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

by Whittington, Shaun

  “We’re going back to Colwyn,” Karen said. “You can’t go to that wholesalers in your condition.”

  “Stop mothering me, woman,” Pickle mumbled. “I’ll be fine. We’re going, and that’s that.”

  “Well, you’re not driving to the place. Vince or myself will do that.”

  Vincent Kindl decided to stay out of the minor squabble and was handed a bowl. The female with the raincoat poured some soup into it and gave him a clean plastic spoon.

  The camp consisted mainly of females, although a couple of males could be seen, and each one was busy, whether it was washing clothes or cooking.

  Sapphire sat opposite Vince, looking at him over the small fire, and had a bowl herself. The woman in the raincoat walked away, leaving the four of them.

  Pickle and Karen were softly conversing, still bickering gently about his determination to complete the supply run, and Vince turned his attention to Sapphire inbetween slurping his soup.

  “You know, we have a place a few miles from here,” Vince began. “Even have a couple of vacant houses left and—”

  “We’re happy here,” Sapphire interrupted.

  “But what about the winter?”

  “We’ll get through it.” Sapphire took a mouthful of soup. “God will get us through it.”

  “Of course he will.” Vince smiled, satirising her comment. He decided not to say anything further. After all, he was the guest and he didn’t want to offend his gracious host.

  “Nice soup.” Vince took a slurp and swallowed before adding, “What is it?”

  “Bit of everything.” Sapphire hunched her shoulders. “Mainly squirrel.”

  “Squirrel?” Vince elevated his eyebrows. “Don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of squirrel soup.”

  “You have now.”

  “Grey or red?”

  Sapphire smiled. “Grey.”

  “Good. I hate those North American rats, coming over here and killing our red Brits,” he tried to joke.

  Twenty minutes had passed and Vince, Pickle and Karen hinted that it was time to go. Sapphire was the first of the four to stand and brushed herself down.

  “Thanks for savin’ ma life.” Pickle shook Sapphire’s hand, still looking unsteady on his feet.

  “Anytime.” She smiled. “It wasn’t your time. You know, when I first met Vince, he made a sarcastic remark about you, being a Christian, yet a criminal.”

  “You remember that?” Vince looked astonished.

  Sapphire smiled. “Of course. You said, and I quote: I would like him. He likes men, he’s an ex-drug baron that had people killed and injured, and spent a lot of time in jail. Then you made a sarcastic remark about Pickle being a true Christian.”

  “Jesus,” Vince huffed. “Talk about throwing somebody under the bus.”

  Pickle flashed Vince a hard stare, making the man blush.

  Vince hunched his shoulders. “I was just having a laugh.”

  “Anyway,” Pickle rubbed his head and said, “We need to go now.”

  “I’m driving,” Vince spoke up.

  Pickle nodded his head in defeat. “Whatever.”

  The three bid farewell to the small group and Sapphire was pleased that she briefly had different company.

  “You really need to up yer game, as far as security is concerned,” Pickle said. “One day, yer gonna come across some nasty people.”

  “God will protect us,” Sapphire said.

  “Well, he can’t be everywhere. Even I’ve had to put ma trust in ma own brute strength in order to survive.”

  “Right, shall we go?” Vince clapped his hands together. “Before we’re given a sermon.”

  “Don’t be so rude, Vince,” Pickle responded.

  “He was rude the last time we met,” said Karen.

  “That’s okay.” Sapphire looked at Vince and smiled. “God is on his side, whatever Vince may think.”

  “Phew.” Vince mockingly wiped his brow. “That’s a relief.”

  “Thanks for everything,” said Pickle. “For saving me, yer hospitality—”

  “Don’t forget the grey squirrel soup.”

  Ignoring Vince, Harry Branston sighed and told Sapphire where they were staying and that she and her small gathering were more than welcome to pop in from time to time, or even stay the night.

  “That’s very kind,” said Sapphire. “However, we very rarely venture out too far. I fear that we shall never meet again, but feel free to look us up if ever you get yourself into a...” Sapphire released a grin and finished off her sentence, “...pickle, Pickle.”

  “I see what yer did there,” Pickle chuckled.

  “Give me strength,” Vince moaned. He grabbed Pickle by the shoulder and said, “Shall we go now? The banter between you two is kind of tragic.”

  Pickle released an embarrassed smile as Vince was the first to walk away. Karen thanked Sapphire again and followed Vince, and Pickle did the same after wishing the woman luck.

  Pickle looked over his shoulder to see that Sapphire had disappeared. He then turned to Vince and said, “Yer weren’t very nice to her.”

  “To Sapphire?” Vince asked.

  Pickle nodded.

  “Look, Pickle…” Vince released a large groan. “I do respect the fact that you believe in God and all that—”

  “Do yer? Yer have a funny way o’ showin’ it.”

  “I do. But whenever I hear statements like: we have God on our side, it does my head in. When skilled surgeons save the life of someone and the relatives thank God, it gets on my nerves. It happened when my son died.”

