Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry (19 page)

Chapter Forty

Jack followed behind Vince as the tall man began to give him a tour of the place. Jack had never been to the caravan park when the world was normal, so he was pleased that Vince was showing him round. It was a small place really; there were many caravans and a manmade fence was made in a square shape where they had put three cows, and next to that was a chicken pen. Vince explained that a local farmer had asked for refuge, and Vince allowed it, especially when the widower said he would bring his stock with him.

Vince said, "Since the power went out, things have been a little more difficult, but we have diesel generators to keep things ticking along nicely."

"Did you stay here before it all happened?" asked Jack, unsure whether he had already asked him this question before.

"Yep. I've lived here for three years. Even before the announcement on the Saturday night, I knew something was wrong. With the riots and biting epidemics that were reported, it didn't take a genius to work out something was amiss, but people just chose to ignore it. Unless it's on their doorstep, people don't like facing up to major problems. It's like the guy who finds a lump in his balls and refuses to go to the doctors, hoping the problem will go away. But the problem, and the lump, doesn't go away, it just gets bigger until it's too late."

"What's your arsenal like?"

"My arsehole?" cackled Vince.

Jack shook his head at Vince's attempt at humour.

"Not good." Vince was blunt with his answer to Jack's question. "We have a couple of farmers in here, that's how we got the animals, we never stole them. We have half a dozen shotguns, but that's it. If any gang comes here, loaded to the teeth with top-of-the-range weaponry, then we're all fucked in the arse."

"That's reassuring," Jack responded with sarcasm.

"I can't see it somehow, though," Vince spoke with conviction. "We're not really a country that has an abundance of guns. Unless we get attacked by the army or a gang of ex-drug dealers, I can't really see anyone trying to force their way in."

"Vince!"

Both Vince and Jack turned around to see a young female, her right hand was holding a hunters knife.

"What is it, Claire?" asked Vince.

"We've spotted four Rotters heading towards the truck."

"Rotters?" Jack laughed. "Is that what you call them?"

"What do
you
call them?" Vince questioned.

Jack shrugged and struggled to answer. "I don't know; a woman I briefly knew called them Snatchers."

Vince's face grimaced. "Aren't they the creatures from Harry Potter?"

"Dunno. I was more of a Lord of the Rings kind of guy."

Vince stepped towards Jack and placed both of his hands on his shoulders and said, with a smirk, "Well, my precious, it's time to prove your worth to the group. Get that Johnny friend of yours back here, and meet me at the blockade."

Vince walked away and ambled alongside Claire. It appeared that they were both heading to the main road, back to the blockade area. "Oh." Vince stopped and turned around and smiled at Jack. "You're gonna be needing that crowbar."

*

Jack and Johnny were taken to the centre of the blockade. On each side of them were vehicles blocking off the main road into Rugeley and to Armitage. The usual way to get on the other side of the barrier was to go through the cab doors of the HGV, that was parked across the road, and out the other side. Vince beckoned both men to follow him, and they climbed on top of the HGV, near where two of Vince's lookout-men stood.

Once this was achieved, Vince beamed and pointed down to the lane. The men were standing on the cab and were about twelve feet high-up from the road. They looked down and could see four of the creatures stumbling about.

Vince began to speak, "Usually when we get some strays, my guys usually take care of them, but now it's your turn, gentleman. You need to prove your worth. We already have enough females in the camp who can cook, clean and some can even fight. We don't need anymore dishwashers."

"You have women who cook and clean?" Jack laughed, and remarked sarcastically, "I applaud your twenty-first century thinking."

"I'm not being sexist, Jack, but every man knows that the best way to get a dishwasher to work is to start kissing the back of her neck." Vince chortled, and his buddies joined in with the hilarity, and he continued to snicker at his own joke.

"That's very funny," Jack said with a huge pinch of mockery. "This is just one big boy's club."

Vince held his hands up. "Seriously, we're working together, using our strengths. It just so happens most of the people that go out on a run, are men. And besides, I hate washing clothes. I'd rather take a shit in my hands and clap."

"Charming." Jack scratched at his stubble and was finding this Vince character a hard person to like.

"Jack," Johnny looked at Jack, pleadingly, "I'm not sure I can do this."

He was overheard by Vince and was told, "Well, Johnny, if you refuse, I'm kicking you both off the camp right now. And from what Jack was telling me earlier, you have a nice little horde waiting for you in the town centre. I don't take too kindly to people wasting my time, and I might even keep the jeep for the overnight sleep you got out of me."

