Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray (5 page)

Chapter Ten

Theodore Davidson had drank a quarter bottle of brandy that he had taken from the cellar and was feeling soused. He went to one of the bedrooms, on the first floor of the Spode Cottage, and lay on the single bed, still fully-clothed. He could hear Paul Frederick stumbling about in the next room, and knew that he was also feeling the effects of alcohol consumption after downing half a bottle of vodka.

"Make sure the main door's locked!" Bear yelled.

"Already did it!" was Frederick's response from the other room.

Bear closed his eyes and drifted off in seconds.

After eleven minutes of sleep, he shot up and scanned the room, confusion aplenty. He had no idea why he had woken up with a start; he then heard a noise from downstairs.

"Frederick!" he called out. "Frederick!"

There was no response, forcing Bear to stand to his feet. His head felt woozy from the intake of alcohol, that he wasn't used to, from before, and crept to his door and placed his ear next to it. Another noise from the ground floor made Bear open the door, and he grabbed the leather belt and holster from the side-table and fastened it around his waist. He went into the next room and reached for his kukri that was in the holster, and pulled it out, ready for anything.

He pushed open the door to the room that Frederick was sleeping in and found his bed empty. He called out his name. No answer. He stood at the top of the landing and peered downstairs. He called his surname out again, this time quietly. "Frederick."

There was a response this time. "Down here."

Bear crept to the bottom of the stairs and walked across the dark hallway, using his left hand to feel his way about. Paul Frederick was in the lounge area of the place, peering out of a window.

"What do you see?" Bear walked over and stood next to him, now also looking out.

"I think I saw a couple of Roamers. But I reckon it could be people that are out there."

"We should take care of it."

"We can't kill every person that decides to stay the night," Frederick bravely spoke up. "There're dozens of empty caravans. The temptation's too much if people are
that
desperate. When you killed that family a few days ago—"

"I killed that family," Bear spat, "because the woman lied to me and her partner tried to attack me ... twice. They could have saved themselves if they treated me with a bit of respect."

"And the little boy?"

"Better off dead." Bear wiped his nose and leaned his head closer to the window to get a better look. "Anyway, let's stop dwelling in the past and concentrate on the problem we have outside. Unlock the door. We're going out."

Paul Frederick did what he was told, and combed his short blonde hair with his fingers, tension beginning to suffocate him. "We don't know what's out there. Don't you think we're better off staying in here, especially because we've been drinking?"

"Probably." Bear opened the main door and stepped his six-four frame out into the cool July night. He could already hear noises around the corner of the Spode Cottage. He recognised that clumsy shuffling anywhere.

It wasn't people that were outside.

It was the dead.

Paul Frederick pulled out his knife and stood next to Bear, waiting for him to make a move. Bear moved to the corner of the place and took a quick peep to see four of the dead. The forty-three-year-old then urged Frederick to stay with him as he moved towards them, which he did, and both men were a matter of feet away from the four infected. All four beasts had their backs to the males, making the task too easy, and they never hesitated with the attack from behind.

Bear hacked at two, before the remaining two knew what was going on. Frederick watched as a female turned around. Her yellow skin and the smell coming from her dead body made him gag, but it was something he should have been used to by now. He stuck his knife into the left milky eye of the creature, and pulled it out quickly before it dropped to the floor. He pulled his knife back to kill the last one standing, but Bear embedded his kukri into the top of its head. Its eyes rolled, and once the blade was removed, it fell.

Bear crouched down, wiped the dark and sticky blood off his blade, and onto the rags of the smelly creature. He then stood up straight and scanned the area. It was late evening, but the summer time provided them with a dark blue blanket of cloudless sky above them, which gave them a little light for them to see.

Announced Bear, "We'll take care of the bodies in the morning."

Frederick nodded and lowered his head, obviously shattered and slightly intoxicated. "I think I need another drink."

Bear looked around and saw the abandoned caravans. "Let's go back inside."

Bear turned to go back and Frederick was about to follow him, until be heard a noise coming from behind.
What now?
He rubbed his head and turned around.

