their paranoia, decide that it'd be better to nuke this problematic island?"

  "It could be a global thing." Karen shrugged her shoulders, unsure whether it was or not. Nobody knew. "Some sources reckon it started in this country, but with the channel tunnel and aviation, I can't see it being contained in just one country, not if they've been covering it up for weeks."

  "Maybe the winter will kill these things off."

  "Maybe. It might kill us off first, though."

  The short conversation came to an end when Jones released a strident yawn. Karen knew how he felt; it appeared that the grave digging earlier and the removal of the bodies had worn the pair of them out, although Karen did little compared to George Jones.

  Karen pulled out her Browning that was digging into her side and placed it on the table. She could see George's eyes glaring at the weapon, but she refrained from being paranoid about his behaviour. It was probably the first time he had seen a real live gun before, she thought, if he had spent most of him working life as a labourer. A week ago she hadn't even held one before herself.

  Even though it had been a while since it was fired, she excused herself and went into one of the spare bedrooms and decided to spend the evening taking the gun apart and cleaning it, as she didn't know the next time she was going to use it, and the next time she would have time to clean it thoroughly. She was desperate to go somewhere and practice, as her shooting was awful. If the creatures were more than ten or fifteen yards away, she struggled, as proved at the crossroads at that awful episode when it was dawn at Stile Cop, when they were all attacked.