Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray (13 page)

Chapter Twenty Seven

Lee James slowed the tanker down and waved, from inside the cab, at the three men that were on the barrier. The tanker eventually came to a stop, yards from the HGV that was almost horizontally stretched across the road, serving as a barrier, and he got out to be greeted by warm smiles from the men. All three climbed down to greet Lee and were ecstatic at what they were witnessing.

There was an older guard, mid-fifties, who leaned his sawn-off against the wheel of the lorry behind him, and was the first to speak. His name was Henry Winter, and he had been a resident of Sandy Lane for twenty-one years.

"And how the hell did you manage that?" Henry had his hands on his head, aghast, and slowly walked around, inspecting the large vehicle.

"The keys were left in the ignition," laughed Lee.

"Bullshit."

"No bullshit." Lee shook his head, and was wearing a wide grin. "We found this, and then we filled the pickup with some tins from the supermarket."

"Where're the others?" the young-looking guard spoke up. His name was Garth Bateman. He was nineteen years old, with dark features and was covered in acne.

"About ten or fifteen minutes behind me," Lee said. "They're taking some bit of gash that they'd found back to her house."

"Are we a charity now?" Henry Winter shook his head. "We can't have softies going out on runs."

"Softies?" The young-looking guard scoffed, the third remained silent throughout. "Haven't you heard of that Pickle character?"

"I've heard he takes it up the arse," Henry laughed, but nobody joined in.

"Be careful. If he hears you saying stuff like that," Lee didn't look impressed with Henry's remark and had now adopted a more serious look on his features, "then I won't be able to protect you."

"Oh, so you can refer to women as
gash
, but I can't say—"

"Just reverse the truck back." Lee wasn't in the mood for an argument. "I need to get this tanker in."

"How much is in there?" Garth Bateman queried, referring to the fuel that was stored.

Lee shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea. "A lot."

"And how do you get the fuel
out
of the tanker?"

"Jesus Christ!" Lee rubbed his head. He hadn't drunk enough fluids today and now his head was banging. "Let me get the thing inside first. Anyway, anything happen while I was away?"

All guards took a nervous gape at one another, and Lee knew straight away that something was up.

"Fuck. What now?" Lee dropped his head in his hands.

"We lost some people." Henry was the first to speak up.

Lee then looked up and was wide-eyed and asked, "How?"

Henry shook his head and sighed, "Paul Dickson left the camp."

"What?"

"And..." Henry Winter seemed hesitant to finish off the sentence. He gulped and blurted out, "Karen and Sheryl went after him."

"Why would they do that?" Lee looked puzzled and began to pick the dry skin on his left elbow. "And why the hell did Paul Dickson leave the camp anyway?"

"Kyle Dickson was killed. Attacked by one of the dead."

Lee was in shock and remained quiet, so Henry decided to continue talking. "Daniel reckons it was some outsider who had probably been bit. He climbed the fence and went into the changing rooms."

Lee James could feel the blood draining from his face and felt his legs wobble. He took a few steps onto the pavement and leaned against a wall for support. "So what you're saying is..." Lee paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts, but anger was beginning to snowball from inside of him. "You let a grieving father, Sheryl, and a pregnant women go out of the camp, on
your
fucking watch?"

Garth Bateman said, "I suppose if you put it like that, it does sound bad."

"When Bentley and Pickle hear of this, they're gonna go out looking for them, especially with it being Karen." Lee sighed and kicked out at the wall. It was a stupid thing to do, and he was certainly going to feel it the morning. "I won't be able to stop them. Especially Pickle."

"I'm sorry, Lee," Henry Winter said.

"So where's the body?"

Garth looked at Henry before speaking. "See Daniel. He's taking care of this mess."

*

Ten minutes had passed since Lee's arrival. and Bentley, Pickle and Rick had now arrived back at the camp. The red pickup stopped by the articulated lorry, and they waited for the truck to reverse back. Once it did, and the pickup squeezed through the gap, they drove down Sandy Lane, turned right onto the car park where the Lea Hall building stood, and parked up next to the tanker. Waiting for them was Daniel Badcock and Lee James, standing outside of the entrance of the building.

Pickle could tell by their faces that something was wrong, and he, Bentley and Rick Morgan got out and walked over to the two morose-looking individuals.

"Okay," Pickle sighed and put his hands in his pockets. "What's up?"

"What makes you think that something's up?" Lee said, whilst Daniel remained silent and kept his head lowered.

"Well, we've come back with barrels full o' tins," Pickle pointed at Lee, "and yer have come back with enough fuel to keep us going for ages, but the pair of yer look like somebody has shat on yer burger."

"This must be the easiest run I've ever done," said Bentley. "So what's happened? Why the long faces? Something's happened while we've been away."

