Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray (4 page)

Chapter Eight

The Sandy Lane camp was experiencing a fine evening because of the sun, and Pickle and Karen had eaten a light supper that consisted of water, crisps and some noodles. Since the robbery, and the death of Nicholas Burgess in the early hours of Saturday morning, the rest of the day had been mundane and non-eventful.

"Who's on the night shift tonight?" asked Karen, still removing the leftover crisps from her teeth with her tongue.

"There's a few on." Pickle sat back in the chair, in the living room, and took a sip of water. He screwed his face. It tasted funny. "There're some guys I don't know. Lee's pretty desperate for people at the moment."

"It'll probably be better if they put the less experienced on during the day, and the likes of you, Bentley and others on a night. Because if we're attacked again, it's on a night it'll happen."

"That's what
I
said." Pickle nodded. "I think after we return from the run tomorrow he's probably gonna do just that."

"Still four of you going?"

"Yep. Just in case things go tits-up." Pickle took another sip. "We'll be a bit short on the barriers, and he's even got Paul Dickson doing the perimeter."

"Maybe I'll take the kids if Paul's doing that," Karen said. "It'll give Rosemary a break."

The pair of them sat in silence for a few seconds and their minds wandered; their thoughts went to the recent past.

Pickle eventually broke the quiet. "You seem to like Paul."

"I do," said Karen, unabashed. "When you and Vince were missing, we got to know each other a little better."

Pickle nodded, understanding that Karen needed someone whilst he was away. She didn't have Shaz anymore, and had latched onto Paul in his absence.

She said, "We had a hug every now and again, on the bed."

Pickle raised his eyebrows, trying to tease her.

"There's nothing sexual there." Karen brushed her dark hair behind her ears, and added, "We had one while you was away, and a couple of others when you were on the barrier and Rosemary had Kyle and Lisa."

"I was missing. Shaz is dead. Yer fiancé has been gone just under two months. Yer family are probably dead, so it's understandable to need a hug once in a while."

"Shit, you really know how to cheer a girl up." Karen began to laugh.

Realising what he had just said, he cackled, "I've always been the charmer, Bradley."

"Is that what KP fell for? The charm?" Karen surprised herself that such a question came out of her mouth. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine. I don't mind talkin' about him." Pickle sighed, "I suppose I don't talk about him enough. Can't pretend that he never existed."

"That's what men do," said Karen with a smile. "They keep everything in."

Pickle took another drink, wetting the inside of his dry throat. His face changed and a morose look had slowly emerged on his features. He took another swig and placed the cup on the floor before adding, "I sometimes wonder how long we've got."

Karen sat up straight, confused by his rambling words. "What?"

Pickle took in a deep breath, temporarily enlarging his chest, and puffed out. "How long we've got left to live."

"Jesus," Karen falsely snickered. "You're in a dark mood." He never responded back, and Karen could see the melancholy on his face. "Is this you going through one of your
what's the point
moods?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Karen stood up and walked over to her friend. She sat next to him and put her hand on his thigh. "You're depressed. We're all fucking depressed, but we're still alive."

"For now."

Karen nodded, "Yeah, for now. Who knows what could happen in the next couple of months. We could all be living in luxury with a decent community. The country could be slowly restored back to civilisation with the help of our own and outside forces."

"Or we could all be dead."

"Maybe. But I'm willing to stick it out, baby or no baby. Don't get me wrong, I have bad days,
you
know that. That's why we need each other. When you're down, I'm here for you, and vice versa."

"I've thought about killing myself." Pickle's tone was emotionless. "Many times."

"Haven't we all?" Karen wasn't shocked by his outburst. She was sure he had said something similar weeks back.

He shook his head and looked at Karen with his dark glassy eyes. "Being alive in this world is just prolonging the inevitable."

"Wasn't being alive in the
old world
prolonging the inevitable? I don't think your God will be pleased if you gave up and took your own life."

"What do yer know about God?"

"Not a lot, I suppose. But this feeling you have right now comes and goes for everybody, you know that. Look at Paul Dickson and what he's lost, Shaz..."