Jack snapped at Vince, "I already told you that I've killed before."

"Then this should be a piece of piss," Vince laughed. "But I need to see for myself." Vince's voice then turned to a more serious tone. "If you bump into any of those things and freeze out there while we're getting supplies, you could cost the whole team."

Jack looked at a petrified Johnny. "It'll be okay."

Johnny grabbed onto Jack's sleeve and whispered, "But I've never killed any of these things before, you know that. We can make a run for it and make a left turn into the woods. I heard about this place on Cardboard Hill—"

"Let's just do it," Jack sighed, and was getting a little tired of Johnny's bellyaching.

Both men had managed to climb down on the other side of the barricade before the four ghouls had reached it. They were seconds away and Jack looked at a petrified Johnny.

"Here," Jack yelled, and passed Johnny his crowbar in return for Johnny's knife. "This'll be easier for you."

Like a boxer, Johnny skipped backwards in order to avoid the things, but Jack wasted no time. Three of the things used to be female and the severely bloated one wearing a dirty yellow dress, held out her arms, only for Jack to grab her left arm out of the way and drive the knife into its left eye socket. Seconds after the disgusting squishing noise, the thing fell as soon as Jack withdrew the knife.

There was no time to spare, and it appeared that Jack had drew the short straw. Not only did he only have a knife, although that was his choice, he also had to contain the other two that were approaching him, while the crowbar-wielding Johnny had just the one creature to destroy.
Typical!

Jack could see Johnny take a half-hearted swing at his only attacker, and although his life could be in danger, Jack felt a little angry with Johnny. He had had it easy so far in the new world, compared to most other people, and now all he had to do was kill one of them, and he was struggling to do that!

Two of them simultaneously went for Jack and he side-stepped out of the way, fooling them both. The two were wearing casual clothes, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with their attire covered in blood—their own, and probably their victims.

Female One went for Jack; it appeared that it used to be a teenager, probably who had a boyfriend, a brother or sister, and a mum and dad. Now here was Jack Slade ramming a knife into the front of her skull.

It took a few vital seconds for Jack to remove the stubborn blade from the penetrated skull, and had to take a step back when Female Two tried to grab him and gnashed its teeth, biting thin air. He ran around the corpse of Female One and could see that Johnny was wrestling with his ghoul, and had dropped the crowbar on the floor and yelled out as they both fell to the ground.

Jack was now face-to-face with Female Two and tried to penetrate his weapon into the front of its head, but the knife practically bounced off the skull as if it were made of steel. He tried again, but this time he threw his arm as if he was throwing a right hook and the knife pierced and buried itself into the right temple of the creature. It staggered a little, like a drunk, and fell to the ground with a thump, the knife going with it.

Jack was exhausted and could hear Johnny scream out as the thing was still on top of him. Jack picked up the crowbar and dragged the monster off of Johnny. The thing was on its back, trying to get up, but Jack rained blows from the crowbar, completely obliterating the skull until its face was unrecognisable.

Out of puff, Jack turned around and could hear Vince sarcastically applauding him. "Bravo, Jack. You're gonna fit in just fine round these parts, but I fear for your friend."

Johnny was still lying on the ground and Jack tried to help him up.

"Leave him!" Vince called out.

Jack looked up at the tall, grey-haired man and shouted, "I'm not leaving him. It's both of us or neither of us."

Vince placed his hand on his heart and mockingly feigned tears. "I'm touched. I really am."

With a shotgun in his hand, he jumped down to meet Jack and began walking towards him. Vince's eyes scanned the bodies and pointed at the almost headless one that Jack had dealt with by crowbar. "That's my favourite." He then glared at Jack seriously and told him to move away from Johnny.

"What?" Jack was perplexed by his command.

"Just do it." Vince's jovial nature had disappeared, and Jack wasn't going to argue with a man carrying a loaded shotgun.

"He'll get used to it." Jack tried to defend Johnny's pathetic attempt at destroying one of those ghouls. "He'll be able to kill one of those things eventually."

"I don't think so."

Johnny was exhausted, and was now kneeling up with his head lowered and his back to Vince and Jack. Without a second of hesitation, Vince brought up the shotgun and unloaded a cartridge into the back of Johnny's head. As bloody debris was thrown forward from the massive wound, the body of Johnny slumped to the floor, his skull, blood and brains were scattered in front.

