Snatchers Box Set | Vol. 5 | Books 13-15

by Whittington, Shaun

  A different memory entered the mind of Harry Branston. Almost ten years ago he had someone shot in both legs and left to bleed out on the football field next to the leisure centre. The individual owed Pickle eleven grand and was overheard in a pub called The Royal Oak that he wasn’t getting it. Unfortunately, the barman in the pub had overheard what had been said and told a regular that was an associate of Pickle’s.

  The man was shot at night and had died from his injuries. It had made the local news in the newspapers and on TV.

  For Vince it was a place he used to take his son, Brian, once a week swimming. In the old world Vince and Drake could have crossed paths. They could have been in the same pool with their sons at one point, and neither had a clue.

  The van entered the small village of Milford, a place Pickle and Vince had passed many times before. They went down the straight country road with ten semi-detached houses to their left and could see a pub called the Barley Mow up ahead. Once Drake reached the junction, he took a left and released a profanity.

  “What’s up?” Vince asked.

  “Looks like trouble up ahead,” said Drake.

  “What?”

  “Take a look.”

  Pickle could see a sight he had seen before. “Marsden,” he moaned. Two black jeeps were blocking the road in a V shape, and Pickle could smell trouble.

  “Know them?” Drake asked.

  “That’s the guys I told yer about last week.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” Drake moaned. “Want me to go through them? There’s no way two jeep’s are gonna stop this—”

  “No.” Pickle shook his head. “No point causing unnecessary trouble. They don’t know where we stay, but we have to use these roads whenever we do runs, so our paths are gonna cross.”

  “If you say so, Pickle.”

  “If we ram those jeeps off the road, regardless whether we injure anyone or not, then we’re gonna start something that could put some o’ our residents in danger, if ever they need to use these roads.”

  “Fine.” Drake stopped the van twenty yards from the jeep and added, “Let’s get out and see what these cunts want.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He had no idea how many painkillers Karen had left in the clinic, but Stephen Rowley wasn’t sure how long he could cope with the pain coming from his ankle. Karen had told him that he would have to wait weeks before it would start healing and that he shouldn’t put weight on the foot for a month or so. He had been given a few paperbacks to read to pass the time, novels by James Herbert, Ramsay Campbell and Clive Barker.

  The news depressed him and he wished he had never gone out with Craig Burns in the first place. Unbeknown to Stephen at the time, Drake giving him the green light to tag along with Craig for a scouting mission had been the beginning of his downfall.

  The only positive about the whole mess was that he had bumped into an old face in Paul Dickson, who had saved his life.

  Plagued by boredom, as per usual, Stephen swung his legs to the side of the bed and grabbed his crutches.

  He also had a wheelchair available, but wanted to keep his strength up and use the crutches now and again. He could use the wheelchair inside the building, but struggled when he went outside on the bumpy and uneven surface. He had had a lot of help from Mildred and had grown to like her, despite her potty mouth.

  He didn’t want to rely on her all the time, and she was out with Drake, Pickle, Vince and Stephanie anyway.

  He positioned his crutches, whilst still sitting on the bed, and pulled himself up. He released a moan as his back cracked, and began to move. His arms shook as he moved, and knew that his body needed some kind of fuel to keep moving.

  He made the long and arduous task of moving down the corridor. It seemed to take forever to get to the door that led outside, and felt like he was in one of his childhood dreams: The one that most people had that involved running down the corridor, heading for the exit, but no matter how hard and fast he ran, the door was getting further and further away.

  He finally made it out of the building and had to stop for a few seconds to get his breath. The portly man looked around the area and could see the two greenhouses, the large shed that David MacDonald had painted the week before, but not a soul could be seen.

  Finally, Stephen had clocked Findlay, but it looked like the man who spent most of his time on the main gate was in a rush. He looked Stephen’s way, flashed him a smile, and then continued to walk with brisk strides.