Frederick let out a shriek. From around the corner of the establishment, a single ghoul grabbed him by the shoulders and bit into his forearm that he held up as a way of protecting himself. Frederick screamed out, more in fright than pain, when he saw his flesh being ripped away. He dropped his knife, pushed the beast away whilst it was chewing, and struggled to stay on his feet as Bear took a step forward and took control of the situation.

Theodore Davidson kept his kukri in its holster and grabbed the dead male by its dirty hair. Three times Bear smashed its face against the side of the cottage, before letting the thing fall with its face all caved in. He turned around and could see Frederick running away. He was off site and was passing the Plum Pudding pub, heading for the top of the hill.

"Where're you going?" Bear called out. "Come back!"

"I'm bit!" Frederick yelled. He was now a fair distance away. "You're just gonna kill me!"

"You're as good as dead anyway. Do you really wanna turn? Like those things?"

"I'll take my chances!"

"I'll make it quick for you!"

Frederick never responded and was now over the hill, running away from the area and a few hundred yards away from the Ash Tree pub. He had no idea where he was going, but he certainly didn't want to die just yet. He was going to milk every second he had left of his life.

*

Paul Frederick had reached the Ash Tree roundabout with no problems; the only trouble he had was the stitch he was suffering on the right side of his chest. He turned his run into a gentle jog and was aware that in the darkness, especially with no power from the useless streetlights that were either side of him, dangers could be lurking everywhere. He was a dead man—he knew that, but being devoured and eaten whilst he still breathed was something he wanted to avoid. He had seen it with his own eyes. It was a death he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

When they were released he had seen an inmate, in the first week, being eaten alive by three of the fiends. His stomach was ripped open, his intestines were pulled out, and the victim was still alive until they tore open his throat.

He knew he was going to die and was going to be one of
them
. He was sure that dying by turning would be painful at first, then he would fall asleep and never wake up. It sounded more appealing than being eaten whilst still conscious, and he certainly didn't want it to end so soon and allow Bear to cut his throat, or whatever else he had in mind.

Frederick reached the arch bridge in Rugeley—sometimes called The Arches—and was near where the clinic was on Horsefair—sometimes written as Horse Fair. He saw an alleyway where he, Bear and Willie went a few times to spy on the camp at Sandy Lane. He ran down the alleyway and reached a wiry fence, holding his damaged forearm. He was now outside the camp that he and Bear had watched, and could see the building that they had recently robbed.

He quickly looked for any sign of guards and could see one figure, now walking away. He could see pens and stables set up on the field, and didn't want to disturb any animals and give himself away. He struggled to climb over the fence with his injured arm, but he somehow managed it. Now inside, he took another look around and could just about see, by the abandoned tennis courts, a hut that used to be used for boxing lessons, and went over to the large hut without disturbing anything or anyone. He was beginning to tire and went over to the hut's door, but it was locked.

What he was doing was selfish. He knew that once he had found a peaceful place to die, he would then turn. But he didn't want to be out there, in danger of being ripped open, witnessing his own guts spilling out. Being in the camp seemed to be the best thing for him. He could die in peace. He was confident that once he'd turned he'd be killed with ease by one of the guards, but he was fine by that, because he'd technically be dead by then anyway.

He gave the hut's door another try, but he was having no success, so he went past the bowling green and went over to the side of the Lea Hall building. He ducked to the floor once he saw a shotgun-carrying guard ten feet away, and knew he'd be kicked off site and back out there if he was caught. Or maybe even killed, if they clocked his wound or recognised that he was one of the burglars. He then saw a door to the side of the building and grabbed the metal handle and gave it a tug. It came open, and he looked at the signage on the right of the door telling citizens that it was a changing room—probably for Rugeley Town Football Club that were now no more.

He crept into the blackness, with no idea what could be in there. He then felt around in the dark and his hand felt something wooden.

Benches to sit on.

Above the bench was metal hooks to hang clothing, and his hands found the lockers. He continued to feel his way around the place and was now in the shower area of the changing rooms. He wondered how long it had been since hot water had come out of these showers, and he tried to picture what the place would have been like on a Sunday morning. He closed his eyes and imagined the place lit up, full of life, full of men showering and talking about the game, their work, and going for a couple of drinks once they were cleansed.

