Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

by Shaun Whittington

  Pickle tried the door that led to the back of the van and the small cells, but the door wouldn't budge.

  Karen slapped her forehead. "Shit! I locked it."

  Knowing that Jack, who was now in the driver's seat, had the keys to the van and the fact that the things were yards away from the group, Pickle cried, "Right! Back in the house. We'll never make it in on time."

  They rushed back in and Pickle ushered everybody else to the bottom of the stairs and told them to make their way to the top of the landing. He then tried to shut the front door but dozens of rotting fingers of the dead grasped the door, preventing it from shutting properly. Pickle kept his body weight against it and knew that he couldn't hold it forever.

  While Pickle was holding the door, some of the ghouls turned to the van and then headed towards it. Kerry, who was in the front with Jack and Thomas, held her son's head in her chest and doubly made sure the door was locked as their evil faces peered inside; their rotting hands slapped the glass, and their deathly moans could be heard from inside the van. Jack looked into his side mirror and could see that some were breaking their way in through the front door of the house; the frosted glass panes of the front door began to smash as the door slowly gave way.

  One of the panes in the glass of the front door had smashed and an arm tried to grab and snatch at Pickle. He palmed one in the face while holding the door with his other, and managed to push the thing backwards. He tried to shut the front door again, by hopefully severing the fingers that were grasping it, but it had at least five of the things behind, trying to prise it open, and one of them had their full arm inside, desperately trying to claw at something or someone.

  "I can't hold it much longer." Pickle announced to Karen, Paul and Lee who were standing halfway up the stairs. "Get upstairs. Main bedroom."

  Pickle was strong, but not strong enough to keep them at bay. With the palms of his hands against the door, he looked behind him. Satisfied the group had gone upstairs, he released the door, picked up his shotgun and bolted upstairs while the things behind him clambered and crawled after him.

  Paul Parker appeared from the room and stood at the top of the landing next to the shotgun-wielding ex-inmate. Pickle was impressed with Paul's bravery as he jumped in front of him and ran halfway down the stairs and begun kicking the first of them in the face, forcing the clumsy creatures to topple down the stairs a little as they crawled up.

  Paul ran back upstairs to the top where Pickle was. "They can't climb, can they?"

  Pickle shook his head. "The atrophy should stop them, but as yer can see, they can crawl their way up. Determined little fuckers!"

  Paul kicked a few more, as they clumsily—although full of determination—crawled their way up, until, Pickle commanded him to get back, as he was paranoid that Paul was in danger of having his leg grabbed and experiencing the feeling of being bit.

  Pickle then yelled to Karen who was opening the bedroom window, "Has he gone?"

  Karen looked out of the main bedroom window to see the van was still there, surrounded. "No, he's still there."

  Good boy, Jack. "Get onto the van, we don't have much time!"

  Now that the creatures were spilling into the house, it made the task of jumping onto the van a little less dangerous, not much, but just a little, as the modest crowd around the van was thinning out a little and heading into the house. What they couldn't see was the other hundred or so approaching nearer the main road and turning left where Bonser had unintentionally led them.

  Pickle stood at the top of the landing, as Karen was in the bedroom trying to guide Lee and Paul out safely onto the van.

  Some of the creatures were somehow managing the stairs. Most of them crawled their way up and Pickle allowed the first one to crawl to the last step, its face touching the barrel. The shotgun was discharged and created two heads to explode, including one of them behind. The landing wall's cream paintwork had been decorated with something a lot more macabre within seconds. Pickle released another cartridge and two of the beings that were side-by-side one another and four steps away from the top, experienced their heads exploding in unison, decorating the other crawling creatures behind with their brain debris.

  Their motionless bodies caused a minor blockage on the stairs, which was causing the rest of them behind to struggle to get to Pickle. He reloaded and released another shot. Again, taking the head off what used to be a teenage girl, her face was non-existent from the nose up as she stopped moving on her all fours.

  He looked into the opened bedroom. Karen was the only one left to escape. She looked over to him, but his facial expression urged her to hurry up. Once she jumped, he turned his gun around and used the butt of the gun to cause damage to another two making their way up. He decided to release one more cartridge and did so from a distance. One of the things actually managed to stand in the middle of the stairs after crawling its way up initially. Pickle shot that particular one and it fell.

  The stairs were now blocked at the bottom with corpses, while dozens desperately tried to scramble over their dead subordinates. Now that everybody had left, Pickle decided that it was time to go. These things just didn't know when to give up.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Pickle ran into the bedroom and shut the door. He wanted as many as possible in the house before making his escape; the more there were in the house, the less there would be outside, or so he hoped. What he couldn’t see was the other bodies spilling into the street and his time wasting was becoming more of a hindrance to the group's safety.

  He dragged the side table and placed it against the door as a temporary barricade. He looked out of the bedroom, relieved that everyone had managed to make the short jump onto the roof without a clumsy stumble, and he put the shotgun over his shoulder with the strap.

