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

by Whittington, Shaun

  Manson picked up another dart and moaned, “Very disappointing, Pickle.” Manson shook his head and threw his fifth dart. “If yer gonna crack jokes, at least make them funny, faggot.” The dart hit Pickle’s chest, in the centre. It stayed in.

  Pickle winced with the pain from the new dart in his body and could feel the blood trickling down his skin.

  “One more time. Vehicles?”

  “Why do yer want to know? David has probably already told yer anyway.”

  “Double clarification.” Manson picked up the final dart.

  “What do yer want to know for? Yer thinking about trading me for our wheels? Drake won’t do that for one man.”

  “You catch on quick.”

  “So are yer gonna throw that dart, or what?” Pickle said.

  Manson threw it and Pickle never flinched as it struck him in the left forearm. “Take that, faggot.”

  “Go fuck yerself, yer straight, tit sucking, fanny-fucking rapist cunt.”

  “You’re right, Pickle,” Manson guffawed. “I do rape now and again. And I’ve got my eye on that young blonde you brought with you.”

  “She’s fourteen, yer sick fuck.”

  Manson laughed and his eyes widened. “Even better.”

  “Well, I suppose someone like yer have to resort to that. Yer don’t have an option.”

  “What are you talking about, Harry?”

  “In the real world I bet yer couldn’t get laid in a monkey’s whorehouse with a handful o’ bananas.”

  Manson stood up and brushed himself down and asked, “You finished?”

  Pickle nodded.

  Manson ran at Pickle and kicked him in the stomach. The wind was taken away from Pickle and he fell to the side and received another kick in his chest.

  “That’s enough!” Marsden called out.

  Manson turned around and never heard Richard Marsden come in. Marsden had his head in his hands and said to Manson, “Take those darts out of his body and get over to the wall, out of the way! I thought you were gonna give him a bit of a slap, not torture the prick.”

  Manson laughed and did as he was told.

  He quickly pulled the darts out of Pickle’s body, as well as the dart that missed him, making the man wince with discomfort. He put them in his small bag and stuffed them in his pocket and went over to the wall.

  “Sorry about that.” Marsden turned and smiled at Pickle. “He can be a bit over zealous sometimes.”

  “Yer don’t say.”

  “I’ll get yer cleaned up and give you another shirt.”

  “What are yer actually going to do to us?” Pickle asked. “I mean, if yer want revenge for the other day, then let the kids go and focus yer attention on me. Yer have a van and the supplies. Yer have hit the jackpot.”

  “You’re right,” Marsden said. “But with you guys here, I may as well get as much as I can.”

  “What are yer talking about?”

  “Coming across you lot was a stroke of luck. But I want more.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Hutty and Jamo had untied Pickle. They then took off Pickle’s shirt, then used a wet sponge to wash away the blood from his chest and stomach area. Jamo then threw Pickle a plain black T-shirt and told him to put it on.

  “What’s happening now?” Pickle coughed and then twisted his face in discomfort. “Yer gonna start bowling balls at me?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Manson snapped. “If you’re gonna come out with cheeky lines, make them funny.”

  “No, Harry.” Marsden sighed and decided to sit on the floor, only a couple of yards from Pickle. “What’s going to happen next is the final stage. You see, when you’re in charge of a camp, people look up to you. You feel responsible for them and will do anything to keep the community at an advantage.”

  “Yer don’t feel responsible for people here,” Pickle laughed at Marsden. “Yer come in and bully, sometimes kill them, and yer think they respect yer. They fear yer, that’s all. Sure, maybe about a dozen converts have yer back, but don’t believe that the people of Gnosall are behind yer. If yer lot left, it’d be a huge sigh o’ relief for the poor bastards.”

  “I disagree.” Marsden smiled, hiding his annoyance. “I bet this Drake character has done a few naughty things to enhance survival for his guys, and you, too. I’m just doing the same.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Pickle groaned. “What are yer gonna do?”

