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

by Whittington, Shaun

  It wasn’t worth the risk. If Drake didn’t deliver the vehicles, Pickle was going to die the next day.

  For the last few days Pickle had been treated remarkably well. He had been fed, although wasn’t sure if his food had been spat in, and he even had had a wash, shave, and managed to brush his teeth a couple of times during the week.

  Harry rubbed his throbbing head and looked over to a half litre of water that sat in the corner and a yellow bucket and a towel next to it in case he needed to defecate. It was days like this that he wished he was back in prison.

  He moaned as he stood up and bent backwards, hearing his smarting back crack twice, then went over to the water and had a couple of mouths full. He winced as the liquid went down and wasn’t certain it had been filtered properly. If it had, it wasn’t as good as the stuff he was used to.

  He screwed the plastic lid back onto the crushed smelly bottle that had experienced better days, and sat down with his back against the wall, his knees up to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his shins.

  His thoughts, like they did every few minutes, began to be plagued with the deaths of Stephanie, David and Richard.

  The way they were killed was gruesome, as gruesome as Harry Branston had seen. He knew that Marsden, Manson, Hutty and Jamo were bad individuals, but even the viciousness of the young people’s deaths had surprised and repulsed Pickle. Manson was a bad individual and raped many of the remands on H Wing, but Manson’s actions alone, killing the three youngsters under the age of eighteen, had surprised the ex inmate.

  Branston’s eyes widened and his heart galloped with rage when the image of a manic Manson projected in his mind, cutting and slicing through Richard’s neck with the long knife he had, cutting the poor youngster like a pig in the garage. With a frightened Stephanie and David screaming through their gags, knowing that this was going to be their fate also, Manson sounded like he was enjoying himself.

  After Richard, Pickle couldn’t look. He was tied up and felt helpless when young David screamed Pickle’s name through his gag, followed by Stephanie.

  When he did eventually open his soaked eyes, they weren’t there anymore. There were no Richard, David, or Stephanie. The three bodies had been removed, and then two men entered the garage that Pickle had never seen before.

  One spent an hour going in and out of the garage with a bucket and emptying the bucket on the floor, washing and flooding the place, trying hopelessly to get rid of the blood. The other guy had a big garden brush and brushed the watery blood away and towards the exit door.

  Pickle’s stomach rumbled for food and was unsure, because of the lack of windows and the darkness, what the time usually was, unless an individual would come to the garage and Branston could see through the small gap if it was daylight or not.

  On this day, he had no idea of the time. He guessed that it was early morning, Saturday, because Jamo had told him that it was Friday the other day.

  Pickle’s questions had been answered when forty minutes later the garage door opened. It was Hutty, and he was bringing in breakfast for the incarcerated captive.

  It was a plate of cold macaroni cheese that had come from a tin, and Pickle devoured the food once Marsden’s guy left the garage.

  Chapter Two

  He sat back in his chair and looked around the place that used to be a staff room. He rubbed his face with both of his rough palms and released a moan and looked at his watch. It was nearly time to go.

  He looked over to the stove and could see that the pan was now boiling. Time for his coffee.

  He stood and turned the stove off. He picked up the pan of boiling water and began to put it into the mug, but spillage occurred when he heard someone enter the staff room door.

  Drake jumped and slammed the pan on the side, looking to his left to see who was responsible for the mild intrusion.

  “Jesus Christ!” he cussed. “I wished you cunts would knock. I nearly shat myself, as well as scalded my bits.”

  “I’m sorry,” the female apologised. It was Karen Bradley. She was dressed in black combats and had on a creased light blue t-shirt with the Nike emblem in white on the front of it.

  “Coffee?” Drake pointed at a mug.

  Karen shook her head. “We were wondering if you were ready,” she said. “Well, are you?”

  “Not quite.”

  “But … we’re all waiting.”

  “All?” Drake sat back down with the mug in his hand, and released a groan. “By all, you mean...?”

