Paul Dickson could feel his legs getting heavier with the tiredness, and looked up, staring at the pub in the distance. He was getting closer, but it seemed to be taking ages to progress.
Twenty yards up ahead, to the left, was a hump bridge. Paul used to be a resident of the old Little Haywood and knew that the bridge led to the back area of the village. He had no desire to go that way. He never wanted to see his old house again.
Noticing his left shoelace loosening, Paul stopped walking and bent down to tighten it. His legs ached as he bent down, and knew that he was going to be stiff the following morning.
He stood up straight and looked further on, shook his head and released a heavy sigh. A gang of dead staggered over the bridge and entered the main road. As soon as they saw Paul, they shuffled with more quickness in their movement.
"Fuck," Paul sighed and took out his machete.
He didn't want to go back on himself; he was nearly home. He didn't have the energy to go somewhere else and try and lose these freaks. He had to go through them. He shook his head and released an exasperated moan.
Holding the blade in both hands, he waited for the first ones to come. There were two, side by side one another, and Paul put both down with quick chops at the front of their skull. One fell, then the other fell, and Paul took a step forward.
He looked to the side and could see a little gap to the right. If he tried to run past the small horde and through the gap, then maybe, just maybe he could escape without having to put any more down.
He speared his machete into the skull of the next advancing beast and withdrew the blade out of the once-teenage girl, watching as she dropped to the floor in a heap.
"Someone ... anyone," Paul gasped. He was exhausted, his legs were like lead and he looked up to the heavens. "Give me strength."
Three more advanced with another twelve behind, and Paul took the one to his right out with a slice to the side of its head. He struggled to get the blade out and had to front-kick the other two who went for him. They staggered back a few yards and both were taken out. Twelve left.
"This is impossible," he muttered. His arms were beginning to ache, and even the adrenaline didn't seem to have much effect. At least when he took out the horde in the woods, he had decent energy levels.
A bald, rotund man was next to enter Paul's space and was soon disposed of when Paul used his strength to strike the dead man's skull with his blade. The blade went straight down the middle of the skull and stopped at the bridge of its nose. Paul pushed the man away with his foot and took another step forward as it dropped.
Three more went down as Paul spent ten seconds hacking like a maniac. Two more then fell, and now Paul Dickson felt like he couldn't go on anymore.
A young girl, bloated, walked towards him. She looked like she hadn't even reached her teenage years, but Paul felt no emotion as he rammed his blade through her forehead as if it was a spike. Then he took another look and could see the gap was wider than before, probably because some had fallen. He hobbled away from the remaining five, but was grabbed by one when he thought he had nearly made it.
The ghoul that had grabbed him was a female, no older than fourteen, and was wearing a pink bridesmaid dress. She snarled and tried to take a bite out of Paul's arm, but he pushed her over. She fell on her back and Paul jumped and landed the heel of his boot into her face. He lost his footing and fell over, dropping his machete, then tried to scramble to his feet, knowing that there was still four left.
They were all males, in dark suits and covered in blood, and were gaining on Paul as the man in his forties was struggling to reach a speed that was good enough to flee the dead. He was totally exhausted and now had no weapon, and all he could think about now was getting to the pub. If he was still being chased by these four freaks by the time he reached the Wolseley Arms, he would have to go in, because he wasn't sure that he could make the remaining mile to Colwyn Place. He thought about hiding in the pub, in one of the rooms upstairs. He knew the place was a mess and smashed up, but if he could stay and lock himself in one of the rooms for the night and get rest, he'd be able to make the remaining mile the following morning, although he'd be dehydrated and very hungry.
He dragged his feet and peered over his shoulder, panting hard, and could see the four well-dressed males gnashing and snarling, aching to rip him apart. One was a few yards ahead and further than the other three, and was an obese bald being. The bald ghoul was the cleanest out of the four and only had a little blood on his shirt, his purple cravat still in place, and stretched out its arms. His hair was white at the sides and was pulling away even further from his other three colleagues.