  Marsden released a sharp whistle and Manson left the garage at the side door. Minutes later, Stephanie and David were ushered in by Manson.

  “What’s happening?” David cried.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Manson struck the teenager in the stomach with the handle of the machete he was holding.

  David collapsed to the floor and Stephanie was told to get on her knees.

  She looked over at Pickle with tears in her eyes and said, “Pickle?”

  “It’s okay,” said Pickle. “Just stay calm.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s me they want, not yer guys.”

  “But...” Stephanie shrieked as Manson kneed her in her side, forcing her to collapse, and told her to shut the fuck up.

  “Fuck’s sake!” Pickle exclaimed. “Leave them alone! They’re both still children!”

  “Shut the fuck up, gay boy!” Manson growled.

  Manson then turned to Hutty and Jamo and told them to tie Pickle up again, including his legs.

  Once they were done, Marsden looked Pickle’s way, “Bye, Pickle.”

  Marsden left the garage and Manson ordered Hutty and Jamo to get Richard back.

  Pickle winked at a petrified David and tried to calm him. The boy was shaking, crying, and Pickle felt for the lad.

  The side door to the garage opened and Pickle could see Hutty and Jamo dragging an injured Richard into the area. Both men had their hands under each armpit and dropped him on the hard floor next to David and Stephanie.

  Jamo left the garage once more and brought in a large light brown sack. It looked like a potato sack and this baffled Pickle.

  “Stay outside,” Manson ordered Jamo. “Unless it’s Marsden, don’t let anybody in.”

  Groaning could be heard from a half conscious Richard, and Manson addressed the captives in the small area.

  “Some of you in here will deserve what’s coming to you,” he began, enjoying his own performance. He then looked at young David, “But for you, son, it’s just rotten luck.”

  “Let him go, at least,” Pickle said.

  Pickle knew what Manson meant about the individuals deserving what was coming to them. Stephanie shot an arrow in Manson’s hand, Richard turned traitor, and Pickle assaulted some colleagues and injured Manson’s other hand.

  “Can’t be done.” Manson shook his head. “The youngster is part of the message that we’re going to send to this Drake guy.”

  “What message?” Pickle tried his best to free himself, but his tied hands weren’t shifting.

  “That we’re not to be fucked with. Maybe this message will help Drake to comply and not hesitate.”

  “I thought you were trading us in for the vehicles at the hospital, is that right?”

  “We...”

  More groaning came from Richard, and a winded Stephanie went over to see how he was.

  “Gonna gag him?” Manson said to Hutty. “He’s starting to get on my fucking nerves.”

  “I don’t have a gag.” Hutty hunched his shoulders.

  “Fine,” he huffed, and then nodded at Richard who was motionless on the floor. “Stab the cunt.”

  “What?”

  “You fucking heard me.”

  Stephanie gasped and looked at Pickle for support, but the ex inmate lay on the floor, helpless, with his limbs tied together. All he could do was watch.

  “I can’t do it.” Hutty shook his head. “Don’t make me do it.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Manson huffed. “He’s a fucking turncoat!”

  “He’s o
nly a kid.”

  “He’s seventeen!” Manson turned to Jamo, wondering if he would do it, but he also refused.

  Pickle smiled at their reluctance and had at least some respect for the two men, despite their association with Marsden and the psychotic Manson.

  “Honestly,” Manson snapped and held out the machete. “You’re a bunch of fucking pussies.”

  Manson turned to David and Stephanie and pointed the blade at the pair of them. He warned, “We have people in this village, going about their business. As far as they’re concerned, you are the bad guys that tried to kill us when we were on the road. Now, whatever you do, don’t fucking make a noise.”

  “What are yer talking about?” Pickle snapped.

  Ignoring Pickle, Manson kept his eyes locked on the two teenagers and said, “Put your hands over your mouth.”

  David and Stephanie looked at one another, bemused by his instruction.