  “We don’t want to waste any time,” she said, without answering his question.

  “Just relax.” Drake took a slurp of his coffee. “We have all day. I’ll be half hour, tops.”

  “Really?” Karen huffed and folded her arms, thinking that Drake was being petty and controlling.

  He could see she was annoyed and was desperate to get out there and rescue Pickle, but it was early morning and they had all day.

  Drake tried to explain. “Right, Karen, this is my morning routine. I get up, I have a coffee, and that kick starts my bowels and wakes up Mr Dirt Box. I then go for a shit and I’m set up for the rest of the day. If the mood catches me right, I might even crack one off. Do you want to wait around for that?”

  “I suppose we’ve waited a week.” She looked impatient and he could understand her annoyance. Drake had to remind himself that it was understandable that she was on edge, as this day was going to determine if her best friend was going to survive or not.

  Drake told her, “Another half hour won’t make a difference. Just have a bit of patience.”

  “I’m just...” Karen decided to cut herself short. She couldn’t be bothered to give an explanation.

  “Marsden and his lot are expecting their topped up vehicles tomorrow. We only have one chance at this, so it doesn’t really matter what time we hit Gnosall. We have all the info from Shelley Tavernier, and she’s certain he would be kept near a garage at the entrance of the place, because that’s where they’ve put people in the past and it’s out of the way of the other villagers.”

  “I’m just on edge, Drake, that’s all.”

  “I can understand, sugar pop.” The man sounded patronising towards Karen, but it was never meant to sound that way. “But I can’t go out there with a full colon. It’s bad enough Double D out there shitting himself three times a day.”

  “And are you sure you want to go out there on just the mopeds?” Karen had concern in her voice and told Drake, “’Cause I’m not so sure that’s such a great idea. It’s a bit dangerous.”

  “I think so.” Drake nodded, but didn’t look convincing after Karen’s remark. “Easier to hide the bikes, don’t you think? Plus, if we bump into trouble we can ride those babies into the woods across a field or—”

  “Well, let’s hope if we are being chased, for whatever reason, that we’re near a field or a cluster of trees.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those mopeds would never outrun an average car.”

  Drake took another loud slurp of his black coffee, placed the mug on the table, and then leaned back and began to think.

  “Hate to admit it, wench,” he said with a grin, “but I think you may have a little point there.”

  “Good.” Karen nodded.

  “Maybe we should take one of the pickups or the Audi.”

  Karen blew out a relieved breath and told Drake that she was glad he was starting to think that way. “Oh?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t call me wench again, please.”

  “Sure think, Kaz,” Drake said with a smile, knowing that he had wound up the fiery young female.

  “The last guy that called we wench had a pint of his lager and lime poured over his head.”

  “Where was this?” Drake asked, amused by her comment.

  She had no idea why he was so inquisitive about such a pointless part of her past, but she explained after releasing an impatient moan. “We were in The Shrew, he tried to chat me up, cal
ling me a tidy wench, so I grabbed his drink and poured his lager and lime over him.”

  “How did you know it was lager and lime?”

  Karen was bemused why Drake was so interested, and replied, “Because he ordered it whilst me and my girls were at the bar, standing next to him. And then he started to chat me up.”

  “That’s shocking?” Drake shook his head.

  “He shouldn’t have called me that, Drake. Drunk or not.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, what kind of self respecting guy drinks a lager and lime, especially in public?”

  Karen never responded and glared at the man as he finished his hot beverage, mentally urging him to hurry the fuck up. She was certain he was trying to wind her up, and tried her best not to bite, but that was easier said than done.

  He finally slammed the mug down and said, “Right.”

  “Is that you ready?”

  Drake nodded. “Just need to curl one out in one of those portaloos and then we’re good to go.”

  “For God’s sake.” Karen turned on her heels. “We’ll wait outside for you. Don’t be too long.”

  Drake smiled as Karen stormed away and headed out of the staff room.