Paul cried out when he saw that the bald ghoul was gaining on him and could feel his limbs aching, his head pounding. His left foot dragged along the floor and lost his balance as the foot went on its side, twisting his ankle, then fell over. He put his hands out to protect himself as he fell, but still struck the side of his head on the tarmac.
"Oh shit!" he screamed.
He lay on his back, gasping for air, and could feel the presence of the heavy ghoul getting nearer. Paul tried to lift himself up, but all he could manage to lift was his head up off the floor. The back of his head rested back on the road, and all Paul could think about now was being with his family.
He tried to get up one more time, but the result was the same. He hardly moved. Paul cried and shook his head, frustrated that his body wouldn't budge. "Please help me. Somebody help me," he murmured.
He hadn't given up. He wanted to get back onto his feet, desperately, but he was so exhausted that his body couldn't move.
He closed his eyes and could hear a mixture of noises. He heard the sounds of dragging feet and groaning coming from behind him, a bird tweeting above him, and in front of him he could hear the sound of an engine, doors then slamming and human voices.
He remained on his back and dropped his hands to the side as the obese creature reached Paul.
"I don't want to die," Paul said with calm, as if he was speaking to an individual. "Not yet."
The bald creature then dropped to its knees and clumsily fell on top of Paul Dickson. Paul tried to fight it off, knowing that the other three weren't far away, but the killing of the many from before had sapped his energy. The bald ghoul then buried its head in Paul's neck, inbetween his shoulder and his chin, making Paul scream out and tamely punching the ghoul with the little energy he had left.
Paul closed his eyes and winced, feeling the teeth scrape on his neck. He hadn't been bitten yet. He had no idea what it was going to feel like, but it was coming.
He knew it was coming.
Chapter Fifty Two
Paul Dickson kept his eyes closed, his breath still held, waiting for the inevitable bite that would rip his throat out. He wondered how sore it would be and hoped the blood pissed out as quickly as possible, as he didn't want the agony to be longer than necessary.
It seemed to be taking ages for the bite to come, the seconds were like minutes, and he continued to wince and gritted his teeth. Any second now. But nothing.
He slowly opened his eyes, twisting his face in disgust because of the sight and the smell. The left side of the creature's face that was on top of him was all that Paul could see and it wasn't moving. The lack of movement was welcomed, but baffled the man. Then he suddenly realised that there were three others that had been pursuing him as well as the obese bald ghoul that was on him.
The head of the creature that was on top of Paul had suddenly moved, forcing Paul to gasp, but it wasn't moving on its own, it was moving because it was being dragged off of him by something or someone.
He saw that it was Karen Bradley dragging the dead body of the creature, pulling out a knife from the back of its head and placing it into her pocket after wiping the blade on the tattered clothes of the deceased.
She turned and looked down at Paul who was still on the ground. "We thought it was you. You okay?" she asked him.
Vince, n
ow standing over Paul, then looked down and said with a smile, "You comfy down there? You want a pillow?"
"Stop pissing about, Vince," said Pickle. "Help the man up."
"I'm okay. I've got it." Paul sat up and could see the body that was on top of him by the side of the road. The other three had had their heads bashed in. He clocked Harry Branston and saw that Pickle's mace was covered in dark blood, and Karen had earlier pulled out her knife that she had obviously stuck into the back of Paul's attacker's head.
She had saved his life. Pickle too.
Paul produced a small smile, still sitting up, and said, "Thanks." He was in a daze and all could see that he was in shock.
"Thanks?" Pickle scoffed. "After sacrificing yerself when we, me and yer, were out there?"
Paul looked at all four individuals. Stephen he didn't know so well. Pickle was one that he always liked. Paul then smiled at Karen. It was good that Karen, Vince and Stephen had returned back from the medical run alive. He then gazed at Vince. Was there any point telling Kindl that he had bumped into his old lover? Would there be any benefit in that? Paul thought not, and decided to keep quiet about the little meeting that eventually turned out disastrous for the poor woman.