"NO!" was all Jack could muster. Jack's eyes widened with disbelief and he kept on looking back and forth from Johnny's body to Vince. Did it really happen? Despite the nightmare rollercoaster of a ride Jack had endured, he was still able to be shocked by the barbarism this new world had to offer.

Vince explained, "Even the women have taken out some of those things, even some of the teenagers. I'm sorry about Johnny, but this is just not his world."

Jack stared at Vince in disbelief and angrily took a step forward, but Vince reminded him by pointing the smoking gun, that he was in control, not some man holding a crowbar.

Vince then lowered the gun, told Jack to keep well back, and walked over and crouched down to Johnny's body. Vince picked up Johnny's right floppy arm, to reveal that he had been bitten in the bicep. "I'm not an animal, Jack," he explained, and released the arm. "I wouldn't shoot someone for no reason. He was fucked. His hesitation and lack of balls had cost him his life. That's the first time I've ever shot another person before. I'm sure it won't be my last."

Vince then looked up to the sky and could see that the evening was drawing in. "Get some sleep, Jack. You're going out on a run tomorrow morning." Vince then looked up to the individuals standing on top of the HGV and pointed at Johnny's body. "Burn him with the rest."

Chapter Forty One

June 28th

Pickle was the first to wake up. He yawned and stretched and had spent another night sleeping under the stars. Karen had opted for the couch this time—blaming Pickle's snoring, and Wolf was in bed as usual on the first floor. He was just starting to get used to sleeping without the tied-up Snatcher that used to be his wife a few weeks ago.

Pickle looked up to the heavens and could see that the dark clouds were threatening to soak the area. He estimated that the time was around seven am and quickly stood to his feet. He could hear the whistling of the wind as it screamed its way around the perimeter, dying to get in. Pickle's heart increased a little once the tall gate began to rattle. He knew that the area was solid, but it wasn't set in stone that those things couldn't get up the hill.

He took his machete out of the ground where he had driven it before going to sleep, and headed for the gate. He thought about telling the other two of his intentions, but decided to leave them be. Even if they did wake up and were suddenly worried where he had got to, especially Karen, that was
their
problem. He was an adult, not a prisoner anymore, and could go anywhere he wanted. He didn't need permission.

As he left the premises, he prepared himself for the steep climb. The beginning of the steep walk was already putting a little strain on Pickle's knee joints, and he could understand, at the age of sixty-nine, why Wolf was quite happy to stay where he was, because at forty-three, Pickle could also feel the aches and pains of walking up and down the hill over the last couple of days, and
he
regarded himself as a fit individual.

Once he reached the top, he turned around to take in the view, but before he could sit down, his eyes were attracted to something from afar. Smoke could be seen across the estate since day one when they had arrived, but this time Pickle could see, quite clearly, a house on fire in the first street, the same street they had been gathering supplies from.

He knew that their looting days were over for now, but twinges of guilt were urging the man to go down to see what was happening. He looked over to the cabin, then looked back at the estate and the street where the burning was coming from.

He thought about the families that were down there, the father and two girls that he had met the other day, and Shaz—although he was pretty certain
she
could handle herself.

He was lost in deliberation; he tapped his fingers on the handle of the machete that was tucked into his belt, and suddenly came to a decision. He shook his head.
Sod it!

He knew that he couldn't save the world, and his lack of selfishness could put his own life at risk, but his intrigue was strong and there were children down there. He was certain Karen would give him a lecture about going alone again, but he was pretty sure that he could get to the street, find out what was amiss, and return by the time Karen and Wolf had emerged from their sleep, as it was still early.

Pickle walked down the hill, with his machete already drawn. He then made the trip across the football field before reaching the street. There was no sign of death as such, but he knew that with the house on fire at the end of the street, it wouldn't be long before the Snatchers arrived in their numbers.

He could see a woman on her own with a bucket in her hand. She then poured the bucket down the drain at the side of the street; the metal grid had already been removed. As she poured, what looked like to Pickle, body waste down the drain, Pickle put the machete back into his belt so he didn't look threatening, and walked towards the middle-aged woman.

"How yer doin'?"

Her response was a quick nod of the head. "I've seen you about," she said. "Mainly with that young girl."

"What happened?"

"Someone stuck up for themselves," she quickly nodded over to the burning house, "and paid for it."

