Ghostland (Book 2): Ghostland 2

by Whittington, Shaun

  “They kicked you out?”

  “Kind of. It’s not that bad. I have shelter, some things to eat, and I have the ingredients to filter water.”

  “You stay near a stream?”

  He shook his head. “A pond.”

  The male and female stood in silence, and it was Lisa Newton that broke the quiet between the two of them.

  “I’m looking for my daughter,” Lisa blurted out.

  “Oh?”

  “I was attacked and my daughter was killed.” Noticing the confusion on his face, she tried to explain further, “I have another daughter. She’s older. She’s the one that managed to escape.”

  “I’m sorry that you lost your daughter.” The man had genuine regret on his face and dipped his head slightly. He took an intake of breath and said, “I also lost a child, about five years ago, but to lose a child to the dead is such an horrendous way to go.”

  “It was the living that killed her. Four men.” Lisa had no idea why she was opening up to this stranger. They had only met two minutes ago.

  “Shit.” The stranger ran his fingers over his bald head and added, “What happened?”

  “I was staying at a caravan for a while,” Lisa began to explain to the stranger, fighting back the tears. “Then these guys showed up and I was repeatedly raped by three of them, and my daughter was stabbed to death. She was just fourteen.”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  The bald man lifted his head and began to shake with rage on hearing her story, and snapped, “What is wrong with some people?”

  She hunched her shoulders and looked like she was becoming emotional.

  “What happened afterwards, if you don’t mind me asking?” The stranger took a step forwards and was in two minds whether he should comfort the woman or not. He decided to keep his hands to himself, just in case he freaked her out. “Did they just leave?”

  “Yes, they did.” She nodded. “After raping me and stabbing my fourteen-year-old daughter to death. I don’t know where my other daughter is. She fled whilst it was all happening.”

  “Shit,” the man groaned, and looked depressed on hearing this news.

  “I killed one of them.” She blurted out. “A couple of days after it had happened, I saw one of them walking down a road.”

  “Good.” The bald man was about to say something, but seemed reluctant at first. “Listen, it’s gonna be dark pretty soon. If you want to come back with me, back to the camp, you’re very welcome. I know you don’t know me, but—”

  “Thanks. But I don’t have much luck with men,” she tried to joke. “We don’t seem to get on these days.”

  The bald man smiled. “And I don’t get on with either sex.” The man stood and folded his arms and added, “But we could give it a go. If you want.”

  “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be looking for my daughter, but where do you start?”

  “I have no idea,” the man sighed gently. “If you change your mind, I stay half a mile from here. Keep walking north, you dig what I’m sayin’?”

  He smiled and turned around, ready to walk away, but Lisa asked him to wait.

  He asked the woman, “What is it?”

  She placed her hand on her chest and said, “I’m Lisa.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lisa,” the man laughed gently. “I’m Donald.”

  There was a seven second silence between the pair of them and Lisa sighed and said, “You know what, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You’re coming?”

  She nodded and walked over to Donald Brownstone. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Next Day

  Simon Washington couldn’t sleep.

  He decided to go for an early night, but he spent his time in the bedroom staring up at the ceiling, as he couldn’t shut his mind off. It was going at a hundred miles per hour and it was like somebody was fast-forwarding his life story, from his childhood to the present day.

  It took a while, but he admitted defeat and stood to his feet. He bent over and put the clothes that were strewn in the corner of the room back on, and peered outside, into the darkness. It was the early hours of a new day.

  He moved away from the window, took his machete that was leaning against the wall, and crept down the stairs. He entered the living room, walking by Yoler and Dicko, tucking his large blade in his belt and went into the kitchen. It was pitch black, but he managed to get himself some water from one of the jars by the windowsill. A snap was heard and this made him tetchy, yet he wanted to know who or what it was.

  He went for the kitchen door, slid the bolt back, and gazed around the area. The stars were non-existent and there was no moon on this particular night. It was as dark as it could be. Simon contemplated going back inside to light one of the candles, but he held his finger up and guessed that a naked flame wouldn’t survive the wind.

  A rustle of a branch was heard to his left, making him immediately twist his neck and stare over in that direction, but it was so dark that it was hopeless to see. He relaxed a little and had persuaded himself that the noise was coming from the cluster of trees, so it could have been an animal of some kind.

  A deer, perhaps?

  He walked by his daughter’s grave with slow steps, and gazed into the small wooded area that was at the left side, at the back of the farm. He could hear no more noises, but his intrigue was still strong. He rested his hand on the handle of the machete, and was in two minds whether to pull the large blade out or not. Maybe he was overreacting. He was sure that it was an animal.

  He cocked his head to one side and took a step forwards, trying to look deeper into the small crowded area of trees. He thought he saw something move, but wasn’t sure.

  He was getting fearful, cleared his throat and managed to find his voice. “Is there anybody in there?” he asked in a whisper.

  He was given no response. It was getting dark and seeing through the trees was proving difficult. All he could see inside the trees was blackness.

  “Hello?” he said, but still received no response. “Is there anybody there?”

  “Help me,” a voice came from the woods, making Simon’s heart elevate to an absurd rate, but Simon couldn’t see anybody.