"Let's help him up." Pickle threw the mace into the back of the pickup and walked over with Stephen. Vince and Karen decided to hang back.
Stephen and Pickle put their heads under a shoulder each and dragged Paul to the pickup as if he was intoxicated.
Karen walked alongside them and peered her head to the side. She could see Paul's face quivering and tears filling his eyes, but the emotional breakdown never came. He had somehow managed to keep it together.
They then went inside and Stephen was told by Pickle to get in the back of the truck.
"But it stinks in there, chap," he protested meekly.
"It's either that or walk," said Pickle sternly.
"Fine," Stephen huffed. He couldn't understand why Vince wasn't told to go in the back. Maybe it was because they had been companions a lot longer. It was probably a biased decision.
The pickup pulled away and the travel back was made in silence ... almost.
The vehicle turned left and went by the pub, over the bridge and was beginning to pick up speed once Pickle slipped it into fourth, now doing forty.
He could see a lone ghoul standing in the middle of the road, staring at the vehicle. He had no idea where it could have come from. It wasn't there on the way to the Stafford Road.
An exhausted Pickle floored the accelerator and ignored the calls from Vince and Karen to slow down. It appeared that Stephen had also spotted the creature and was now banging the back window as he sat in the back, urging to Pickle to kill his speed.
"Slow the fuck down, Pickle," Vince urged him.
"Pickle?" There was concern in Karen's voice. "What the hell are you doing?"
Pickle released a sigh and took his foot off the pedal, the vehicle eventually slowing. He swerved around the dead being whilst doing twenty, and headed back to Colwyn Place at a decent speed, a safer speed.
*
It had just turned midday by the time they returned with Paul. The vehicle crawled through the gap once Braithwaite had pulled back the gate, and Pickle could see Terry looking inside the vehicle. Terry rolled his eyes and puffed out his lips once he clocked Paul Dickson. It appeared that he wasn't happy to see his return, and Pickle was pretty sure that Stephen Bonser was going to express the same attitude. Maybe some others as well.
Pickle parked the vehicle by the others, near the concrete wall, and stepped out. Rowley jumped out of the back, and Vince and Karen also stepped out. Paul was the last to leave the vehicle.
The exhausted man was helped by Pickle and Karen to his door, whilst he was being watched by half of the residents in the street. He was helped into the house and told Pickle and Karen that he was going upstairs for a lie down.
"Okay." Pickle nodded. "Get o'er ma shoulder and I'll carry yer up."
"I can manage," Paul mumbled.
Paul planted his right foot on the first step, and his two friends behind him could see his legs quivering with fatigue.
This time he moved up a step and then put his left foot on the next one, but he leaned backwards, as if he was about to fall, and Pickle grabbed the tired man and helped him upstairs. Karen followed behind.
As soon as he reached his bed, Paul fell on it, onto his back, and kept his boots on.
"I'll bring some water up," said Pickle.
Pickle left, leaving the two alone. Karen could see that Paul was so exhausted that he'd be asleep within minutes. She fussed over him and made sure he was comfortable, then began to take his boots off.
"It's good to see you," he mumbled, eyes closed. "Glad you made it back from that medical run."
"No thanks to Freddie Johnson," Karen snickered.
"Karen?" he groaned, eyes still closed and drifting away.
Karen shushed him and started to rub his head. "Don't speak. Just sleep."
Only a minute had passed and he began to lightly snore, bringing a smile to Karen's face. "Poor Paul." She leaned over and gently kissed him on his clammy forehead. "You've been through so much."
She took a hold of his left hand, kissed it and slowly dropped to her knees. She rested the side of her head on his arm and closed her eyes, waiting for Pickle to come back with the water. She felt for Paul. She even thought she loved him ... as a brother.
He had been through a lot.
He reminded her of Jack Slade.
Jack was also a tragic figure. He, like Paul, had lost his son and was an individual struggling to cope with what was happening. Unfortunately, it had ended badly for Jack when he saved Sharon Bailey, but Karen hoped that Paul would be luckier than Jack Slade.