  Stephen moved slowly and decided to have a sit on the patch of grass that was near the large shed. Being stuck indoors and having nothing to do was torture. At least outside he’d get some fresh air.

  He reached the patch of grass and threw the crutches to the ground and fell onto his backside, revealing a moan.

  He placed his arms behind his back, legs stretched out, and placed his palms flat on the grass and leaned back. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool air, thinking about the days at Colwyn Place. He missed John Lincoln, as well as others that were there before the Sandy Lane crew had turned up. He loved Vince and was closer to him than the other ‘main two’, Pickle and Karen, but if he could go back to the Colwyn days, before the apocalypse, then he would.

  Stephen could feel a darkness covering him and assumed wrongly that a cloud had emerged. He opened his eyes to see it was Joanne Hammett standing by him.

  “Alright, chap?” was Stephen’s short salutation to the woman.

  Joanne nodded and released a heavy breath out.

  “That bad, eh?”

  Joanne sat next to Stephen and said, “It’s not the same when Pickle and the rest are out.”

  “They’ll be back soon, chap.” Stephen then laughed and added, “You do realise there’s another ninety or so people in this place.”

  “I know,” Joanne groaned. “They kind of keep themselves to themselves, don’t they? I mean, twenty of them are guards, there’s about five or ten that see to the greenhouses, ten or twenty are under age and hang about the nursery bit.”

  “So where’s the other fifty?” Stephen spoke up. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe they’re like us. Bored to tears, and are given meaningless jobs to make us feel important.”

  ‘You’ve started to wash and dry bed linen every week. That’s around a hundred beds. How’s that pointless, chap?”

  “It’s just boring, that’s all,” she bemoaned.

  “Try and be crippled for a month.”

  “I know,” said Joanne. “I’ve got a cheek, haven’t I?”

  Joanne bit her lip and was about to tell him something, but changed her mind at the last second.

  “I’m going back to my ward for a rest, before I need to give Barbara and Joan a hand with the sheets.”

  “Barbara and Joan,” Stephen mumbled. “Never heard of them.”

  “Anyway.” Joanne bent over and playfully slapped Stephen’s face and planted a peck on his cheek. “Better go.”

  “See you later, chap.”

  Rowley watched as Joanne jogged her way over to the outpatients building, and a smile emerged when he saw Karen Bradley appearing from around the corner of the reception building. She walked over to Rowley and they both simultaneously waved at one another.

  “I heard you were looking for me,” Karen called over.

  “That’s right.”

  She was making slow progress and stood above Stephen once she was near him.

  “What do you want?” she asked him. “Your strapping okay? It looks clean. Is it tight enough?”

  “It’s not that, chap,” Stephen said. He then twisted his neck and cleared his throat. “I was concerned about the amount of painkillers you have left.”

  “The strong ones have been depleted,” Karen admitted. “With your accident recently, and Robert breaking his ribs when he came off his scooter two days ago, there has been a bit of a dent made in them. Thankfully, Vince doesn’t need them anymore with his hand, or what’s left of it.”


  Stephen sighed, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Vince is on a milder, painkiller now. It’s the night time the pain becomes bad for most people.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Anything else?” Karen looked at Stephen and could see that he wasn’t just in discomfort, he was being suffocated with sadness.

  “What do you mean, chap?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying...”

  “What?”

  Karen took a step back and folded her arms, eyeing up a forlorn looking Rowley. “You look kind of sad.”

  “I just…”

  “Yes?”

  “Just having one of those days. I feel I’ve had enough.”

  Stephen then took Karen by surprise and broke down. He wrapped his arms around his midriff and lowered his head, his body juddering with his sobbing.

  Karen sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ve all been here.”

  “Even Pickle?” He continued to sob.

  “Even Pickle. Trust me.”

  “I just...”

  “What is it?”

