Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

by Shaun Whittington

  Granted, Pickle had always said to only use the gun if they get too close and they can't be outran, but it still frustrated her that she couldn't shoot properly, despite the fact by trade, she was a nurse and only had the weapon in her grasp for a few days. She felt confident that the Stile Cop incident was something that might never occur again, being surrounded like that by the things that were in their hundreds, but it would have added to her confidence if she could shoot straight. Pickle was reluctant for her to practice for two reasons: One: the noise. And two: it would be a waste of bullets. The guns were only to be used in a time of desperation.

  Karen hoped that desperation would never rear its ugly head again, but she couldn't be entirely sure.

  She was convinced that her 'journey' was still in its infancy.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Only twenty minutes after walking away from the village hall, Jack Slade was already thinking that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. There were eight beings shambling in front of him. He remained at least fifty yards away from the last one, but felt he could have made good ground if he ran around them and continued with his progression by technically being in front of them, but there was a danger of bumping into more of them up ahead, and with the other eight behind, he would be more or less surrounded.

  He looked up at the violet sky and sighed hard with impatience. Paul was right. This was suicide, and darkness was only an hour away. What was he thinking? He ached to see his son but was sure that if they hadn't found refuge in sheltered accommodation, they would still be safe, hiding elsewhere. He trusted Kerry, and had come to the conclusion that he would be better off trying to get back to the village hall where Paul was, getting a good night's sleep, and search for his son where there was less danger, more light, and with refreshed heads. Kerry had managed to keep Thomas safe when the outbreak started, so it wasn't that he didn't trust her. What bothered Jack was that he had already lost Thomas once when he travelled down to Rugeley, and never thought he could lose him again.

  He was ready to turn back.

  With crestfallen feet, Jack stopped in his tracks; he was tired and browbeaten that he had found his son and had lost him in the same week. He cursed his bad luck, as for days there had been no sign of any of the creatures since his short stay at the village hall. And then suddenly, the moment he leaves them for the first time, the group and his son had fled with fear from, what appeared to be, the presence of the creatures, possibly the same eight that were ahead of him.

  He continued to gaze forward, and then a wave of guilt crept upon him and he shook his head. Jack thought about Gary, and the way he died...the way he was murdered. For a few minutes, Gary had never entered Jack's head and he had only been dead for an hour or so. It was the same with everything else; Jack had probably lost cousins, uncles, aunties, and he had hardly gave them a second thought, simply because there was too much going on and the focal point for him was Thomas. No one else was on his list of priorities, not even Kerry. It was just Thomas, and he had now lost him again. He had made a conscious decision that once he found him for a second time, he was never going to leave his side, ever.

  Snapping out of his self-hypnosis, Jack's rainy, tired eyes had blurred his vision; he gawped ahead and could see the silhouettes of only two of the beings as the rest had been swallowed up by the sneaky darkness as they limped away in the distance. He cursed himself as he looked around, and exhaled with relief that there was nothing behind him. It wasn't the best idea to be standing in a darkened wood in the kind of world that he was living in now. It had been a strange week and Jack had even got used to being in the presence of these things. Of course, they frightened the hell out of him, especially when they were in numbers, and he had witnessed—like everybody else—some horrific things, but Gary's demise had been the worst, and that had been the act of human savagery. Maybe it wouldn't have happened if the outbreak hadn't occurred. But it was human savagery all the same.

  Although Jack was distraught of Thomas' disappearance, his attitude was surprisingly positive, as he was certain that Kerry and Thomas, at least, were safe and hidden somewhere. He couldn't explain it, but he was sure that they were okay. It must have been the same feeling Paul had. Paul Parker was missing his family, but he was surprisingly positive about the whole thing and he had a strong feeling they were somewhere safe, although he didn't know where.

  He grudgingly walked back to the village hall; he was only half a mile away and he couldn't see it in the distance with the darkness and the trees that covered its area, but knew if he walked in a straight line he would be at the hall in a few minutes. His feet dragged through the bracken and he tried to find a dirt path, but there wasn't one there. As he progressed through the woodland, he could feel the first slow, and long trickle of water running down the arch of his spine, tickling him from his shoulder blades to the top of his backside where a small gathering of hairs soaked up the pesky running bead of sweat. He used his left hand to scratch the irritating itch where the sweat had stopped, and removed the irritation by scratching at the area with his first two fingers that unusually had longer nails that he was used to. He would normally cut his nails once every fortnight, and wasn't the kind of person to nibble at them; he preferred to nibble at the skin of his finger, at the side of the nail.

  As the darkness grew and his eyesight became more affected, his paranoia began to flower. His breathing was rapid, but was soon back to normal once his eyes clocked the village hall. He could only see the outline, and that was enough for him to turn his walk into a gallop. Jack was aware that in this new world, an injury or a bad illness would be putting his life at risk. Confident that there were no beings, animal traps, or any other devices that could do him any harm, his galloping feet began to pick up speed, until he finally got to the hall.

  It only had one window to the side, and there was no sign of a dim light or anything else. He assumed that maybe Paul was asleep, or at least trying to get to sleep.