  One of his guards was present and he was stood by the opened door. His name was Frank, an old friend, and he occasionally brought booze back for Drake whenever he returned from a run.

  “Didn’t you see her barge in?” Drake asked his friend.

  “Feisty, isn’t she?”

  Drake smiled and said, “She sure is. I bet she goes like a rocket.”

  Frank hunched his shoulders. “She was in before I knew what was happening. Anyway, are you sure about this, Drake?”

  “About what? Going to Gnosall?”

  Frank nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Why not? Every man needs a little action now and again.”

  “This is not your fight,” Frank warned him. “Whether Pickle dies or not, they want to go back to Little Haywood.”

  “I know. And I would never ask anyone from here to do such a thing.”

  “So why bother?”

  Drake paused and when he spoke, his answer surprised Frank. “Because I like those kids that died, especially the girl.” Drake looked moved, which surprised his friend. It was an emotion he rarely showed since the beginning of the apocalypse. “And I like Pickle. Can’t just leave the cunt there.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Drake held out his hand and said, “So long, brother.”

  “Stay alive.”

  “I’ll try, but with Findlay gone with that brother of mine and the other treacherous cunts, you’re next in line for leader if I die.”

  “Well, in that case, definitely stay alive. I know someone has to take control, but I can’t be bothered with all of it.”

  Drake patted Frank on the shoulder and said, “Laters, man. Someone needs to poop before he goes on his adventure.”

  Drake walked away and Frank shook his head. “You better come back.”

  *

  Drake sat with his jeans down to his ankles and dropped his head in his hands. He was struggling to go and knew that with a poor diet and lack of water, he was lucky to go at all. Footsteps could be heard outside the portaloo and two female voices that Drake recognised straightaway were heard.

  Forgetting about his toilet activities, Drake lifted and turned his head slightly to get a better listen at what the females were saying.

  The voices from Beverley and a woman in her thirties called Sophie were heard, and it sounded like they were now arguing. Sophie seemed annoyed that she had found out that Drake was sleeping with Beverley. Sophie Fitzgerald and Drake had met in Ward 17 on a couple of occasions for sex, and it appeared that she thought she was the only one.

  “Don’t be so naive,” Drake could hear Beverley say to Sophie. “Drake has other women as well as us, you know.”

  “Who like?” Sophie demanded.

  “Patricia Johnson, Kelly Hudson...”

  “Kelly Hudson?” Drake shook his head and whispered to himself, “I haven’t laid a finger on her.”

  The arguing continued and Drake smiled as his bowels started to move. He cleaned himself up and left the toilet.

  He stepped out and could see the two females ten or so yards from the line of portaloos. They were unaware Drake had been in one of them, and this was apparent with the surprise on their faces.

  Drake released a smile and pointed behind him with his thumb. “I’d give it ten minutes if I were you, girls.”

  “Drake?” Beverley gulped and seemed lost for words.

  “Yes, I heard everything.” Drake held his hands up and then turned to Sophie. “Nothing personal, Sophie, but it’s just sex. We’re not gonna be going to the movies and popping into McDonald’s for a burger afterwards. Those days are gone.”

  “You don’t have to be patronising, Drake,” Sophie snapped. “I know all that. I’m more worried about sexual transmitted diseases. If you’re going round sleeping with all kinds of women—”

  “Enough!” Drake rubbed his sore head with his fingers and added, “We’ll do this later, if you want, but I need to go out.”

  “Don’t bother.” Sophie stormed off and yelled, “We’re finished!”

  He turned to Beverley and said, “By the way, I’ve never been with Kelly Hudson.”

  Beverley never said a word and watched as Drake walked away and headed for the entrance gate.

  Chapter Three

  Pickle’s breakfast was a vast improvement on the dog food he had been receiving over the last three days. Macaroni cheese wasn’t his favourite meal, especially cold, but he could have eaten it four times over. He knew Marsden wouldn’t want to waste good food on a captive and was surprised he was being fed ‘so well’ at all.