  “What do you mean?” Karen chipped in.

  “At the funeral, a couple of people told me after the service that he was with God now and in a safe place. Absolute crap!”

  Pickle could see Vince was animated and decided to keep his mouth shut. He had obviously hit a nerve with Kindl and didn’t want to fall out with the man.

  The three individuals managed the walk back to the jeep with zero incidents, in silence. Vince took the wheel, once they were inside the vehicle, and pulled away with a dazed Pickle sitting inbetween him and Karen.

  Chapter Thirty

  A knock on the door was heard seconds after Drake had entered the staff room. He cursed under his breath about not being given some peace. The few gulps of whisky he had consumed by the river had made him sleepy, and he was hoping that he could get his head down on the table for an hour. Maybe he should have told someone to stay guard and instructed them for him not to be disturbed.

  “Who is it?” he snapped.

  “Patricia,” came the female voice room behind the door.

  Drake felt terrible straightaway and asked her to come in. Out of all the residents on the grounds, Patricia was one of his favourites.

  The door opened and Patricia Johnson popped her head in the room. “Sorry, was I disturbing you?”

  “No.” Drake waved at the woman and shook his head at himself. “I’m just being a grumpy bastard. What is it that you’re after?”

  “I needed a clean glass.”

  “Right.” Drake rubbed his weary head and sat down at the table. He pointed over at the cupboard under the sink. “If you can find one, keep it.”

  Patricia could sense that Drake wasn’t in the mood and could see him sitting with his head in his hands. She crouched down and opened the cupboard under the sink. She rummaged around and took out a picture and made an “Oh” noise.

  Drake lifted his head and turned to see Patricia standing, holding a photograph. She gazed at the photo of a pretty woman with a boy. The two of them were smiling, their heads together. Mother and son were standing and Patricia could see the baby swing in the background and a pond. It was obviously taken at a park, possibly by the father, and she turned to look at Drake, convinced that it was him that had taken the photograph.

  “You don’t see many of these,” Patricia said. “I think for the last ten years I took photos with my phone.”

  “That was,”
Drake admitted. “I had some company, months ago, to develop them from my phone. Kept it in my pocket whenever I went out riding with the lads. Don’t know why.”

  “I never had you down as the superstitious type, Drake.” Patricia smiled and felt for the man. She sometimes forgot that Drake had lost his family.

  “I’m not.”

  “You had a beautiful son,” said Patricia, and was surprised to feel emotion in her voice.

  “I know.” Drake spoke in almost a whisper.

  Patricia opened her mouth to ask the man that she occasionally slept with a question, but she lost her nerve. Drake could see she wanted to ask him something and urged her to continue.

  Patricia cleared her throat. “I was going to ask you how they passed.”

  Drake smiled thinly, then released a short laugh. “Passed? That’s a nice way of putting it. A great way of sugar coating it, I suppose. But in reality their deaths were violent ones.”

  Patricia placed the photograph on the side, ready to leave the room. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I was out with the lads when all hell broke loose,” he sniffed. “I came back home to find my little town in chaos.”

  “You stayed in Brereton, right?”

  Drake nodded. “Some of my neighbours were out, battling those freaks. I then saw that the remains of my wife and boy were on the front garden.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, Drake.” Patricia could feel herself choking and wrapped her right hand around her throat and started to rub it.

  “Those fuckers were everywhere. All I could hear were screams. So forgive me if I laugh when you mention them passing away. They never passed on. They were ripped to shreds, like animals. My wife was on her back with her insides out, and my little boy had had his head ripped away from his body.”

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  Drake looked at Patricia and could see she was upset. He produced a small smile, telling her that it was okay.

  “What happened after that?” she asked him.

  Drake thought for a moment and hunched his shoulders. “I obviously lost the plot.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I started attacking the dead with my bare fists. God knows how I never got bitten. Then a group of them overpowered me. I somehow managed to escape, and abandoned my bike. I went to the woods and phoned some of the guys and they picked me up.”

  “You’ve never been back to your place?”

  He shook his head.

  Patricia cleared her throat and said, “I was talking to Karen a few days ago and she told me that she went back to her old place a couple of months after finding her partner dead.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said that she went there to pick up some clothes, as the Sandy Lane camp that they were going to join was only a few hundred yards from where she stayed. She said it helped her going back, even seeing her partner.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “All this has affected many people in different ways, Drake. Maybe if you went back for some kind of closure, you would look after yourself a little better, maybe be a better person.”

  “Look after myself better? Better person?”

  “Drake, I can smell booze off you every other day.”

  “Jesus.” Drake was taken aback by her comment and snapped, “They’ve only been dead for four months, and what I witnessed will stay with me for the rest of my life.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but it’s worth a try.”

  Drake’s anger started to dilute when he thought about what Patricia had said. He lowered his head slightly and deliberated. He took in a deep breath and said, “Maybe next time I go out on a run, I’ll pop in and see what’s what.”

  “I’m only saying it because of what Karen told me,” said Patricia. “I’m just trying to help. Well … kind of.”

