Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Jack woke up with a fright, and found that he was being shaken by Johnny.

Jack looked up at his skinny features; the blue boiler suit was almost hanging off him, and Jack widened his eyes in a way of waking himself up a little quicker. He then immediately thought that something was wrong and bolted upright, twisting his neck from side-to-side, scanning the factory area. "What is it?"

"Calm down. It's nearly ten 'o'clock," announced Johnny.

"What? Really?"

"You slept for nearly thirteen hours."

"Shit." Jack began to laugh and scratched the side of his hair where the grey was. He thought about the last time he had slept so well: Glasgow City Centre, at his four-star hotel. "We're gonna have to go soon." Slade then began to rub his forehead, thinking back to his sleep. "Man, I haven't slept like that since..." Jack allowed his sentence to trail off and Johnny could see wretchedness emerging on Jack's face. Jack then shook his head, angry with himself.

Johnny asked, "What's up?"

Jack lowered his head, tears forming around his eyes. "My son's been dead for only a few days and I'm laughing. That's not right."

"You have to laugh some time or another."

"A few days?" Forty-year-old Slade was annoyed with himself that any kind of positive emotion had managed to seep through only days after Thomas had had such a violent death. He thought to himself that if this was the old world, and he was caught by a relative, laughing, days after his son's death and before his funeral, they would be baffled and not impressed if he expressed such an emotion. He was supposed to be mourning the loss of his son. Or maybe he was just being too hard on himself.

Johnny put his hand comfortingly on Jack who was clearly upset. "I bet it doesn't feel like a few days, though."

"No it doesn't." Jack rubbed his face with both hands moving up and down. "It feels like weeks, months even."

"Tell me about it." Johnny began scratching at his chest, his hand was underneath the boiler suit. "It feels like I've been in here for a year. It's just so boring. I even started telling myself jokes the other day. Trouble is, I've heard them all before."

Jack smiled and added, "You're a good man, Johnny. You didn't have to bring me in. I don't know how to repay you."

"Well," Johnny began to joke. "You can cover my back when we're out there, 'cos as soon as I see one of those things, I'm gonna be shitting a brick."

"You'll get used to it, trust me."

"You think?" Johnny looked around the factory, and although he feared what waited for him outside, he wouldn't miss the four walls that he had been surrounded by in the last couple of weeks. Added Johnny, "I was thinking about what you told me last night. I'm not sure I can handle it, to tell you the truth."

"Yes you can," Jack scolded. He turned to Johnny and placed both hands on his shoulders and glared at him, not in a threatening way, but in a way to give him a boost. "Listen, I left Glasgow when this all kicked off. I travelled four hours on the M6, crashed the car, then took a motorbike to Rugeley and then Hazelslade, almost getting pulled off the damn thing by a horde of them. I then found my son. Then a good friend of mine was raped and butchered by two men, then I was picked up by a woman who took us back to a house, which then was invaded by hundreds of the fucking things. We struggled to escape; then the van got a flat and we ran into a sports centre; my son then died and I hung around when the rest escaped and the things broke into the place—"

Johnny tried to get a word in, "Look—"

"I also tried to hang myself," Jack continued, "but the belt loosened and I fell into the pool and tried to escape the crowd inside the centre. I then got outside and killed a few, before escaping over the fence in soaking wet clothes."

Jack then stopped, knowing he was getting carried away, and took a breath in.

Johnny cleared his throat. "I suppose when you put it like that, it makes my story look a bit bland."

Jack guffawed, "I'm not comparing. I'm just saying: it's not a holiday out there, but after a day or so, you kind of get used to it. I know that sounds a bit weird—"

"Just a bit." Johnny rubbed his hands off of his bald head and sighed, "I suppose I can either come with you, or eventually die slowly in this place."

"Not much of a choice, is it?"

"Not really." This time Johnny's eyes began to fill with tears. "But I
do
want to live."

Jack then rattled the supervisor's keys in front of Johnny, and a wide beam emerged on his face. "Then we go as soon as we're ready." Jack was hoping that more of the dead hadn't materialised since he saw the two the other evening. It was information he still hadn't shared with Johnny.

Johnny nodded, but the fear was written all over his face, and his body quaked with the nervous adrenaline shooting through his body. "Okay."

Chapter Twelve

Karen Bradley and Harry Branston slowly trudged their way through the Staffordshire greenery and was relieved to have found a dirt path. Walking on the uneven ground and long grass was beginning to tire them out and make their ankles ache.

Karen announced, "I think I know where I am now."

Pickle cleared his throat and spat into the grass to the side of him. "Yer said that five minutes ago."

"I know, but I recognise this path. I've been up here once or twice." Karen then pointed to her left. "Stile Cop is that way, about a mile away."

Relieved that their journey through the place had been a quiet affair, they carried on and eventually came to the edge of the woods. Once they left the area, Pickle and Karen could see that they were now at the bottom of the hill that was nicknamed by the local residents of Rugeley as Cardboard Hill. There was a lot of shrubbery to walk through, but Karen told Pickle that once they reached the top, the other side of the hill was clear.

On the flat part of the hillside was a small section of woods where a cabin stood, but at that moment, they couldn't see it. Pickle twisted his neck from side-to-side and stretched his arms, almost pulling his back out. He made an exaggerated moan when stretching, and Karen reprimanded him for making such an unnecessary and strident noise.

Asked Karen, "Your back?"

Pickle nodded. "It's givin' me a bit o' bother." He then stood on one leg and began to stretch his quads.

"Your legs as well?" This time Karen was grinning. "You old fart."

"Don't forget, I'm twenty years older than you, young lady," Pickle cackled; he then looked up to the hill and made a long whistling noise. "That's some walk. So Rugeley's on the other side o' that hill?"

