Snatchers (Book 9): The Dead Don't Scream (19 page)

Chapter Thirty Eight

The evening was drawing in, but because it was August the girls had plenty of light to play with. Both Elza Crowe and Ophelia White had entered another house in a street called Landsbury Road. This was going to be their last before returning back to the church for the evening.

Elza was fed up, and their short expedition had produced very unsatisfactory results. They both had bags, but little was in them. The only positive to come out of this was that not a single creature had been spotted, and none had been in the two houses that they had checked.

The girls approached the house and, like before, they checked through the windows. This time the windows had curtains drawn, unlike the last two houses, and both girls went to the back garden to check for any irregularities before going in.

The garden was clear.

A washing line was present with clothes still hanging from it. The garments that were pegged to the line suggested that children were present in the house not so long ago. Maybe they were still inside, but not as they once were. Elza tried the door, but it wasn't budging. It was locked.

Elza looked at her friend, who was patiently waiting for an instruction, running her forefinger over the scar on her left cheek, and nodded at the back door. Ophelia gave Elza her bat to hold, then ran and shoulder-barged the door. It didn't move on her first attempt. One more attempt later and the door flew open, with Ophelia falling into the reception area. Elza went inside and over to help her friend up.

"You okay?" Elza asked.

Ophelia nodded, and brushed herself down.

"Okay," Elza sighed, the last two houses had dampened her spirits. "Let's check this place out, then we'll go back. Tomorrow we'll try a different street."

Ophelia was the first to check out the kitchen and went through the drawers, cupboards and defunct fridge. Elza watched as Ophelia put a packet of digestives, a tin of tuna, a packet of pasta and a bottle of diet lemonade in her bag.

That was it. That was all that was available.

Elza noticed that there was a toilet downstairs. She went inside and noticed that under the sink was a small cupboard. Placing her bat on the floor, she went on her knees and opened the cupboard.

She looked inside and produced a small smile. "Now, that's much better," she said, and looked over to her friend who was standing by the frame of the door.

Elza reached in and pulled out a packet of kitchen roll, six in the packet, and put them in her bag. She pulled out a torch and checked if it was working. It was. She also put that in her bag, and reached in for more goodies. She pulled out a hammer and a bag of toiletries, and bagged them also. She had another look before shutting the cupboard. She got to her feet and said to Ophelia, "Everything else in there is just decorating gear and there's also a crate of Guinness."

Ophelia nodded and pointed to the ceiling.

Knowing what she meant, Elza smiled and said, "I'll lead the way upstairs."

She put her bag in the kitchen and Ophelia did the same, then Elza led the way. She went through the living room and opened a door that had a set of stairs which would guide them to the first floor.

"Shall we?" Elza looked at Ophelia for a reaction. "Or shall we just head back? Any food in a place is always on the ground floor, in the kitchen."

Ophelia gestured to go upstairs.

"Okay." Elza smiled. "I suppose there's no point doing just half a job."

The two girls trudged their way up the flight of stairs, heading for the first floor. The door at the top of the stairs was already open and they could both see that it was the bathroom. The other three doors were shut.

They had had a lot of experience with these scenarios, but some of the things they had seen were still awful and, for Elza at least, were disturbing. They could hear movement from the room at the end, but still checked the other two rooms first, bats at the ready.

Elza pushed down the handle and gently nudged the door open. As usual with these scenarios, it was a child's room. The pink 'My Little Pony' bedspread was crumpled and wasn't made; the wallpaper was also pink and had posters for 'Monsters High,' 'Hello Kitty' and one of a boy band that neither of them recognised.

They checked the cupboards and once they predictably found nothing of use to them, they left and went into the other room. The other room had similar results. Only this time it was a boy's room.

Posters were on the walls. The bed had also been slept in, and this time the girls didn't bother going through the cupboards. There didn't seem to be any point.

The final room was the parents' room, it had to be, and the sounds coming from inside it made the girls on edge and more vigilant. Elza was more hesitant with this door, as she knew there was something behind it. She grabbed the handle and nodded at Ophelia to make sure she was ready. Ophelia nodded back. She was always ready.

Elza pulled down the handle and gently pushed the door open to reveal what was inside. The smell hit the two of them, and even Ophelia had to pull her T-shirt over her face as the foul pong assaulted their senses. Bloody remains lay in a pile, as well as a few bones, in the corner of the bedroom, where a body was once. The appearance of Elza and Ophelia standing in the doorway alerted the dead in the room. A female ghoul and two children that had reanimated were across the room. Elza guessed that the father was the pile of remains in the corner.

The mother was still in her dressing gown, obviously covered in blood, and her ashen face and sunken eyes were nothing compared to the state of her two children.

The boy was naked, possibly nine or ten years old, and had a bite mark to his arm. Blue veins ran over his body and his ghostly colour was a hideous picture to witness. His sister, who looked a few years younger, was in her pyjamas. They were stained so much that it was impossible to work out what the picture was on the front of her top. Her neck had been severely mutilated and also had bites to her bare feet. It appeared that before she had turned, she had received the worst of the injuries, with the exception of the father, of course.

Elza put her hand on Ophelia's chest, stopping her from progressing into the room to pulverise the dead. "There's nothing in here for us." Elza closed the bedroom door and added, "No point killing them if we don't need to. Remember what I said before?"

Elza galloped back down the stairs, with Ophelia following. They both picked up their bags and exited outside. Elza stopped walking and stared out in thought. They hadn't checked every house on the Pear Tree Estate—that could take months, but the ones that they
had
checked so far produced little results.

"Let's try something different tomorrow," she announced.

Ophelia scowled in confusion and waited for Elza to elaborate on what she meant.