  Patricia Johnson looked at the photograph by the side of the sink once more and grabbed a glass. She walked away and headed to the door of the staff room.

  Drake called after her and Patricia turned around.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Thanks.”

  “What for?”

  Drake hunched his shoulders and could feel his eyes filling.

  She smiled and left the room. As soon as the door was closed, Drake lost control and sobbed hard. His chest experienced shooting pains and he wasn’t sure if it was grief, pain, or even the start of a heart attack. The latter he would welcome.

  He ran his fingers over his shaved head and his sobbing continued for a further three minutes before he tried to compose himself. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, aware that the staff room door could be knocked any second by one of his guards or the residents of the hospital, and the last thing he wanted was for any one of them to see him in such a mess. It’d be the talk of the hospital.

  He stood up and walked over to the sink. He grabbed half a jar of purified water and used it to splash his face.

  “Come on, man. Pull yourself together.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The jeep turned off the A51 and pulled up outside the wholesalers in Weston. The car park was abandoned, with the exception of three cars and thirteen dead bodies scattered across it. The jeep pulling in didn’t disturb the ravenous crows that were pecking on the cadavers, and all thirty-one of them never moved once Vince, Karen and Pickle stepped out of the vehicle and made their way to the entrance.

  Pickle pulled his t-shirt over his nose and complained to his two companions that the smell was the worst he had ever experienced.

  Vince told the two of them to remain where they were whilst he checked out the perimeter of the building. He jogged away, disappearing round the corner and was back within a minute.

  “All clear,” Vince announced.

  They stepped inside and their hearts dropped when they were greeted by empty racking and shelves.

  “What did you expect?” Vince kicked at an empty carton of orange juice in frustration. “It’s been four months. This place, like many others, probably got looted in the first week.”

  “Let’s have a look around before grabbing a trolley,” Pickle said.

  They remained together as they headed down the aisle and stepped over broken bottles and liquid over the floor. The second aisle stunk of booze and they could see broken bottles of gin and whisky on the hard floor. The third aisle presented a dead body, but there were a few jars of olives available as well as tuna. They checked the last three aisles and witnessed more dead bodies and mouldy bread rolls, fish that stunk like a dozen corpses, but there were packets of cookies still left, as well as tins of beans and litres of sparkling water and tonic water.

  “It’s better than nothing,” said Karen, and both men agreed with a single nod.

  “Let’s all grab a trolley and fill the jeep up,” said Pickle.

  Machetes were put away and Vince, Karen and Pickle spent over fifteen minutes filling their trolley. They stepped outside together and filled the jeep’s boot and most of the back seats.

  “One last look around?” Pickle spoke up.

  Vince and Karen looked at one another and Harry Branston knew they just wanted to get off.

  “Yer know what?” Pickle chuckled, rubbing his right hand over his stubbly face. “I’ll take a quick look, make sure we didn’t miss anything. Yer guys hang back.”

  “There’s nothing in there, Pickle,” Karen groaned.

  “I won’t be long.”

  Pickle stepped inside and went past the aisles and around the clothes area that was almost bare. A few t-shirts were left lying around, but they were too small for his build. He then heard a sound behind him, making him turn one-eighty in a second, but his eyes never picked up anything.

  He picked up a door that was situated at the side of the building, near where the dairy products would have been, and made slow steps over to it, trying to make as less noise as possible in the empty establishment, and went up the metal stairs to get to it.

  *
r />   The youngster had finished singing songs in his head and decided to rest. The boredom was killing his mental state, but he was alive and he knew that out there, on his own, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  He sat in the corner of the room and leaned his head back with his eyes closed. Flashbacks of his father’s demise entered his head, and the youngster could feel his eyes watering.

  When he and his dad checked out the place weeks ago, they were certain that the area was clear. Three of the dead came out from one of the aisles and grabbed the youngster. His dad jumped inbetween the melee and had managed to separate his son from the dead before any of them had managed to take a bite out of him, but this unfortunately resulted in his father’s demise.

  The three Snatchers took his dad down to the floor and he watched for a few seconds, in shock, his dad being eaten.

  The man screamed at his son to run to the room on the first floor and the boy did what he was told. He ran away, with the sound of his dad’s screaming in his ears, and never looked back. He ran up the metal stairs and the door to the staff room was quickly shut behind him. There was food stocked up in the staff room, which was a relief, but there was no lock on the door. Why would there be? It was a staff room.

  The screams of his dad soon stopped, and the distraught boy started to stack chairs up against the door.

  People did arrive over the weeks, but thankfully never tried the staff room. The last visitors had put the dead down, which he was thankful for, but he was too scared to leave the place.

  Now, there was another presence in the place, and the youngster gulped and his heart raced when he could hear boots climbing the steps.

  *

  Once Pickle was near the door, he placed his ear against it, but couldn’t hear a thing. He placed his left hand on the door handle, machete still in his right, and pushed down slowly with his ear still pressed against the wood. Still nothing.