Snatchers (Book 14): The Dead Don't Hate

by Whittington, Shaun

  She stood up and decided to leave Ward 22 once more. She told the guard that she was going for a wander, again, and headed outside.

  She stepped out with her left hand resting on the handle of her machete that was tucked in her belt, and headed for the reception building where her old accident and emergency department used to be, and decided to have a sneaky coffee in the staff room where Drake stayed a lot.

  She approached the corridor where the staff room was based and could see a bored guard loitering in the corridor. Instead of sneaking in, she decided to be brash and marched up to the room and placed her hand on the doorknob.

  The guard, whose name she didn’t know, looked to be one of the WOE group. He wore blue jeans, black T-shirt, and was wearing a leather jacket with the three initials sewn onto the back of it.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he called out, striding towards her.

  “Going into my old staff room,” Karen remarked.

  “Um ... what?”

  He obviously didn’t know what she was talking about, so Bradley explained to him.

  “I used to work here,” she said, and then pointed to the staff room door, “and this used to be where I took my breaks, when I could.”

  “So are you taking a nostalgic look around?” the guard queried.

  “Yeah. Don’t mind, do you?”

  “Well, Drake uses it as his office.”

  Karen flirtingly smiled at the man and said, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

  “Oh, go on then.” The guard looked uncomfortable and said, “Just don’t be long, okay?”

  Karen saluted the man and stepped inside and quickly shut the door behind her.

  She sat on a chair and sat where she would normally sit if she fancied a quick coffee or tea.

  She revealed a smile and thought about her colleagues.

  She decided to look in the cupboards and remembered that there were many mugs in the cupboard that were situated above the sink. Were they still there?

  She had never thought to do this in the past whenever she had been here. The thought had just come to her.

  She got on her feet and went over to the cupboard that was situated above the sink. She smiled as she could see the cups, not all of them, were still present.

  There was a picture of a football on one of the cups with ‘Matt’s Mug’ on it, and a black mug that had white lettering written on it with ‘Another Eight Hours Of Pretending To Work.’ She clocked a Liverpool FC mug that one of the porters used to use, and a cup Karen used to use herself. It was a pink mug with, ‘I’m not bossy. I’m the boss,’ written in white lettering.

  Feeling emotional, she took the mug and then looked at the side of the sink. A pan was available, camping stove, and some filtered water in a jar.

  “Fuck it. He won’t mind.”

  Karen decided to go into the cupboard and look for some coffee. She peered in, but couldn’t see anything. She slowly dropped to her knees and rummaged through and could feel a bottle, which she pulled out. It was a half bottle of Irish whisky and she became immediately annoyed.

  “Cheeky bastard.” She shook her head and began to feel anger towards the leader of the camp.

  She put the whisky back where she had found it, or at least hoped, and continued to look for coffee. Even tea bags would have done, but it was a decent amount of caffeine that she craved.

  She rummaged further and pulled out a photograph of a boy and his mum at the park.

  She knew straightaway that it was Drake’s family. She just knew.

  Her anger for Drake began to dissipate. Yes, he was still selfish for keeping a bottle of booze for himself, but the photograph showed her what he had lost. Karen had lost her fiancée and unborn baby, as well as other family members such as cousins, but Drake had lost more. He had lost a wife, a woman he had known for years and probably deeply loved, and a boy that was probably his world.

  She stopped looking for the coffee and decided to get out of there after the discovery. She decided to keep the whisky a secret.

  She was sure there had been other bottles. And then she remembered something Pickle had said, mentioning that Drake was smelling of booze one of the days, and then she thought about the food runs. It was always his men that did them. Were they all taking liberties? Karen then suddenly started to think rationally and thought that if they were out there, risking their lives so they could feed others, then why should they not get some perks?

  Karen was calming down and decided to leave. She headed for the door and a knock was heard before she opened it.

  The door was opened and Karen told the guard she was on her way out anyway.

  “Just had a call,” the guard spoke, pointing at his radio.

  “Oh.”

  “Stephen Rowley’s looking for you. He’s waiting for you outside the clinic.”

  “Great,” she sighed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The prison van had two miles to go before they reached Stafford, and could transport the birds out of the vehicle.

  Vince, Pickle and Drake never mentioned the colourful character of Quint, who was in the back with the girls.

  All three had been silent until Drake hit a bend and could see a straight road with an unwelcoming sight that made Drake hit the brakes.

  “Jesus suffering fuck!” Vince exclaimed.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Drake groaned.

  All three looked out and could see a horde congregating in a circle, in the middle of the road. Some were staggering in a circle, like some kind of drunken maypole dance, and the three guys could just about see scores of the dead on their knees. They were feasting on something, but they didn’t know what.

  The screech of the van’s brakes had been noticed by some of the horde, and some of the dead began to struggle their way over towards the van.

  Drake slipped the vehicle into neutral and looked at his passengers for some advice. “So what now?”

  “Just ram through them,” said Vince.

  “I’m not sure.” Pickle was in two minds and both men could see the confusion on his face. “What if we get stuck? We have three other people to think about in the back.”

  “I suppose.” Drake sighed and slipped the van into reverse. “I can go another way. May take a little longer, though.”

  He began to perform a turn in the road, and by the time the van was straightened up and facing the opposite way, some of the dead had reached the vehicle and were slapping the side of the van. It was almost as if they knew that there was something inside that they could devour.

  Drake took the van into Cannock and went into a place he hadn’t been to in a while.

  He reached the roundabout and passed Cannock’s small hospital to see that it looked abandoned. It didn’t have the security of having a wall around it like Stafford. The hospital was on the main road, near the roundabout. Vince and Drake gazed out as the vehicle went by the outskirts of the town, passing the humble college, the bus station and the Prince of Wales Theatre where he took his son a year ago to see The King and I and where he and Coral, on one of the few times they could get a babysitter, saw The Bootleg Beatles.

  He tried to shrug off the memories that had ambushed him and increased pressure on the accelerator pedal, speeding up the van to fifty, almost its maximum speed.

  They passed by Cannock’s leisure centre and this had conjured up memories for all three men.

  This was a place that Drake and Coral used to take their son for swimming lessons, and Drake also used to use the gym, because it was cheaper than the overpriced private gyms that were available.

  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 Pic
kle’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?”
<
br />   “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.”