  When he wasn’t thinking about the deaths of the three teenagers, he thought about his time in prison, the inmates, and the officers on H Wing. His release by Jamie Thomson and Janine Perry was a relief, but it did bring other problems to the area. Over four hundred prisoners being released into Stafford, into the West Midlands, was only going to create problems for the lawlessness place and the residents of the neighbouring towns and villages. Marsden and his crew were a fine example of that.

  When he first arrived at Stafford Prison, Pickle was almost a recluse for the first month. Violence was a daily thing and his first experience was a mentally disturbed man by the name of Mark Bishop who stabbed a prisoner to death, and then slit his own wrists on the wing in front of everybody. He survived, but the victim, Robert McCallum, never stood a chance. It was found out that Bishop was being bullied into giving McCallum oral sex and Bishop eventually snapped.

  Officers were baffled how he managed to possess a steak knife, the weapon of the attack, and a massive investigation took place. He remembered some of the names of other inmates when he first arrived, like Ziggy Friday, Chris Zealand and Victor Wiley. The latter had left after just a few weeks. Inmates came and went inside, and then KP turned up, as well as others.

  He used his fingernail to pick at the bit of meat stuck inbetween his back teeth from days ago, and winced when he got an after taste of the food. Hutty told him, with a grin, that it was all they had. It was either that or starve.

  The door to the garage opened and Pickle sat up.

  He watched as the tall figure stepped inside and his blood began to simmer once he clocked his face.

  It was Manson. The tall man walked in, his hand still bandaged, and Pickle couldn’t hide his hatred for this man. Manson must have seen the rage on Pickle’s face, because Pickle’s annoyance brought a smile to the twisted individual.

  “How was breakfast?” Manson spoke with a giggle.

  “A bit cold,” Pickle sighed. “Not up to its usual standard.”

  “That’s because I spat in it before Hutty gave it to you.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “In fact,” Manson continued to titter. “I’ve spat in almost ever
y meal you’ve been given.”

  “Well, considerin’ I’ve been eatin’ dog food for the last couple o’ days, I’m sure it hasn’t made that much o’ a difference.”

  Manson looked annoyed by Pickle’s serene response and glared at the man.

  Pickle took an intake of breath and groaned, “Is there a reason for yer being ‘ere?”

  “I just thought we should bury the hatchet.”

  As soon as those words were spoken, Pickle didn’t believe what he was hearing, but he decided to play along. “Oh? And why’s that?”

  “You’ll be a free man soon, hopefully, and I don’t want there to be any hard feelings.” Manson then held up his bandaged hand. “I know I don’t have any.”

  “Are yer serious?” Pickle’s ankles were still strapped together and so were his wrists, but at least they were in front of him and not behind his back. This was so he could pick his food up, rather than bending over and eating like a dog, like in the first couple of days.

  Manson walked over to Pickle and sat on the floor, opposite him, and crossed his legs.

  “What are yer after?” Pickle groaned. “Haven’t yer done enough damage?”

  “I’ve never liked you,” Manson spoke up.

  “Aye and why’s that?”

  “You used to stroll about the prison like some kind of big shot. It used to piss me off.”

  “I never did yer any harm inside,” Pickle said. “The only thing I can think o’ is that yer were ... are jealous of me.”

  Manson produced a false smile. “And why the fuck would I be jealous of a faggot?”

  “Faggot?” Pickle released a short chuckle. “Yer had sex with guys as well. Well, yer raped them.”

  “Not the same, Pickle. You know that.”

  Pickle gazed at the man opposite him with hatred and asked if the killing of the kids was necessary.

  “Probably not,” Manson said with a straight face, “but Marsden wanted it done. And the look on your face...” Manson guffawed and ran his fingers through his long hair. “The beheading was my idea. Never did it before. I tried it out on a guy in the village, who deserved it.”