  Trying to get his breath back, Jack placed the palms of his hands on his knees and bent over. His thoughts went to Gary once again. Jack was glad he wasn’t alone and was pleased that he at least had Paul with him.

  Jack wasn't sure if he would have the guts to unload a cartridge into another human. Paul, on the other hand, made no hesitation when he unloaded the cartridge into the legs of the thug from the supermarket. Jack had no problem killing the beings, as he had been doing it since he woke up on that fateful Sunday morning in Glasgow City Centre a week ago. He didn't really see them as living things, but he just couldn't imagine having to kill a living person. He hoped that that day would never come.

  He felt nothing, from a sympathy perspective, when he killed a few of those things when he had the cleaver that was given to him by his short-lived friend, Robbie Owen. And when he and Gary were armed with knives and had to fight their way out of an ambush on Stile Cop Road while the Porsche lay burning in the distance, he felt even more detached.

  He smiled warmly. It seemed such a long time ago now.

  He raised his head and knocked the hall's back door, gently. "It's me," he whispered.

  Seconds later, Paul Parker opened the door and welcomed Jack back.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  June 18th

  It was 7:21am. Monday.

  Karen had had four hours sleep, but felt fine. She was alert; she felt refreshed, but was sure that later on in the day, the tiredness would eventually appear from somewhere and take her by surprise like an assassin, putting her in a world of sleep.

  She had been sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn for the last twenty minutes. She was on her second coffee; her breath was putrid, but couldn't be bothered to go upstairs and use one of the four toothbrushes left by the family who used to dwell there. It wasn't that she felt guilty for using them; she just hadn't mustered the energy to go upstairs.

  Once she finished her coffee, she forced her body to get off the couch and stand. She could hear gentle thuds comin
g from above and assumed that Pickle had tried to get out of bed. Scared in case he had a fall, the energy her body needed was suddenly shooting through her veins, and she jogged her way upstairs to see Pickle standing on the landing, waiting outside the bathroom.

  Pickle squinted at Karen, and nodded towards the bathroom door. "So if yer here, who's in there?"

  "Ah." Karen revealed an embarrassed smile, remembering that the two men hadn't been introduced. "That'll be George. I picked him up yesterday."

  Pickle took a step back and tried to come to terms with what she had just told him. He looked terrible. Pale. Eyes sunken. His lips were dry.

  Pickle glared at her. "A lover?"

  "God no." Karen burst into hysterics, and then suddenly covered her mouth, as there was a danger George could have overheard her remark from within the bathroom.

  Pickle rested his hand on Karen's shoulder, and looked unstable on his legs. He swayed gently as if he had just left the pub after an eight-hour session, and said, "Give me a shout when it's free. I'm in no immediate rush."

  Karen took a hold of him under his armpit, and helped him walk back to his bedroom, as if she was a carer and he was an old man. They slowly made baby steps towards the bedroom that seemed to have taken forever.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

  Pickle sighed, "Getting there. Might even try a wee bit o' lunch later."

  "Good."

  "Should be back on ma feet tomorrow mornin'."

  "That's the thing with these viruses; you can take all the drugs in the world, but you're better off riding it out and letting your body beat it."

  "Well, I certainly feel better. Must have been all the praying I've been doing."

  As they made their first step back into the bedroom, behind them they could hear a toilet flush. They both turned around to see George Jones dressed in just a pair of jogging bottoms. He stood still and gazed at Pickle. Pickle could see the man was in a decent condition, although clearly carrying a few pounds, and recognised the tattoos on his body, especially the black and blue nautical star.

  George could see that if one hundred percent fit and healthy, Pickle could be a powerhouse of a man. But at that moment, he looked weak, ashen and hunched over, but he could see the man was muscular in stature. George didn't say a word to Pickle; he just raised his hand at the ill man. Pickle returned the friendly gesture by tilting his chin upwards ever so slightly, and then turned back around, relying on Karen's help to get him back to the bed. His head ached and the room swayed for a few seconds as if he was on a ferry in turbulent waters. It reminded him of when he went to France to pick up a drugs shipment in one of his first big deals as an entrepreneur of the drugs world. He reminisced only for a few seconds, before dropping back onto the bed.

  Karen looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "Do you want me to take that T-shirt off? It looks like it could do with a wash."

  Pickle never answered her, and released an exaggerated moan once his head hit the pillow. "Where did yer meet 'im?"

  "He was hitching. You don't mind, do you?"

  "We're not a charity, but I wouldn't want to see people abandoned. Maybe he wants to get into yer pants."

  Karen playfully punched Pickle on the shoulder and shook her head. "I think one arsehole is enough, don't you?"

  "A bit harsh."

  "Seriously; what do you think of him?"

  Pickle half-shrugged. "I'd bang the arse off him, I suppose."

  Karen chuckled and playfully hit Pickle on the chest. "No, I meant, does he seem okay?"

  "Dunno. Only time will tell. His tattoos look familiar though."

  "Really? Did KP have ones like that?"