She wasn't really making sense to Pickle, and then suddenly he saw something that he hadn't seen in the street before. It was two Ford Focus cars, and it looked like the same vehicles that belonged to the four men, the same men that had blocked the road a few days ago, the same men that killed that poor middle-aged couple that had gave Pickle and co a ride. It was also the same four men that were responsible for Pickle and Karen splitting from Paul and Jade.

His eyes were now sharp and was aware that the men could appear outside from the houses at any time, but the trouble was that he didn't know which house they could be in. Pickle tried to rekindle the conversation with the woman before bolting, because he certainly didn't want to bump into those four men again.

"So where are they now?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders stating that she had no idea.

"Did they kill whoever was inside?"

She shook her head. "They raided the house at six this morning, beat the guy up who put up a fight, and then the man ran off with his son." She then turned to Pickle with evil eyes and snarled, "Haven't you lot taken enough from this street? Isn't there any other streets? We're barely surviving as it is."

"I'm sorry. I only took from the vacant houses; I am nothing to do with these people."

The woman seemed to have no fear in her. She seemed to have adapted quickly to the new world herself, but was still trying to act civilised. She walked away from Pickle and said, "I'm done talking to you. To me, you're all the same."

Pickle turned on his heels, ready to quickly make his way back across the football field, but a faint child's scream made him stop in his tracks. The scream was coming from the same house where the father and two girls were living.

He ran to the football field, out of the street, and decided to go the back way, in case the men left through the front door. He was no coward by any means, but Pickle was aware that he was outnumbered and when he first met these men a few days ago, one of them was carrying a shotgun, albeit an unpredictable one, and didn't want to put his life at risk unnecessarily.

Over the last few weeks he had fought his way through Stile Cop, through villages and the sports centre. He didn't want his life to end by the hands of a bunch of scumbags who he could put down quite easily if it was hand-to-hand fighting.

He was now round the back of the street and on the edge of the football field. He peered over the back garden's wall to the house, but couldn't see anything. He then decided to jump over the wall to get a closer look at what was happening. Once he did this, he passed the greenhouse and sneaked over to the back window. The blinds were closed, but he could hear voices. Another scream could be heard, then the pleading words of the father followed; then a voice of a man could be heard, telling the father to shut the fuck up.

Pickle continued to listen in, but it had suddenly gone all quiet.

Maybe they've left.

Pickle then looked behind him and wondered that if they
had
left, why hadn't they raided the greenhouse and the vegetables that were in there, as well as the cabbages and leeks that were in the garden.

He crept to the corner of the place and suddenly saw one of the gang walking away from him as if he had just left the house. Pickle didn't know their names but he had labelled them as Specks, Wiry, Average and Mangy. It was Wiry that seemed to be heading back to one of the cars, with a black bag full of something.

He then saw Wiry open the boot of the car. He could see that there was a gas canister in the boot, along with other equipment. Then the penny dropped. There was a caravan at the end of the street that belonged to the man that had fled, which was where they probably had stolen the canister from. Wiry walked back into the house and this time Pickle realised another member was now outside, and saw Specks walking from the other side of the street with another canister—a lot smaller—in one hand, and a camping stove in the other. Pickle breathed out a sigh; he must have missed these guys by seconds when he was talking to that woman. Specks then placed the items by the side of the car and lit up a cigarette.

The canister and stove would have been perfect for the cabin, Pickle thought. But he never bothered with the caravan on his visits because he knew at the time that the house was occupied. Because of their ruthlessness, he was convinced that these men would probably survive for a long time, and it didn't seem fair that these bastards were living a life of luxury, while good people were now living hand to mouth.

"Heads up!"

Pickle was startled and quickly turned around to see the butt of a shotgun hit him straight in the nose. He fell to the ground, blood pouring out, and his eyes blurred with tears of pain.

"I take it you didn't see me hiding in the greenhouse?" Mangy laughed, and spat in Pickle's face. "We saw you talking to that woman in the street, and I said to my pal:
That's that motherfucker who tried to make us look foolish the other day
. Where's the other three?" He ran his fingers through his black, greasy hair and began fixing his ponytail. "Ah, don't say you lot got lost."

"Go fuck yerself."

Mangy snickered, showing the huge gap where his two front teeth should have been, and brought the shotgun up, ready to strike again, making Pickle cower.

"Hey," a voice could be heard from above, from the bedroom window. It was Average. "Bring that piece of shit inside."