  “I was thinking about Craig,” he cried. “It was my fault he died.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Stephen couldn’t produce any more words and was told by Karen not to speak, and just let out what he was trying to keep in. She rubbed his head as he continued to cry, and could feel emotions of her own stirring, seeing a grown man cry like this.

  It was heartbreaking to witness a grown man break down like this, and six minutes later he had managed to compose himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pickle told his guys to leave their weapons in the van, and that he was going to have a word with the guys that were blocking the road.

  Pickle, Vince and Drake stepped out of the van and Branston could see Marsden stepping out of one of the jeeps. Noticing that Pickle was unarmed, Marsden instructed his guys to remain in their vehicles and stood inbetween the front of the jeeps and folded his arms, raising a smile once his eyes clocked Harry Branston.

  “This is becoming a bit of a habit, Harry,” Marsden said with a smile. The man in his mid-thirties ran his fingers over his bald head and produced a smile.

  “We use these roads for our runs,” Pickle called over. “I’ve got a feelin’ it won’t be the last time we’ll see one another.”

  “Using our roads for runs,” Marsden snickered. “Is that right?”

  “Your roads?” Drake piped up. “Since when do you cunts own the fucking roads now?”

  “It’s okay.” Pickle looked at Drake and held out his hand. “I’ve got this, Drake.”

  Marsden smiled and pointed over at Drake. “Who’s this? Your new boyfriend, now that KP has croaked it?”

  “A friend,” Pickle sighed, trying to ignore the remark.

  “That van looks familiar,” Marsden said.

  “Why block the road off?” Vince piped up.

  “Recruitment,” was Marsden’s short answer.

  “Recruitment? So you force people to come with you?” Vince mocked with a laugh after his sentence.

  A banging could be heard at the side of the van and Pickle realised that Stephanie, Mildred and Quint were probably wondering what was happening. Pickle turned to Vince and told him to let them out.

  The three stepped out and congregated at the front of the prison van.

  There were now six of them and Marsden asked them what was in the back of the van. They looked at one another, but he wasn’t given an answer. This highlighted to Marsden that produce of some sort was in there.

  “An armoured van and whatever’s in the back,” the man cackled. “That’s temping not to let you by.”

  “We want past. That’s it,” said Pickle. “We don’t want trouble.”

  Marsden sighed and unfolded his arms. He stood up straight and said, “I was nice to you last week, Harry. But with you using the roads and possibly raiding places we rely on puts my village in bad shape.”

  “Your village?” Drake laughed. “You mean the place that you took over, where you killed people, raped women?”

  Marsden was silent and wondered how this man knew such stuff. He remained quiet and swallowed his anger.

  “Rich,” a voice called out from the passenger door.

  Marsden sighed, “What the fuck is it?”

  “The kid in here says he knows that Pickle guy.”

  Pickle guessed correctly that the voice came from Freddie Newton, also known as Manson, and took ten yards towards the two jeeps.

  Pickle had an inkling who could be stepping out of the jeep, and found that eventually he was correct with his guess.

  He didn’t know his surname, but a seventeen-year-old Richard stepped out of the back passenger side, and Pickle could see it was the young man that was with Tracy when he and Karen found them sleeping in a car.

  “How do you know him?” Marsden asked the teenager.

  “Tracy and I met him on the road, last week,” Richard started to explain.

  “What about the others?”

  Richard shook his head and said to Marsden, “I don’t know about the others, but Pickle’s a good guy.”

  “I know him better than you,” Marsden snapped, “and I can tell you he’s a violent psychopath.”

  “But—”

  “Keep quiet.” Marsden shushed the teenager and added, “Let the adults speak.”

  Richard took a few steps back, whilst Marsden poked his head through the opened window of one of the jeeps and had a short, passionate discussion with three guys that he had been transporting. He then went over to the other jeep and had a word with the driver.

  “Pickle?” Vince called out from behind and Branston looked over his shoulder. “Let’s go. I don’t like the look of this.”