  The bedroom door split almost in two, and Pickle, even now, was still surprised of their strength and determination once there seemed to be food on offer. Ignoring Paul and Karen's pleas to get a move on, Pickle turned and glared at his shotgun and placed his hand in his pocket. There was only nine loose cartridges left, but it was enough to cause some damage, if need be. He took another look at the broken bedroom door and could see the rotten and cold hands desperately reaching out. He counted seven arms that were trying to reach inside, and knew there was dozens more behind them that had crawled over the bodies of their deceased kind.

  He could see the wood splitting the more bodies pressed up against the weak door. He took one more look at the shotgun. Just one pull of the trigger, and I'll be out of this nightmare for good. He then glanced back outside at Karen, Paul and Lee, who were standing on top of the van's roof, frantically screaming at him and waving him down. He was undecided what to do, and the cacophony of noises coming from beings, both alive and dead, were not helping. I'll give it another week.

  He climbed onto the windowsill and remained in a crouching position. His mind was slightly distracted from the hordes of ghouls surrounding the van, clawing at the paintwork. Pickle could hear the frightened screams coming from Kerry and young Thomas from inside the driver's area. He finally pushed off and landed flat footed, yet, softer than he had anticipated. Karen went to cuddle him, but he unintentionally stepped past her and banged on the roof of the cab five times, just above where Jack Slade was waiting.

  "I hope he remembers to drive slowly," Paul said nervously.

  Pickle said, "Don't yer worry; as soon as we get out o' this infested place, we'll stop the van and get people inside and get refreshments. I'm just glad Jack decided to stay put."

  Karen, Paul, Pickle and Lee remained crouched on top of the van and could finally hear the engine of the van starting, but not loud enough to drown out the moans and groans of the crowd of the dead that were aching for a feed.

  "This could be a wee bit bumpy," Pickle informed the group.

  Jack crunched the gear into first, and at last, the van was beginning to move. It moved at a snail's pace, and the van wobbled and shook as its heavy
body went over the stubborn creatures that refused to move from the front of the vehicle.

  The van suddenly speeded up and veered sharply to the right, heading for the top of the main road that was almost swamped with the hungry creatures that refused to shift out of the way. Some paid the price for their unwillingness to move.

  The unnecessary and unintentional sharp turn, forced everyone on top of the van to fall off their feet and land on their sides. Pickle yelled out as he could feel himself slipping off. Karen grabbed his clothing and urged Paul to help her pull Pickle up, as his legs were dangling over the edge, although still out of harm's way.

  Pickle's slight fall had excited the ravenous predators below and they clawed at thin air, inches away from his feet. The strap slid off his shoulder and the Browning shotgun fell away and struck one of the ghouls, before falling to the floor. Unworried about the loss of the weapon, Karen and Paul pulled Pickle's heavy body back onto the van, while Lee helplessly watched in horror with his head in his hands.

  "Where's the other handgun?" Karen yelled.

  Pickle shrugged. "Still in the bedroom. Fuck it!"

  The van finally crawled its way to the top of the road, leaving a trail of destruction behind. Lee Hayward watched hypnotically from the back of the van, as bodies behind it were flat on the floor. Some got back up, while others who had had legs crushed, tried to crawl across the road.

  Lee shook his head. They just won't give up, he thought.

  He saw two bodies that had heads crushed and was surprised that mowing down the creatures had only produced a few dead, from what he could see. There was at least sixty to seventy behind the van near the house where he had briefly stayed, and could see more in front. The van paused at the T-junction at the top of Heath Hayes' main road; it turned left away from the long stretch of road where Jason Bonser had been dumped two miles down. They were now out of the village and on the main road, surrounded by woodland. Now that the road was almost clear, the van began to pick up speed.

  "Look!" Paul pointed, and to the right, they could see down the main road where Bonser had run from. There was an army of them. At least a hundred of them dragged their bodies towards the van.

  Karen gasped and shook her head. Where are they coming from? Are they new, or have they come from all over, like Rugeley? Are some of them the same things from Stile Cop?

  She pulled out her Browning out of her waist, and checked the magazine. Out of all the panic, she had left the two full remaining magazines in the drawer of the bedroom. She cursed herself, and peeped to see only seven bullets were left. It was the only weapon the group had left. She snapped the magazine back in and tucked it back into her dark blue jeans, and pulled her black T-shirt over it.

  The van crawled away and Pickle could hear that the vehicle was in some distress. Either Jack needed to shift to a higher gear, or there was something seriously wrong. He carefully peered over the side and saw the reason why the van was struggling. Pickle stepped tentatively towards the roof of the cab and banged on the roof for Jack to stop the vehicle. He interpreted Pickle's less-than-subtle Morse code, correctly, and the van came to a slow stop.

  "Whatever it is, you better hurry up." Karen looked behind her, where the crowd of creatures were about three hundred yards away.

  Jack wound the window down of the cab, and stuck his head out. Pickle looked over and clocked Jack's face and said, "Take a look at the front right wheel."

  Jack did what he was told and said, "Ah, shit!"

  "What is it?" Paul queried.

  "Take a look for yerself." Pickle spoke.

  Paul peered over and saw two half bodies wedged between the tyre and the van's fender.