She kissed him on the forehead again and said, "Enjoy your afternoon nap, Paul."
*
With his machete tucked into his belt, Harry Branston went downstairs to see if Paul had any water in his kitchen, leaving Karen and Paul in the bedroom. He was running short. He only had two half litre bottles sitting on the windowsill, but Pickle thought that one of the bottles would do for Paul in case he woke up later on, feeling dry.
He grabbed the bottle and left for the stairs, but he saw, through the living room window, Stephen Bonser walking by outside and going into his house. Pickle ran upstairs with the water and placed it in Karen's hand, telling her he'd be back soon.
Pickle decided that it was time for a chat with Bonser, to try and sort out the hostility that existed between him and Paul. Pickle reached the ground floor, left the house and walked to 20 Colwyn Place. He knocked the door and it was quickly opened by Stephen.
He smiled and said, "Pickle? What's up?"
"Can I come in?" Pickle smiled and then noticed Stephen staring at his machete.
"I see Lincoln is changing his mind about people not carrying weapons." Bonser stroked his chin and added, "Nothing's been said to me about it."
"I feel safer with it."
Stephen slowly lost his smile and told Pickle to come inside.
Pickle followed Stephen into the living room and declined the offer of tea. "This won't take long," he said. He cleared his throat and was about to speak further, but James Thomson appeared from out of the kitchen.
"I'm glad yer here as well," said Pickle, smiling at the figure of James. "I'm only going to say a few words, and then I'll leave."
"What is it?" James sniffed. "I reckon it's about that weirdo, Paul?"
Pickle ignored the comment and said, "First of all, I'd like to thank yer for what yer did at the wall."
"It's our place," James Thomson spoke up. "If those new fuckers hadn't opened that door to the abbey..."
"The new guys are okay," Pickle reassured them. "What happened was gonna happen, sooner or later. If anything, it was ma fault for opening the door without thinkin', when we were looking for Danny. We told John about it, but thought sharing information like that wasn't good for the reside
nts." Pickle puffed out a sigh and said, "Yer know what? It doesn't matter now. That's not what I've come here to talk about."
"So what is it?" James Thomson queried.
"It's about Paul Dickson."
"I fucking knew it," laughed Bonser. "We both saw him returning in the pickup. What about him? He's been out there, had a rough time and you want us to massage his balls? Is that it?"
Pickle puffed out his chest and swallowed his anger. "I want yer to leave this guy alone. He's lost everyone. He lost his son only a couple o' weeks back and since then he has contemplated suicide."
"So you want us to feel sorry for him?" Bonser was unsure what Pickle wanted.
"No." Pickle shook his head. "I want you to treat him like a person. With what he's been through, I think he could be close..." He paused for a second, then finished off the sentence. "I think he could be close to breaking point."
"So are you saying he can be dangerous?" Thomson took a step forward and was standing next to the smaller and thinner Bonser. "More the reason we should kick him out."
"Yer know what?" Pickle hunched his shoulders. "I don't really know for sure if he could be dangerous. I know he has made some threats to yer guys, but... Just give him a break. That's all I'm saying."
"If the guy's dangerous and starts anything," Thomson had his fists clenched and snarled, "I'll be holding you responsible."
"Just leave the guy alone, will yer?" Pickle released a quick and thin smile and headed for the front door.
"If he starts his shit," Thomson growled, stopping Pickle in his tracks, "then me, Stephen and Terry will put him down."
Pickle turned around and looked at James Thomson and shook his head. He used to have guys like this for breakfast. Wannabe hard men. Bullies.
"Yer know," Pickle began, "I've always thought it was dangerous to have all the houses unlocked in the street, especially when people couldn't take a weapon o' some sort to bed with them. Having to hand them in was never a good idea."
"Most of the keys to the houses have been lost, so we have no choice but to leave the doors unlocked, but most use a light barricade for peace of mind. Anyway, what's your fucking point?" Thomson was beginning to get annoyed.
Snatchers (Book 10): The Dead Don't Care Page 23