Lee ran his fingers through his dark hair and scratched at his beard, showing obvious signs of distress. "Let me speak with no interruptions." Lee cleared his throat. "Kyle Dickson is dead. Somebody, somebody possibly infected, must have sneaked into the camp during the night. They hid in the changing rooms. Kyle went in this morning and was killed. Everybody is accounted for, and I was told that the infected thing, which was removed a few hours ago, wasn't one of our own. It was definitely an outsider."

"Shit." Bentley was the first to say something.

All three were devastated by the news, Bentley especially. Bentley Drummle had helped out the father and son and had become fond of young Kyle Dickson. "I don't believe it. We're gonna have to get barbed wire as soon as possible. No more dithering. In fact, I'll go today, just as soon as—"

"That's not all," Daniel spoke up with a frog in his throat, raising his head.

"What else?"

"Paul Dickson has left the camp."

"Left?" Bentley put his arms behind his head and released a heavy breath out. "What do you mean ...
left
?"

"He's left. I assume he just lost the plot, overcome with grief or something."

"Great." Pickle was saddened to hear the awful news of Kyle's demise. Poor little fellow. And what a terrible way to go for anybody, but for a seven-year-old boy! "So since we've been out, we have one killed and a person missing."

Lee and Daniel looked at one another, a look that Bentley, Pickle, and even Rick noticed. It was a look to suggest that there was more to come, and it wasn't good news.

"Out with it," Pickle said.

Daniel explained, "We don't have one person missing. We..."

"Go on," Pickle urged.

"We have
three
people missing."

Chapter Twenty Eight

If Theodore Davidson wanted to make the trip north with plenty of fuel. He was going to have to stock up, especially if he was going to dwell in the countryside, away from population. He had already tried one farm for fuel, behind the hedge of the caravan park, but nothing was there: No fuel, cattle, or people.

His knowledge of The Rugeley/Brereton area wasn't great, but he did see an old sign by the Ash Tree roundabout for 'Park Farm Bed and Breakfast.' Whether it still existed and the people were still there was another thing. The people he didn't care about. All he cared about was if they had plenty of diesel, the same diesel they'd use for their machinery that would keep his jeep going for weeks. He was unsure whether there was a difference between road diesel and the stuff they used on farms. Maybe it was just a difference in sulphur. Whatever it was, he was sure that it was going to work and there was only one way to find out.

There should be some kind of storage tank somewhere, he thought.

His last resort was to siphon any vehicles he came across. There were a few abandoned cars in Rugeley itself, but most cars ran on petrol, and it was jeeps and vans that were mainly diesel. Also, the dangers of being out in the open whilst siphoning were too high.

Theodore Davidson drove slowly to the Ash Tree pub and turned left at the roundabout. He went down a road, passing an abandoned vehicle to his left that was stuck in a ditch, and saw another old sign for Park Farm. He stopped by the weird junction. To his right was a dead end, and to the left was the road that led to the golf course.

He drove straight on, onto the premises, and up a curly road that was steep. It was a place he had never been to before, but was certain that the empty fields to either side of him were littered with sheep and cattle some time ago. The road curved to the right, and a converted barn could be seen next to the large white house. He stopped the jeep and stepped out onto the grass. He took a quick look around him, then headed for the establishment, the kukri still sitting in its holster by his side.

He passed a red tractor on his left, and couldn't see anywhere where the owners could have stored their fuel. Maybe it was around the back of the farm.

He looked at the windows of the side of the house. No window had the curtains drawn, and there was no sign of life inside them. There was a cobbled path that went in an almost semicircle, and Theodore Davidson followed the path and found that it led to the main door of the house. The window to the conservatory and the living room also had their curtains open, and there was no one in when he looked inside.

He was going to go inside, but he decided to have a look around the other side of the place first. Once he did, he could see a garden. At the end of the garden was a large vegetable patch, and a greenhouse was on the other side of the lawn. He took a slow walk over to the patch and could see that it was empty; all the produce had been dug up. His short trip to the greenhouse produced similar results, and he was now ready to search the house.

He knew the type of people that owned farms, mainly middle-aged or elderly people, and was convinced that if they were still alive they shouldn't pose too much of a threat to him.

Theodore's attention was distracted when he heard a small thud coming from the large barn to the side of him. He decided to check it out before entering the house.

He looked up to the cloudless sky, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. He wasn't looking forward to the winter—for obvious reasons, but September and October's cooler air would be more than welcome. He hated the summer. Even when he was in prison and had chance to spend an hour in the exercise yard, he'd sometimes choose to stay indoors, away from the sun.

Back on the cobbled path, and passing the house, the man that was nicknamed The Bear, or just simply, Bear, went to the barn and this time took out his blade. The wooden doors to the barn were locked together with a padlock and chain, and he tried to peer inside the crack inbetween the two doors, but all he could see was darkness. He took a step back and stroked his chin in thought, wondering if he should force the doors open. Maybe this was where they kept the fuel. He heard footsteps to the left of him and suddenly swivelled his head in that direction.

He stood up straight and looked at the individual that was ten yards from him, holding a shotgun. He didn't know whether to laugh out loud or
not
at the surreal situation.