He went straight into the corner of the shower area and slid down the wall. He closed his eyes, tucked his knees into his chest and began to cry. He was a bastard in the old world, a rapist, and even though he deserved to die in many people's eyes, he didn't want to.

He turned to the side and threw up.

The salty taste in his mouth told him that it wasn't just vomit that he had released, it was blood as well. He wiped his mouth, leaned his head back and kept his eyes shut.

He was getting tired.

He was getting so tired.

Chapter Eleven

July 29th

Kirk Sheen and Charles Washington were standing outside the HGV, officially outside the camp. Most guards opted to sit or stand on the cab of the truck, but the boredom of the watch, despite them being on high alert, was killing them. Inside the cab was Jimmy Mac. Very seldom did Jimmy Mac go on the barrier, but Lee had told people that everybody that was physically able needed to do their share to relieve the permanent guards and to give them some time off. Most of the regular guards were happy to do the long hours. What would they be doing otherwise? But with the death of Nicholas Burgess and Luke John in the last week or so, Lee wanted more people on board who didn't have a job that was considered vital.

The new recruits didn't have to do a lot: Hold a gun. Stand. Watch. Don't fall asleep.

It was simple.

Kirk and Charles could hear the sound of an engine coming from behind them. They were on the other side of the barrier, technically off the camp, so they peered under the HGV to see what the noise was. It was a red pickup truck coming out of Hill Street and onto Sandy Lane. Most of the vehicles were parked on Cross Road, and this particular vehicle from Vince's old camp had more fuel than the others. They were running low.

The two guards, Sheen and Washington, climbed up to the cab and stood up to see the truck being parked yards from them. Out of the truck came Pickle, Bentley and Lee.

"I thought Rick Morgan was going with you on this run," Kirk spoke up, noticing that they were a man missing. "Where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Bentley was the first to speak, and the three men began conversing with one another, out of earshot from Kirk and Charles.

Lee looked in the back and made sure that they had everything: Food, water, extra fuel, and the shotguns ... just in case. There was also ten empty barrels and a handful of plastic tubing that was considerable in length. The plan was to somehow siphon the fuel from the tanker—providing it was still there—into the barrels, as hot wiring a car these days was almost impossible, let alone a fuel tanker, and they didn't have people on the camp that had knowledge to do that anyway.

Rick Morgan finally made an appearance, and Lee James made a snide comment about him being late.

"Had to take a dump," said Rick with no shame. "Felt like I was giving birth to a python."

Pickle laughed; Bentley raised a smile, but Lee looked unimpressed. He seemed on edge and Pickle asked him what the matter was, but he never responded.

"How's the finger?" Rick asked Pickle. "Still missing?"

Pickle looked baffled and said, aghast, "Was that a serious question?"

"Just making polite conversation."

Rick bent over and began scratching at his leg and Pickle noticed they were quite hairy. "Shit," Pickle snickered. "I don't think I've seen legs that hairy before."

"I know," chuckled Rick. "I take after my dad. If you think mine are bad, you wanna see
his
legs, back in the day. He had legs like a spider."

"He had eight legs?" Pickle joked, trying to keep a straight face.

"No." Rick shook his head. He looked confused. "They were hairy;
that's
what I meant."

"If this trip to Lichfield is successful," began Lee, interrupting the men's pointless small-talk, "then this tanker could provide us fuel for many months."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Bentley looked confused by Lee's tone. His tone suggested that he wasn't so sure about this trip. Pickle also looked perplexed.

"I just..." Lee paused, then tried again. "I just don't want to be losing people every time we go out."

Pickle cleared his throat and spat on the floor. "How many people 'ave yer lost since yer were here?"

"Including Luke John..." Lee rolled his eyes in thought, wiping his clammy hands on his blue jeans. "Five."

"Considering yer go out on a run every other day,
five
isn't that bad. That's not even one person a week."

"It's still too many."

"We lost ten people in one morning on Vince's camp." Pickle spoke with sadness in his words. "Yer doing better than most."