  Pickle looked over to Karen and then glared at the crowd, who were slowly progressing.

  He said, "We've got a minute to get them out."

  Chapter Forty Five

  The young man had been up in the trees for the last two hours. It was only a matter of minutes before he came across his first Lurker—as a man he knew used to call them. He had managed to get some sleep during the night and had to endure drinking the water from the brook, but at least he was still alive, hungry, but still alive.

  He desperately wanted to get back to where he was staying, but initially there was too many of them when he was attacked. He ran for a duration of five minutes and then he eventually realised he was completely lost. Once he finally got back to his old digs, with the help of following the main road, he could see over the road, the village hall being attacked by the things, and the humans that once lived there were dispersing out from the back.

  Now, it was a new day, and he had spent the two hours walking through the wooded area, making sure he never went too far away from the main road. Then after, the rest of his day was spent sitting and daydreaming about his past life. He felt a shudder in his vertebrae once he thought about his nineteen-year-old sister who was at Manchester University, studying law. Was she still alive?

  For the first two days he was in contact with her, but his iPhone eventually died on him.

  His reminiscing came to an eventual end once he heard the rustle in the trees that sparked his frame into life. He could now see one of them walking away from him, about fifty yards away. At first, he thought it could have been a human, but he refrained from calling out in case he gave himself an unnecessary danger. He continued to stare at the presence that was walking away, and after a few seconds had passed, he realised that the figure wasn't human in the way it was walking, or trying to walk. Its shoulders were drooping and was reminiscent of a depressed teenager, as its head was lowered and its feet dragged their way through the greenery.

  He had got to his feet and carefully stepped his way through the woodland, and felt that his dark green T-shirt was a perfect way to camouflage him. His black joggies and black trainers complemented the rest of his attire, and as soon as he clocked two more of the things to his left from afar, his body was engulfed in terror and he somehow managed to climb the nearest tree to him, as if he had done it a thousand times before. He blamed the sudden rush of nervous adrenaline for his almost super human powers. He was thankful that the two didn't notice him when he was on the ground. The last thing he needed was to be stuck up a tree with two of the ghouls hanging around at the bottom, making it hard for him to escape and possibly attracting more of them.

  His eyes glared at the creatures until they eventually disappeared and was swallowed up by the greenery of the area. Once that danger had passed, he was able to enjoy having a heartbeat that was going at a normal rate. His jogging continued and he looked through the trees to his left where the main road was, and could see through the trees, with what little vision he had, a village that seemed to be plagued with the things. His run increased with pace, but was still aware that danger lurked further ahead.

  He felt the scratch on his face that he received by a branch when trying to climb the tree earlier, and pulled from his pocket, the small mirror that was given to him. He checked his face and was content that the scratch was small. Once satisfied that his boyish looks hadn't been damaged, the fifteen-year-old, Oliver Newton, continued his careful walk, until he heard a snap behind him. He felt the arms grab him from behind. He tried to scream out, but a warm hand covered his mouth before he had the chance. A warm hand, he thought.

  "Stop!" Oliver tried to scream out under the stifling large hand that covered his mouth. "I'm not one of them!"

  As if the man could understand what was being said, he threw the boy onto the floor and stood over him, holding a thick branch above his head with both hands.

  Oliver Newton looked up with petrified eyes and could see a man in his forties, largely built, wearing a Burberry cap that was in desperate need of a wash. Oliver held his hands out and still cowered slightly, his body language telling the man above him that he didn't want to be struck.

  "Who are ya?" the man at last spoke, and slowly put the branch down that could have easily have crushed Oliver's skull with one strike.
>
  "I'm a survivor, just like you." Oliver continued to cower, despite the threat being removed. "I'm just lost, that's all."

  "Okay, pal." The man held out his hand and Oliver took it, and was pulled up to his feet by the strong looking individual. The man adjusted his cap and apologised to the young man. Oliver responded with a warm smile.

  "So where you heading?" Oliver politely asked.

  "Dunno." The man shook his head and his eyes never met Oliver's as they scanned around the woodland constantly. He didn't seem too overly excited to be in contact with another human being, and Oliver was sure that eventually the two of them would go their separate ways.

  He asked, "You have any water on you, kid?"

  Oliver shook his head and opened his arms and turned around as if he was being frisked to let the man know that he wasn't carrying anything. It wasn't supposed to be a sarcastic answer to the man's question, and he never took it that way. Oliver finally answered the man's quizzing with a verbal answer. "I've had to drink some of that water from the brook further up."

  "I wouldn't do that again from now on," the man said. "I pissed in that about an hour ago."

  Oliver could feel his guts twisting of the thought of drinking the man's piss, but he assumed that there could be worse in there, like a rotting corpse or general droppings from animals, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The drink at the brook had given him an extra few days of survival—or so he thought—and was aware that the human body could survive seven to eight weeks without food, so long as it was hydrated—a theory he didn't want to put to the test. But as far as water was concerned, a week, maybe two at the most, was the time a person could go without being hydrated, depending on how much and how fast the individual passed urine, sweated and cried.