Karen stood to her feet and began to unbutton her green combat trousers. Pickle never asked what she was doing; he just glared at the young woman, completely baffled. She lowered the combats down and pointed at the cuts on the inside of her left thigh. "Don't ask me why, but I started doing it days ago. We're all depressed, Pickle." She then pulled her trousers back up. "We're all suffering."

"Shit." Pickle put his hands together as if he was about to pray. "I had no idea."

"Only you and Paul know about this. I haven't done it for days. I think I've got it under control."

Pickle patted the seat next to him and urged Karen to sit down. Once she did, he put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry for wallowing in self-pity."

"You're entitled to do that. And next time you do it, I hope I'm here for you again."

"I suppose I'm just having a bad couple o' hours. Yer don't need to see me like this."

"Pickle, I don't mind seeing you like this. I'd rather you didn't hide it. We've known each other for nearly two months now, feels like years. And we've been through some shit that is beyond surreal. Two months ago I was a Grade D Staff Nurse, engaged, and had a house at Draycott Park. Since I've known you, we've killed so many Snatchers I have lost count, I've shot a gun, I've been close to being killed more times than I'd like to experience, and I've even killed people."

"What's yer point?"

"My point? In such a short space of time, I've never felt like this about anybody, not even Shaz. The stuff we've been through... We have an unbreakable bond. You're the big brother that I never had, and I love you." Karen kissed him on his forehead before getting to her feet, the tears in her eyes refusing to fall. She began to walk over to the door that led to the stairs.

"Where're yer going?" he asked in a croaky voice, his throat swelling with emotion. He loved her so much. He just wasn't good at telling her.

"I'm turning in for the night. I'm exhausted."

"Good night, Bradley."

"I'll need a hug tonight." Karen smiled and beckoned him to follow her. "We can lie on the bed—"

"But—"

"I'm not gonna take
no
for an answer. I think this will be good for the both of us. You can go into the other room afterwards. I don't think I can put up with your snoring anyway."

Chapter Nine

Paul and Kyle Dickson were having a quick evening stroll along Sandy Lane, to blow off the cobwebs, whilst Lisa was at Rosemary's. They strolled in silence and both seemed comfortable walking without verbal interaction. Paul placed his arm around his little man, and the boy looked up at his dad and gave him a big cheesy smile.

Kyle pointed up ahead and said, "It's Mrs Halliday."

Paul looked, and could see the elderly lady in her dressing gown, walking along the path with her two hands holding a kitchen towel as if she was carrying something. Kyle had said a few days ago, to her face, that Mrs Halliday looked like a witch, but it was something that she managed to laugh off, claiming that she had been called a lot worse.

"Hello," Kyle called over.

"Hello there, young fella." Mrs Halliday had a toothless smile, and Paul thought that the eighty-year-old must have left her teeth in the house.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked, and scratched at his strawberry blonde hair.

Paul and his son were now next to Mrs Halliday, and could see that she had a dead goldfish on a piece of kitchen towel. The drain by Mrs Halliday's feet suggested that the senior citizen was about to release the dead fish down into it.

She explained to Kyle, "This is my fish, Flipper. I've had him for nearly three years, which is quite old for a fish, so he's had a good innings."

"Is it dead?" the young boy questioned.

She nodded with a thin smile. "It died a few minutes ago."

"Are you sad that he's dead?" Kyle looked up at the frail old woman for an answer, his father standing silently beside him.

"A little," she smiled at the sweet boy, "but he's had a good life, and now I'm going to put him down the drain while his soul goes to fishy heaven."

Kyle bit his bottom lip in thought. "Before you put him down the drain..."

"Yes?"

"Can I stab it?"

"Kyle!" Paul Dickson looked mortified, and gently pulled his son back from Mrs Halliday. "That's an awful thing to say!"

"It's okay." Mrs Halliday began to laugh. She bent down and gently lowered the kitchen towel to allow Flipper to drop down the drain, then screwed up the material and put it into her dressing gown pocket.

"I'm really sorry. I..." Paul couldn't find the words to explain what was probably going through his son's mind.

"It's okay." Mrs Halliday was still chuckling and headed back to her home. "That's boys for you."