"I know about that. It must have been horrific." Lee began to think about his old friend, Vince, and soon brought himself back to reality. He waved at Jimmy Mac, who was sitting inside the cab, and told him to reverse the lorry so they could squeeze the pickup through. All four men got in the vehicle, and Lee drove it through the gap that Jimmy Mac had provided and moved away from the camp.

"Isn't this the way to Cannock?" Rick Morgan queried Lee. "Wouldn't we be better off going out the other barrier?"

Lee answered, "We're going the long way, through the country roads. It's safer, and I want there to be no nasty surprises."

Rick Morgan scratched at his shaved head and tried to get comfortable. It was difficult with four men in the front of a three-seated truck, but the space in the back had been used up by the empty barrels for the optimistic run to Lichfield.

Bentley peered to his left and had a quick gape at Pickle, then turned to his right and had a look at the driver of the vehicle, Lee James. He then faced forwards and gazed out of the windscreen, almost being hypnotised by the white lines on the road that were whizzing underneath him.

"What's goin' through yer mind, Bentley?" asked Pickle, noticing that the man had been staring at him.

"I've just realised that we've all lost our partners." What Bentley had announced was the truth, and it managed to bring Pickle and Lee down. Lee felt emotional, but Pickle took in a deep breath and nodded in agreement.

"Yer right," Pickle said in almost a whisper, "and we've still managed to keep sane, somehow."

Rick Morgan was keeping quiet, and he could now feel eyes glaring at him.

Bentley wasn't shy and asked Rick, "What about you, Rick? I've noticed that you keep yourself to yourself. Did you lose anybody ... special?"

Rick looked uncomfortable and shook his head, still staring ahead.

"You're lucky then."

"I'm not lucky." Rick had irritation in his voice, and added, "Girls don't like me. Never have done."

Bentley was persistent. "You never even had
one
special lady in your life?"

Rick said, "Only my mother. But she died years ago."

"But—"

"Bentley," Pickle butted in, noticing that the thirty-five-year-old Rick Morgan was becoming uncomfortable. "Give the guy a break."

"My mother used to tell me that women are crazy and men are stupid," Rick spoke up and looked at the three guys to his right, "and the reason why women are crazy is because ... well, men are stupid."

"God rest her," Lee sighed and began to snicker, "but my Denise could go bat shit crazy now and again. Especially if I snored. I'd sometimes wake up in the morning with bruised ribs."

"Laura had her moments." Bentley shook his head with a sad smile, but never added to his sentence.

Rick then looked at Pickle and asked him, "What's your experience with women, Pickle? Are they as mad as some men say they are?"

Pickle cackled, "I think yer talkin' to the wrong man, Rick. Yer see, ma experiences with women are as limited as yours."

"Oh?"

"I bat for the other team."

"God, Pickle." Rick flushed a red colour and began to stammer. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What for?" Pickle patted Rick on the shoulder, letting him know that he hadn't been offended. "It's not a disease, being gay."

"But you used to be in prison, in a place where there's testosterone-fuelled inmates. Didn't you get flak for being gay, if you don't mind me asking."

"No." Pickle shook his head and added, "They were inmates, people who had broken the law, but it doesn't mean they're homophobic. It's the twenty-first century."

"Didn't you get a lecture from the prison's chaplain once?" Bentley rolled his eyes in thought, reminiscing about his days on the wing with Pickle and his crew.

Pickle nodded. "When I first turned to religion, I confessed that I was gay. The chaplain wasn't too impressed, claiming it was against his beliefs."

"So what did you say to that?" Lee had now joined the conversation and was now on the main road, four miles from Lichfield.

Pickle said, "I just told him that claimin' that ma sexual preference was against his religion was like being angry at someone for eating a cupcake because yer on a diet. Homophobia is not a Christian value."

All men remained silent as they were now halfway to their destination. The roads were clear and little carnage could be seen on the journey. It was an eerie sight.

"I have a good feeling about this trip," said Bentley, breaking the silence.

"Me too." Pickle chipped in.

"Fuck," Lee began to laugh. He slowed down and turned onto another road. "I hope you're both right."