  “Do it!”

  A confused David and Stephanie did as they were told and Pickle opened his mouth to ask what Manson was playing at, but his words were stopped when the ex-jailbird stood over Richard and then dropped to his knees, bringing the blade behind his head.

  Manson brought the blade down and it connected with Richard’s neck, making David scream through his hands. Stephanie and Pickle looked on in shock, but David turned away, closing his eyes, and never witnessed the other two strikes that followed that removed Richard’s head from his body.

  “Jesus!” Manson laughed as the blood came out faster than he thought, spilling out and making its way over to the shoes of a shocked Stephanie and David.

  Manson stood up and tried to catch his breath. He looked at his right hand and winced with discomfort. “Think I’m gonna regret that,” he snickered, watching the blood running off the steel. “I think I might have re-opened up the wound.” He then turned to Stephanie and glared. “You know, the one that you gave me, you little cunt.”

  “What was I suppose to do?” Stephanie sobbed. “Let you kill Pickle?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have fucking done!”

  “Takes a real man to kill someone that’s already unconscious, doesn’t it?” Pickle yelled. His eyes narrowed as he clocked the headless body of Richard. “Pussies? Yer the fucking pussy. Yer always have been, even in the prison, hiding behind Marsden, you fucking prick!”

  “Careful, Pickle.” Manson pointed at the ex-con with the dripping blade.

  “Or what, bellend? Or what?”

  “Didn’t you see what I just did?”

  “I saw a fucking coward behead an unarmed and unconscious young man who had his whole life ahead o’ him! That’s what I fuckin’ saw!”

  “Good, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Yer are one sick bastard,” Pickle spat. “Untie these ropes and we’ll go man to man. Let’s see how tough yer really are.”

  Manson walked over to Pickle and held the bloody blade in his right hand. Pickle could see there was still blood running off it.

  “What the fuck yer gonna do, yer mad bastard?” Pickle asked, not knowing if he was going to get an answer.

  Manson crouched down and smiled at Harry Branston and snarled, putting the blade across his throat, and whispered, “This is where the fun begins.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Graham Fellows was a man in his thirties. He never had a family before the apocalypse began, and was one of the lucky ones that didn’t have to endure witnessing family members dying at the hands of the dead.

  His mother and father both died before he hit his thirties and the man had never had a partner. In fact, Graham Fellows was a virgin and had never been lucky enough to have someone. He had known since his teens that he was gay, and never pursued a male partner. His father was a religious man and believed it was wrong, and even after his death, Graham didn’t feel the need to satisfy his sexual needs because of the influence of his father.

  He had to spend years of making up stories about one night stands with females, if his dad ever asked, but deep down Graham was certain that his mother and father both knew, but didn’t want to bring the subject up for fear of the truth. Graham Fellows was their only son, and being gay meant no grandchildren for the pair of them.

  Graham had lived in Gnosall all his life and worked at the garden centre in Wolseley.

  The village was in a mess and lacked leadership before Marsden and his crew showed up, and although he welcomed their arrival, some of the things they did to other individuals who didn’t follow the new-implemented rules were sickening. People he had known all his life had been beaten, and the ones that wanted to leave and tried to escape were killed if they were unsuccessful. Not many people protested about their hard methods because they arrived with vehicles and brought food to the place. Those that did vent their disapproval were beaten, or worse.

  Graham had even heard rumours that the tall character that they nicknamed Manson had visited 4 Anchor Way, one of the dozen streets in the village, and had raped both Chrissy and Gail Prendergast, mother and daughter. Gail was a retired teacher and her nineteen-year-old daughter was a student at Stafford College. Her dad had been dead for years.

  Graham was now entering Milford and had been on the road for eleven minutes. The vehicle he was driving was an old Meriva. It was a car that belonged to Mr Anderson, but he had died from a heart attack shortly after Marsden arrived at the village.