  Pickle held up his hand. “Give me a minute.”

  Marsden took a few steps towards Pickle and both men were now a foot from one another.

  “When I first saw you last week,” Marsden began, “I was genuinely pleased to see a familiar face, even though we hardly saw eye to eye.”

  “And now?”

  Marsden shrugged his shoulders. “Depends on you.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Marsden cleared his throat and spoke with a soft tone so his voice wouldn’t be overheard. “Why don’t you come back to Gnosall with us?”

  “As guests?”

  Marsden shook his head. “As residents.”

  “I already told yer I have a place.”

  “I know you did, Harry, but I’m in a predicament now.”

  Harry Branston screwed his face and narrowed his eyes. “Predicament? And what predicament is that?”

  “My job is to feed my guys and girls. If I can’t do that, then they won’t look up to me.”

  “It was always about power with yer. Yer used to be like this on H Wing, trying to be top dog.”

  “Top dog?” Richard Marsden smiled. “There were too many hard people on that wing for a top dog. You being one of them.”

  Bored by the talk, Pickle asked Marsden, “So, are yer gonna let us by or not?”

  “Can’t let that happen.” Marsden shook his head. “Not yet?”

  “We could have rammed through yer lot with that,” Pickle pointed at the van behind him, “but decided to be civil and have a chat.”

  “We would have chased you down,” Marsden tittered. “Those kinds of vans only have a fifty to sixty maximum speed.”

  “Yer vehicles would be in no condition to chase us in the first place after that thing ploughing through yer two jeeps.”

  “Let’s not be childish about this, Pickle.” Marsden said with a groan. “What next? We’re gonna whip our dicks out and compare sizes?”

  “No point.” Pickle smirked. “I’d win, hands down.”

  Pickle could hear footsteps from behind and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Drake, and he was now standing next to Pickle.

  Drake
’s presence was seen as an act of aggression and three individuals left the vehicles and now five people were standing outside, including a petrified Richard who didn’t want to get involved with the potential fracas. Pickle recognised Manson, Hutty and Jamo, all were carrying knives but weren’t drawn yet.

  “Yer not helping, Drake,” Pickle spoke softly. “Yer just making things worse.”

  “Look,” Drake began. “I would love to stand and chat all day, but we need to get back and I need to shit like a moose, so hurry the fuck up, the pair of you.”

  “Feisty thing, isn’t he?” Marsden laughed.

  Drake glared at the man, ignoring others around him. Drake then turned to Pickle and snapped, “Fuck these cunts. Let’s turn around and go a different way.”

  Marsden took a step back and clicked his fingers.

  A second after Richard Marsden had clicked his fingers, two guys that Pickle recognised from before, called Jamo and Hutty, ran at him and Drake. Hutty was an average man in size and went for Drake.

  They both fell to the floor as Jamo reluctantly went for Pickle. Branston put a side kick to Jamo’s left knee and put the man down straightaway, making the man scream out in pain.

  “Don’t do this, Richard!” Pickle yelled. “We’re not here for trouble.”

  “Neither are we,” Marsden said. “Just hand me the keys and we’ll be on our way.”

  Pickle turned to the side and saw Drake standing up and brushing himself down, whilst Hutty lay on the ground, face bleeding.

  “This is stupid,” Manson snapped. “We shouldn’t be pussyfooting around these cunts.”

  “Yer keep out o’ this,” said Pickle, pointing at Manson’s frame, real name Freddie Newton. “Leave the talking to the grown ups.”

  Hutty and Jamo struggled to their feet and went back to the side of the jeep, shamefaced.

  The rage was too much for Manson to contain and ran at Pickle, swinging his right fist, connecting with the side of Pickle’s face, but Branston hardly flinched. Marsden grabbed Manson and pulled him back, screaming at him to control himself.

  “Apologies for my friend’s behaviour,” said Marsden. “He’s a loyal and passionate man. Rather highly strung.”