Holding the gun was an old woman. She was five-feet in height; she shook as she held the gun, and her face quivered in fright. Bear smiled at the woman's frailty. She had short, white candy floss-like hair that stuck up, and her face was wrinkly like old porridge. He guessed that she must have been at least in her early seventies.

"What are you after?" she cried.

Bear put the blade back into his holster, slowly, and held both hands up with a smile on his face. "Relax," he spoke. "You know what's going on, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she said with impatience. "I'm not a bloody idiot. Just because I'm old—"

"Alright," Bear laughed falsely. "Calm down."

"What are you here for?" She raised the gun an inch higher, and was now pointing the damn thing at his head. "Food? Water? Fuel?"

"I take it by all the questions you've had visitors before?"

"Only the one."

"And what happened?"

"He left," she then nodded to the shotgun, "with a little persuasion."

"I haven't come to harm anyone." Theodore Davidson slowly lowered his hands, with no protest from the old woman, and put them by his side. He told her the truth. "I need some fuel to get me north. Well, I have enough to get me north, but you don't know what's around the corner, so I need more for insurance, shall we say."

"We have none." The woman stiffened up and cleared her throat. "So I suggest you leave."

Bear didn't believe her, and was beginning to get frustrated with the situation he was in. He didn't have time for this shit. He took a slow step to the side, grabbed the padlock of the barn and rattled it. "So what's in here then?"

"Keep away!" she yelled out.

Bear then scrunched his eyes in confusion and could hear the unmistakable sound of dragging feet from inside the barn, but there was no groaning coming from within. "You've got the dead in your barn?" Bear looked surprised.

"They're not ...
the dead
," the old woman looked to be fighting back the tears. "They're my daughters."

"Is that where the fuel's kept?" He pointed at the barn.

"I told you before..."

"Yeah, yeah." Bear shook his head and walked towards the woman, certain she wasn't going to shoot. "You have no fuel. I get it."

"Stay back!" she cried, as the large man advanced towards her.

Ignoring her frail warning, he grabbed the old shotgun off of the woman, and she cowered as soon as he did this. He opened it up, took a look inside to see it was loaded, then snapped it back shut. "Who else is inside?"

She shook with nerves and stammered, "Just-just me and my husband."

"Where're your dogs? All farms have dogs."

She lowered her head with sadness. She gulped hard and said, with a quiver, "They were killed in the first week."

"Do you have a stove? teabags?"

She nodded, thinking that it was an unusual question. "Yes, we have both."

"Good. Before I leave with the fuel, that you apparently
don't
have, you're gonna make me a nice cup of tea."

The old woman turned around and staggered to the main door of her home. She constantly peeped behind her, expecting to receive a blow to the back of her head, but it never happened. Bear was two yards behind the woman, and as she opened the main door, he said with a serious tone. "I hope you've got biscuits."

She never responded.

*

He slurped on his second cup of tea, and looked around the rustic-looking living room. It was like something from Victorian times, but he liked it. It had character. He was sitting in the armchair, and on the three-seated couch sat the lady and the man of the farmhouse. There was never any introductions, but Bear knew that the frail old man that sat at the opposite end of the couch from the woman was the husband.

Bear never felt sorry for them; he envied them.

They had lived a long and full life, and the end of days had happened at the tail end of their journey. Whatever happened to them now didn't matter. At their age, in the old world, what would they have to look forward to? Cancer? Endless hospital appointments?

He was surprised that they hadn't killed themselves like some people had.

He looked at the plate that was sitting on the oak table, and saw that it had one chocolate digestive left. He took it, dunked it in his tea and put the whole biscuit into his mouth.

"What happened to your cattle, your sheep?" Bear took another slurp of tea, washing the remains of the biscuit down. "Stolen?"

"Most of them were stolen by people, leaving us with nothing," the old woman replied. Her husband sat and stared at the carpet. He wasn't so much nervous that somebody had bullied their way into his home, he was more disgusted, and was certain that thirty years ago he could have given the man a run for his money, despite his size.

"So ... now I've had my tea," Bear smiled a devilish smile that sent shudders down both of their frail spines, "you can now tell me where you keep your fuel."

"We don't have any," the old man spoke up. "We told you."

"Fuckin' bullshit!" Bear snapped, making the old woman scream out in fright.

"What fuel we had, my son took before he left." Her wrinkly old hands shook as she wiped the tears from her worn face.

They never mentioned a son before
.

Bear stood up and told the old couple that he was going to check the house before opening up the barn—the only place that he could think of that stored the fuel. There wasn't really anywhere else the diesel, if it was there, could be stored.

He took the shotgun and searched upstairs. He wasn't a big fan of guns, so once he checked out the first floor had nothing, he emptied the gun, and threw the cartridges in the smelly toilet.

He returned from upstairs, left the shotgun by the armchair where he was sitting, then clapped his hands together. "Right. The barn next."

"No!" the man and woman cried in unison.

Bear ignored their begging as he left the premises.