  He looked at the fuel gauge and could see it was on its last bar, but probably enough to get him to his destination and back to Gnosall village.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed.

  He slowed the vehicle down as three of the dead could be seen in the middle of the road, near The Barley Mow pub. The vehicle was low in fuel and wasn’t a personal one of Marsden’s, unlike the jeeps he arrived in, so Graham knew nothing would be said if he ran them down and arrived back with the car damaged. But it was a hell of a risk. What if he hit the dead and veered off the road, or it damaged the car’s radiator, or body parts got stuck in the wheels?

  It wasn’t worth the risk, he thought. He slowed down and decided to slowly drive by them. They would slap the windows of the car as he drove by, but they wouldn’t get in.

  He had a mission set for him by Marsden. He had been volunteered and was too scared to turn him down. It was simple.

  He had a message to deliver to Drake.

  Graham drove around the three dead and, as predicted, they approached the car and slapped the windows with their rotten hands as he drove by.

  “Fuckers,” he groaned.

  Graham had killed a few of the dead as the months went by, but it was always one on one. He had little experience handling a group of them and didn’t want to start today.

  He went by the pub on his right and ascended a hill that bent sharply.

  He knew he was close.

  He had been to Stafford Hospital before. It was before the apocalypse, and it was before the huge inquiry that investigated in many unnecessary deaths to patients due to lack of care and understaffing.

  He had been a visitor at the hospital when his dad was in for his triple heart bypass and the staff were excellent, so the negative news that came out years after was a surprise.

  Graham looked to his left, at the passenger seat, and there was a letter, sealed in an envelope, with Drake written on the envelope in black biro. A letter that Marsden had personally written.

  Graham had no idea of the content of what was in the letter. He also didn’t know what was in the brown potato sack in the boot of the car, but both had to be delivered to the gate.

  One mile to the hospital.

  He turned right at a roundabout and saw parts of bodies strewn across the road and pavement.

  The limbs were hard to avoid, and although Graham slowed down and tried to swerve around larger limbs like legs and arms, his tyres still made contact with parts that had been ripped away from the poor victims.

  Graham had passed by the worst of it and had to slow down so
he could squeeze inbetween two cars that had collided with one another.

  Probably happened on the first day, he thought. When the panic was at its highest.

  He could see the entrance of the hospital from a distance. He pulled the vehicle over, behind another vehicle that had been abandoned, and turned the engine off. If he drove straight up to the gate, it would cause mass panic and he’d be attacked. Graham also guessed correctly that there were probably guards outside anyway, so he was going to have to watch the place before dropping off the sack and letter.

  The street leading to the entrance of the hospital was residential and there were many abandoned cars and overgrown lawns, so sneaking up to the gate was doable.

  Graham had a look around and was pleased that there were no dangers about. He stepped out of the car, taking the keys and letter with him, and went round to the boot to get the sack. He looked up the street and saw a guard behind the gate. His back was turned.

  Once the heavy sack was slung over his shoulder and the letter and keys in his pocket, he went to the left side of the street and crept across the lawns, keeping out of view from the gate where he could be spotted by the guard, and made the slow process of going up the street by climbing hedges, fences, and dodging garden gnomes, bushes and assembled trampolines. There were two in the front gardens. He reached the final garden and this one had a large garage that Graham could hide behind.

  Exhausted from all the climbing, the unfit Graham Fellows decided to have a sit down with his back against the wall of the garage. He sat for a few minutes, then popped his head around the garage wall and watched the gate for a while.

  After a couple of minutes, he noticed two guards walking by the gate, going in opposite directions, and after that was witnessed, Graham began to count. He counted three hundred and nine seconds, just over five minutes, when they passed the gate again.

  He waited thirty seconds and ran towards the gate, with the heavy sack in his right hand. The guard behind the gate turned around and had a look of panic and surprise on his face. He reached for his radio as Graham advanced, and managed to make the call as Graham placed the sack on the floor, ten yards form the gate.