  “Who’s there?”

  A figure came stumbling out of the trees. Simon’s eyes widened and could just about see the silhouette of the man, and the way he was walking, it looked like the guy was injured. The man was limping towards Simon, making Washington nervous and feeling for the handle of the machete once more. The man’s right hand was holding his left arm; he was staggering, and his head was down.

  “Wait.” Simon began to panic and took a couple of steps backwards. “I’ll get some help.”

  “I just need...” the man panted, unable to finish his sentence, still keeping his head down.

  “Yes?” Simon now remained still and watched as the man came towards him.

  “I just need...” the man panted, but still never finished his sentence.

  “What?” Simon could see that, despite being hunched over, he was a tall man, bald, and was now almost toe-to-toe with Simon.

  “Are you okay?” Simon asked the man.

  The man shook his head and had a look of angst on his face. “I was attacked by a couple of guys.”

  “Come inside.” Simon was sure that the man was genuine. “Let me help you.”

  “No, no, no,” the man protested meekly. “I don’t want to impose on you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Simon said with a smile. “There ain’t many of us in there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come on,” Simon beckoned, then the man lifted his head and Simon recognised him. It was the same individual that had approached them earlier, from the front, and ended up getting verbally abused by Donald.

  Before he could respond, Simon felt a clout at the side of his face and lost his balance. The man had struck Simon and now had the
dazed man in a headlock.

  “I just need you to shut the fuck up!” the man cackled.

  Hando then turned around and told his two men to come out. Dirty Ian and Wazza stepped out from the trees, and Hando nodded over at the back of the farmhouse. “Let’s introduce ourselves, shall we?”

  “Why don’t we just kill him?” Dirty Ian spoke up, glaring at the dazed man that Hando had in a lock. “I’ll do it.”

  “Originally we were going to wait until the middle of the night and then go in and slaughter them all, but we didn’t know how many were in there. He’s just said that there ain’t many, and now we also have someone to trade. Tonight, I’m feeling generous.”

  “Hando,” said Wazza, looking confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s simple,” the bald man they called Hando cackled. “They can leave peacefully, with laughing boy here. If they refuse to leave, this fellow dies and we’ll have to fight it out with the rest.”

  “Leave peacefully?” Wazza looked astonished at Hando’s unusually soft approach. “And what happens if they come back, armed to the teeth?”

  Hando laughed, “You worry too much. I’m trying to be nice for a change. What's your problem?”

  Hando placed his free hand in his pocket and pulled out his blade, placing the tip of the blade against Simon’s temple. He lowered his head and whispered in Simon’s ear, “Call your pals out. We need to talk.”

  “No chance,” Simon snarled. “We’re not leaving. You’re gonna have to kill me.”

  “Fine,” Hando laughed. “I’ll kill you and then go inside and butcher everyone inside, while they sleep in their beds. I take it you don’t have a guard as such.” Hando smiled and added, “Unless you were it.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Simon spat.

  “I’m offering you a peaceful solution to this.” Despite the predicament and the verbal abuse from Simon Washington, Hando was relatively calm. “Call your pals out.”

  Simon never said a word and remained tight-lipped.

  “Just beat the cunt,” Wazza suggested. “His stubbornness is beginning to get on my fucking nerves.”

  Hando turned to the side and looked at the small grave. He turned Simon around to face his daughter’s grave and asked Washington, “Anybody you knew?”

  Simon clenched his teeth together and still never responded.

  Hando could hear the growl coming from the man he had in a clench, and guessed correctly that the grave belonged to somebody he was close with, although unaware that it was actually Simon’s daughter.

  “Still not talking?” Hando’s anger was now beginning to surface, and the lack of verbal response from Simon was testing his patience. Hando said, “Fine.”

  Wazza was unsure why Hando was hesitating, just standing there, and repeated, “Do him, Hando. Beat him.”

  “I’ve got a feeling that this little puppy isn’t going to bark,” Hando sniffed. “You guys smash up that grave while I hold him.”

  Hando then nodded at Wazza and the injured Dirty Ian who then began to desecrate the shallow grave. Ian pulled out the crucifix and Wazza was kicking at the dirt and Lambie.

  Simon never said a word, but the tears were now streaming down his cheeks. It was heart breaking for the man that these thugs were just feet away from his little girl.

  “Who’s in there?” Hando asked Simon, but he never responded. “Still not talking? Maybe we’ll dig them up. Maybe that will get you talking.”

  Hando looked over to Wazza and Dirty Ian and told them to start digging the body up.

  “Don't you fucking dare!” Simon sobbed.

  “Tell me who the fuck is in there,” Hando snarled.

  “It’s my daughter!” Simon cried. “Okay? It’s my daughter, you sick bastards.”

  “Ah, so it does have a tongue?”

  “Stop it!” a female voice cried from behind them.

  Still holding Simon, Hando turned around to face whoever had spoken.

  It was Yoler.

  She was standing by the back door and was carrying a machete in her right hand. A little light was now present, as it appeared that she had lit a candle and put it on the kitchen windowsill. Dicko was soon standing next to her and pulled out his trench knife, Trevor, once he could see Simon being held against his will.