"More or less. Why don't we rest a while, if you're getting stiff."

Pickle agreed and sat on the grass bank and began to stretch his hamstrings, by stretching his foot back and reaching to touch the toes. He held the stretch for fifteen seconds, and did the same with the other leg.

Karen licked her dry, cracked lips and put her head inbetween her knees. "God, I miss my lip balm." She then looked at Pickle who was staring into nothingness. She gave off a warm smile and put her arm around him while she was still standing. "You're shrinking, Branston."

"What?" He slipped out of his daydreaming and turned to his partner in crime. "What yer on about?"

"I said: You're shrinking."

"Yer think I'm losin' ma muscle mass? I do feel leaner, but then again, we ain't eaten proper in days, 'ave we?"

Karen sat and snuggled up next to her friend, giving her hot feet a welcomed and deserved rest. She then produced a small smirk on her face and glared at him with a scowl. Noticing this, Pickle asked her if there was anything wrong. "You know," she began, "over the weeks, with all the shit we've been through, and all those hours of chats that we have had, I still don't really know you that well. I know you can handle yourself, and used to be a drug dealer, and you like men..."

"What else do yer wanna know?"

Karen shrugged. "I just feel you know more about me, than I know about you. You've told me a couple of stories, but most of the time when we talk it's related to survival, food and avoiding those things."

"Okay." Pickle was sitting down and was resting the palms of his hands on his knees. He said with a sly grin, "What do yer wanna know about? Ma childhood? Ma teens? What 'bout ma first kiss?"

Karen made a face as if to say that she wasn't sure. "Just tell me anything. Basic shit."

Pickle grinned and felt a tad embarrassed. He had no idea why she wanted to know more of his background. Maybe it was a woman thing, he thought. He tried to appease her and began. "Well, I'm not really into political parties. I hate politicians."

"Who doesn't? When's your birthday?"

"October twelfth."

"Wicked; that means you're a Libran, like me."

"Karen," Pickle guffawed, "that doesn't mean
anything
to me."

Karen sighed, "Okay, mardy bum. Music?"

"U2, The Beatles, Zeppelin—that kind o' stuff."

"Nicknames?"

Pickle created a half-shrug and peered around to make sure there was no sign of a ghoul ready to stumble out of the woodland where they had just exited. "Apart from Pickle? Just the one." Pickle then blushed, which gave a Karen a warm glow inside of her, as it looked so sweet that a man of his power could be embarrassed by something, anything.

Karen nudged him in the side, playfully. "Come on, Branston," she teased. "Out with it."

"Promise yer won't laugh?"

"Oh, I can't do that." Karen began to chuckle. She then saw that serious look off of him and she settled down. She coughed and asked him, "What was it?"

"In prison, they used to call me..." Pickle lowered his head and cleared his throat. "...The Horse."

Karen bit her lower lip, trying to stifle the laugh that was aching to be released. It eventually
was
released and even Pickle smiled at Karen's hilarity that he hadn't seen before. It was good to see her laugh, even if it was at his expense.

"The Horse?" Her cackling continued and now there was tears streaming down her face. "You're making me cry."

Pickle looked at Karen wiping the running tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands. "Better for the water to run from yer eyes than down yer thighs, Bradley."

She had almost managed to compose herself; confident that she could muster a sentence without it being interrupted with a giggle, she questioned, "Why did they call you that? Is it because you used to shit like one?"

"No, you cheeky bitch," he tittered. "Because I'm hung like one, of course."

"A sea horse?"

"Very funny." He feigned hurt on his features and added, "Back in my area I had quite the reputation."

"Oh, I could imagine," Karen continued to mock. "
Here comes Harry Branston, everybody. Quick, lock up your goats.
"

After the laughter had eventually subsided, they both began to sit in silence. Pickle drew in a breath. He cleared his throat and added, "On a more serious note, ma childhood wasn't the best. Ma father was an alcoholic, and could be quite abusive at times. He used to beat the shit out o' ma mother."

"No brothers or sisters?"

Pickle shook his head and added, "When I was sixteen, ma mother had killed herself. Painkiller overdose. I left home soon after that, selling hash to support myself. I was then arrested for selling illegal substances and was sent to prison for a few months. I got a few handy contacts from inside and built my business up once I was out."

"So you've been in the drugs game since you were a teenager?"

"Yip." Pickle smacked his lips together and began to chew the inside of his mouth.

A few seconds of silence came after Pickle's short answer, and Karen assumed that the forty-three-year-old wasn't entirely comfortable talking about his past when he was being questioned, although he had told Karen some stories when she
never
had asked.

She broke the silence with a less serious query. "So, how much are you worth?"

"Well, not that it makes any difference now, but I had properties all over England, two villas in Spain and—"

"How much?" she asked with a snicker.

"About ten million."

"Wow." Karen's facial expression suggested that she was impressed, but decided not to press any further. She had plenty of time to get to know Pickle more, or at least she hoped she would have, and decided to give him a break from her probing. Maybe he would tell her more about his past when
he
was ready.

Pickle got to his feet and began brushing the grass off of the back of his grey jogging bottoms. Karen saw this as a sign that he was ready to move, and had interpreted the body language correctly.

Pickle's stomach growled loudly for food, which humoured the pair of them. He looked at his female companion with a grin and playfully patted his stomach. "I could eat a horse."

Karen snickered once again and threw her arms around a man that she adored. "Harry Branston, I love you."

As soon as she said those three words, her laughter quickly diminished and she produced a thin smile while her cheeks flushed red.

Pickle put his arm around Karen, brought her nearer to him and kissed her on the top of her head. "I know, Karen. I know."