  "Nah, he only had one." Pickle released a thin smile and his eyes looked away and briefly reminisced. "It was the same star, but a different colour. KP had a purple and black one on his shoulder."

  "Did it bring back memories?"

  Pickle glared, but Karen could see there was sadness in his face. "Of course; he's only been dead a few days."

  Karen smiled warmly at Pickle. Because of his illness she had slept in the girls' room for her second night in the house, with George in the other room with the poster of Robert Pattinson behind him. She could have sworn that she had heard Pickle crying during the night, and had mentioned KP on a couple of occasions in his sleep, but that was understandable. As Pickle said: KP had only been dead for a few days and in the real world his funeral wouldn't even have taken place yet. He was still in mourning.

  She leaned over and kissed him on his clammy forehead. She made a jokingly yuk sound, as her lips tasted the salt off his forehead, and tried to make her partner laugh, who was in desperate need of a wash once he was fit again.

  He responded with half a smile and that famous wink of his, which she hadn't seen for a while. He closed his eyes, and shooed her away jokingly by waving his hand like an Emperor would treat his servant. She exited the room, left him alone and spent a few minutes in the living room talking to George Jones, as this had been the most mundane and uneventful day she had ever had since the outbreak had occurred.

  Mustn't grumble, she thought.

  At least she was still alive.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  The morning had come around quickly as Jack and Paul almost opened their eyes at the same time to find the unfortunate reality that greeted them, especially Jack. Apart from the two sleepy men, the hall was empty, and the only reminder that there used to be people dwelling there, was the strewn blankets, sheets and sleeping bags that lay on the floor. It seemed inappropriate to tidy them up in case the group, or at least some of the group, came back. This had been their home for the last week and tidying up the sleeping arrangements would be an indication that both Paul and Jack had given up hope that anyone would return. The dark hall echoed with Jack's raucous yawn, while Paul silently stood to his feet and headed for the bathroom holding a worn toothbrush.

  Jack gawped around the hall and felt a twinge of sadness; he hoped Kerry and Thomas were okay. He thought about Gary for a few seconds, and thanked him under his breath for reuniting him with his son, albeit temporarily for the time being. If it weren't for Gary, Jack would still be roaming around the villages like a headless chicken looking for his son.

  Paul's hard footsteps echoed and the noise bounced off the wooden walls, as he returned back from the toilet area. "Go to the kitchen and arm yourself with anything you can find," he announced. "If this takes all day, then so be it."

  "What about those spears you made?"

  "We can take them, but they're only designed to kill maybe one of them. We need steel, not something that'll snap once we put one of them down."

  "What about breakfast?" Jack called out.

  "Use the last of the eggs," Paul called back as he began arming himself with a hatchet that was placed in the front of his large pocket, as well as the homemade spear he was holding in his left hand. "Then we go."

  As twenty minutes had passed, they ate breakfast and washed it down with the remains of the flat cola. Then the two men stepped out into the fresh wind. They went out the back way, away from the main road, facing the mass of woodland. A gentle breeze stroked their faces as they made their steps into the woods, and although a little troubled by the drizzle that filtered through the trees, they were confident that they wouldn't be soaked to the bone. It had been the second time that the area had seen the rain since the outbreak, and it was a welcome change in the weather as far as the thirsty plantation was concerned.

  Still plagued by the taste of eggs in the back of his throat, Jack carefully stepped through the bracken as if he was barefoot and it was scattered with hidden broken glass—he was paranoid of adders, the only poisonous snake available in the UK. He took a peep to the side of him where Paul Parker's face showed no emotion whatsoever. Now, his face was scowling with concentration as he faced forward, occasionally shifting his head from left to right. Despite the welcomed drizzle from the heavens, the woods was almost acting like a cov
er and it felt more like being in a greenhouse rather than being in the outdoors. Jack scratched the back of his neck and felt his hairy neck being irritated by the trickles of sweat running out of his hair. It needed a shave.

  It had been a day since he had had a proper shave, and didn't want to use a good razor on the back of his neck. Two days ago, the group were down to the last half a dozen razors, and it wasn't just the men that wanted to use the one-blade razors that were available. It humoured Paul a little that the females were also adamant on using the razors. With the outbreak, he thought that the last thing they should be worried about was hair under their arms, as well as other places. The world was going to hell in a handcart, yet the girls still wanted to look reasonably acceptable. It was argued amongst Kerry Evans, Jemma Marlow and Karen West, that the men should be the ones to refrain from using a razor, as a beard was socially acceptable, rather than a woman that looked like she had a testosterone injection. Considering what was happening in the world, the argument was deemed ridiculous and frivolous, and was eventually laughed off by all parties.

  Jack looked to his right at Paul, and was relieved that even the cool Paul Parker was perspiring as he could see a single bead of sweat on his dark skin. The bead broke away from the side of his head and gently ran down the side of his black face.

  Paul himself was feeling the heat; his fresh, brown V-neck shirt was getting damp already as well as his short, black hair, and his grey joggies were making his legs feel as if they were on fire. He was twenty yards away at the side of Jack and felt for the forty-year-old. He knew what he was going through, but preferred to keep his own emotions in check.