  Dicko called out, “Let him go!”

  Yoler and Dicko recognised the man straightaway, and Yoler asked him why he was here ... again.

  Ignoring her query, Hando asked them, “Where’s the other fellow? The one with the mouth?”

  “We sent him away after the run-in with you,” said Dicko. “Looks like we made a mistake.”

  Simon looked up, the tip of the blade still pressing against his temple, and could see a frightened Helen in the bedroom window. David must have been with her as well. He motioned with his face for her to get away from the window. She interpreted his minimal body language well and disappeared from view.

  “What’re you doing here?” Dicko asked Hando.

  “I think you know,” said Hando.

  In truth, Dicko knew exactly what Hando wanted. He and his cronies wanted the house all to themselves.

  “And you want us to leave in peace?” Yoler cackled.

  Hando nodded with a straight face. “That’s right. We could have just snuck in and killed you all while you slept, but with me being a nice guy, I think this is a fairer option.”

  “Well, we’re all touched,” Dicko spoke with heavy sarcasm.

  “Even if we did leave in peace,” Yoler snapped and grinded her teeth together. “What is stopping us coming back and taking it back from you guys?”

  “You won’t,” spat Hando and they could see a smugness on his face. “Unless you bring an army back with you. You see, sugar tits, we spent the last twelve months fighting to survive. We’re no pushovers.”

  “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing all year, hiding in a corner and fudding myself?”

  “Now that I would like to see.” Hando raised a smile and looked Yoler up and down.

  Yoler and Dicko gazed at one another in defeat. They had managed to overcome the intruders from a month ago, but these guys looked intimidating and they also had Simon. They both sighed in defeat and accepted that they would have to give the place up, especially if they wanted Simon to live.

  “Okay,” Dicko sighed. “You win, but give us time to get our things. We also have a woman and child in here as well.”

  Simon seemed annoyed that Dicko had revealed that Helen and David were also in the house. For all Dicko knew, these guys could have been rapists, child abusers.

  Hando nodded. “Agreed.”

  Simon could feel the muscular arm loosening and the tip of the blade being removed. He dropped his head and kept it there for a few seconds before bringing it back, hard, cracking his neck in the process. The back of his head made contact with Hando’s face, and a yell appeared from behind him. Simon felt a punch in his back, or at least it felt like a punch, and then collapsed to the ground.

  Yoler gasped as Simon fell to the floor, and raised her machete.

  Dicko did the same as the three men, Hando, Dirty Ian and Wazza, hurtled towards them.

  The skinny guy was the first to reach them, but his swipe at Dicko was blocked when Dicko raised his forearm and made contact with Dirty Ian’s, then counter attacked the man and rammed his trench knife into Ian’s stomach. Dicko removed the blade straightaway and watched as Ian fell. Incredibly, Wazza never ran and tried to stab Yoler, but with a machete against a knife there was only going to be one winner. Wazza tried to ram his knife into Yoler’s throat, but Yoler took a step back and swiped at the man, taking his hand off.

  Male screams filled the air, and the knife-wielding Hando began to panic as blood from his two comrades spilled onto the ground. He took a step back and seemed unsure what to do next. Wazza, still screaming and staring at his hand that was now lying on the floor, began to run away, leaving Hando alone. Wazza ran to the side of
the place, bypassed the car and headed to the front. Knowing that his odds didn’t look good, Hando quickly followed, still with his bag over his shoulder, but neither Yoler or Dicko pursued the man. They were more concerned about Simon who was lying on the floor, motionless.

  Yoler approached Simon and called out his name, but there was no response from the man that was lying face down.

  Dicko checked the man that was called Dirty Ian. He was curled in a ball, groaning, still alive, but he was going nowhere. He was losing blood and had minutes left to live, if that.

  Dicko then stood up straight, by the side of Yoler and, unlike Yoler, he never hesitated on checking on Simon Washington. He bent down and could see the stab wound in Simon’s back.

  “Simon.” Dicko had his hands on Simon’s shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “Simon? Speak to me, pal.”

  Dicko wasn’t getting a response and looked at Yoler with fright in his wide eyes.

  “What is it?” Yoler stood, biting her nails and repeated her question that Dicko was struggling to answer.

  Helen had now exited the house, alone, and Dicko told her to get back inside, but she blankly refused. She had seen most of the melee from the bedroom window and wanted to know if Simon was okay.

  “Is he okay?” she shrieked.

  “Where’s David?” Dicko asked, ignoring her question about Simon. “Go back and see if your son’s okay.”

  “He’s hiding under the bed,” she cried. “We heard the noises. Neither one of us was asleep. How’s Simon?”

  “He seems to have been stabbed in the back by that thug,” said Dicko, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face in exasperation.

  “But is he alright?” Helen asked and took a few steps forwards, but stopped when Dicko instructed her not to get any nearer. “He doesn’t seem to be moving.”

  Dicko placed his two fingers on Simon’s carotid artery and remained quiet for a few seconds. This worried the girls, and Yoler went over to Helen and stood next to her.

  “Well?” Helen said impatiently. “How is he, Dicko?”