Paul looked at his son and shook his head.

Kyle looked confused. "What is it, daddy?"

"Really? Can I stab it?
Where did
that
come from?"

Kyle hunched his shoulders. "Just thought I'd ask. "

*

The scene outside was tranquil, but staying by the River Trent had made her stay at the place a noisy one, especially at bedtimes when she tried to sleep. She had only been there for a couple of days, and most supplies had been taken. She was near Little Haywood, and was staying at the Wolseley Arms pub, two miles from Rugeley.

After spending days in the woods, the fourteen-year-old girl had had enough of sleeping in areas that made her paranoia strong, and decided to stay in the place once she had noticed it was devoid of life. It was self-evident that the place had been ransacked a couple of times, as it was untidy-looking and the kitchens looked to be bare. All that had been left was nuts and crisps from behind the bar, and a variety of soft and alcoholic drinks—the latter she never touched.

She had left the pub over half an hour ago and had picked berries by the back of the river, which were now in a carrier bag that she was holding in her left hand. She had her rucksack on her back, and was now making her way back out of the woodland and back to her temporary home. She walked in the middle of the barren road and began humming a tune from one of her favourite groups.

God, she missed her music.

Her tired feet dragged, and she released a sigh of relief when she saw that the pub was just up ahead. Five minutes and she'd be back. Thank Christ! She was dying to have a lie down, and the evening was now drawing in.

Noticing she had a shoelace undone on her left shoe, the young girl cussed, then bent down to tie it. As her head was lowered, she heard a rustle. Slowly raising her head, she could see a deer standing in the middle of the road, gawking right at her. She dropped the carrier bag and slowly put her hand behind her head. She reached for the bow that was over her shoulder, but before her fingers touched the weapon, the tetchy animal darted into the woodland on the other side of the road.

"Damn."

Something had spooked it. But what?

The answer to her mental question was soon answered. A black and white Border Collie trotted out onto the road and turned its head to glare at the young lady. Its coat was dirty and bloody, and had wounds to its body to suggest it may have attacked another dog or an animal of some kind. It looked at the young girl, and she immediately knew that it wasn't in a pleasant mood.

She reached for her bow once more, and then pulled out one of the three arrows that she had tucked under her belt as the dog began to salivate and snarl. She had no idea if the canine was rabid, scared or just starving, but its behaviour was making her heart gallop. She wasn't taking any chances. Once she had her bow set up, she pulled the string back, ready to release the pine arrow, if need be, and waited for the dog's next move. As she aimed, she cursed herself for shaking. She had never killed a dog before. She only used her bow for the dead and for game. She didn't want to do this.

"Walk away," she whispered. "Just walk away."

Still snarling, the dog took a few steps forwards, and she decided to act before it got too close. She had spent her weeks on the road, killing and hiding from the dead, and she wasn't going to get hurt by a dog after all she had been through. No chance.

It took another couple of step forwards, still growling and gnashing, and she reluctantly released the arrow. It hit the Border Collie in the shoulder; it released an awful yelp. It staggered its injured body towards her, and she took another arrow from her belt. The second arrow was released, and this one embedded itself into the side of the dog's neck as it turned its head, immediately putting it down. She kept a hold of the bow with her left hand and put her other hand in her right pocket, taking out the knife that she had taken from the pub's kitchen before leaving.

Unsure that the animal was dead and not wanting any bites to her body, she walked over hesitantly to the canine and crouched down. It was motionless. She put the knife away, then placed the bow over her shoulder. Leaving the two arrows in its body, she grabbed the hind legs and began to drag the dead dog. Although the establishment could be seen with her own eyes and the distance wasn't too far, she knew this was going to take it out of her. It was heavier than it looked.

She was going to have a fire outside tonight.

Why not?

She was going to have it in the beer garden, near the river.

There was no sign of the dead anywhere, she was in the countryside, and the garden centre a few hundred yards away was checked out yesterday. No dead was present. She also had a guest to feed, and the dog would be a welcomed break from the bar snacks that she had been living on for the past couple of days. It'd be a shame to waste it.