Elza said, "Let's take a break from the houses. Tomorrow morning we should go to the woods. There should be a stream, berries, mushrooms ... we can take a bag each and get food, water that can be filtered ... eventually, and even have a wash. What we took from Lea Hall won't last forever. Can't be complacent." She turned to Ophelia and asked her, "What do you reckon? We may as well do it now while it's still the summer."

Ophelia shrugged her shoulders.

"Good. That's tomorrow's plan."

It had been a disappointing trip altogether, but now they were heading back to their place of residence. Back to the church. And both girls were ready for a few hours of sleep.

Chapter Thirty Nine

With his heart beating out of his chest, Paul Dickson ran out of the woods and along Rugeley Road. Blood-spattered, his feet pounded the tarmac and he couldn't believe that he had murdered a man.

His breath was heavy, and the pain in the right side of his chest forced him to temporarily stop running. He turned his run into a brisk walk near the Wyevale Garden Centre's entrance, and went over the roundabout, passing the pub to his left, and was now crossing the bridge with the River Trent underneath him.

Once he got over the hump of the bridge, he could see that there was blood on the road. Fresh blood. He went by the tyre marks and the blood, and could see up ahead that there were a few individuals standing around, but had no idea if they were humans or the dead.

He walked further, noticing there was an archaic-looking house twenty yards up ahead on the right hand side of the road, and decided to hang around the house once it was confirmed that the seven beings up ahead were definitely the dead. He could tell by their movements.

Dirty bastards!

His bloody knife remained in his pocket and he looked to see that Jim's blood was all over his right hand. He tried to wipe the blood onto his trousers, but the stubborn stuff was hard to get off his hands.

He hung around for another five minutes or so and kept on peering down the road to see if the dead bastards had moved, but they hadn't. Exasperated and with his legs aching, Paul decided to take a walk around the building. He kept his knife in his pocket and had a feeling that the place was desolate.

With the curtains not drawn, looking in the windows confirmed that there was nobody on the ground floor at least, and the back garden also appeared to be empty. Apart from the long grass, everything looked normal. It seemed that the apocalypse hadn't affected this small area.

He also noticed that there were no vehicles outside the building. Usually a vehicle outside a house would confirm that people/owners were still inside, whether they were dead or not.

Paul was dying to rest his feet, and he wondered if there was anything inside that could wet this throat. Once the seven dead finally moved from the road, it was just a twenty-minute walk back to his old village, but he didn't know how long he would have to wait before they left.

He tried the back door and was surprised that it opened. He peered his head in, immediately hit by the musty smell, and took a step inside. He closed the door behind him and took his bloody knife out of his pocket, then took a few steps forwards, down the dusky reception hall. He wasn't sure whether to call out or not, but surely if people were inside then they would have at least locked the door.

He went into the living room and could see that the furniture was where it should be: sofa facing the telly, chairs around the dining table. Whoever lived at this place, must have fled immediately as it was obvious that barricading windows and doors never happened.

The kitchen was the last place to check on the ground floor. It was empty. He went through the drawers and put a sharp knife into his pocket, leaving his bloody one in the sink, then decided to check for anything to drink in the defunct fridge and the cupboards. He had managed to find a half bottle of lemonade and gulped the whole thing down. He belched softly, left the empty bottle by the side, then went to the bottom of the stairs. He looked up, unsure whether to go up or not. If there was going to be anything for him, as far as food and water was concerned, it was going to be on the ground floor, in the kitchen.

He decided to stay on the ground floor, and pop out every now and then to see if the dead blocking his path had moved. It had only been minutes since he last looked, but he went out anyway. This time he opened the front door and stepped out into the sun-drenched area. He took the short walk down the garden path and peered down the road.

They were still there. The dead were still there.

"I'll check every ten minutes," he told himself.

He was desperate to get to Little Haywood. And with his bout of vomiting from the horrific experience before, his stomach was empty and he'd be starving in a few more hours.

He then began to think. What if Pickle and the rest didn't make it? What if they weren't there? Would the people of the camp in Little Haywood let him in?

He was sure of it.

It used to be home, after all, although his house was at the back end of the village.

And if they didn't let him in? He had this house to dwell in.

*

For hours Paul Dickson went in and out of the house and checked down the road, and every time he did he was left disappointed. The seven ghouls were still there. By eight in the evening he had decided to give up for the day, stay the night and try again in the morning.

Surely they would move elsewhere during the night, he thought.

He went into the living room and plonked himself in the chair. He took his boots and socks off and lay back. He was exhausted, and knew that he'd sleep like a baby on this night, but he needed to block off the doors. Which was exactly what he did with a few chairs. It wasn't great, but at least if someone or something tried the door, he'd hear the clatter of chairs.

He picked his socks and boots up, and decided to go upstairs and lie on one of the beds. He quietly went up to the ground floor and chose the nearest bedroom to him. He stood on the landing and could see that all four doors to the rooms were shut. He wanted to check all the rooms, but was too exhausted. He would try them in the morning, see if there was anything he could take, something that would be of use to him.

He went to the first one and opened it slowly, hesitantly peering his head in. It was a small room, very basic, and it was appealing to Paul because it also had a lock on the inside. He went in, put his boots down and locked the door. He looked down on his blood-spattered shirt and went into the cupboard to see if there was anything to wear.

He took out a creamy-coloured V-neck, took his old shirt off and replaced it. He then lay on the bed and groaned in satisfaction. He was in a house that was situated in the middle of nowhere, in a locked bedroom and not far from a camp.

He slept soundlessly.

*

The black Range Rover left the camp and would only be on the road for a few minutes before it was time to stop. It was going to be a short journey, but the men inside were hoping that it was going to be a quick affair as the evening was getting older.

"So who spotted these things?" Nick Gregory was the passenger, and scratched at his grey hair.

Stephen Rowley twitched his neck and cleared his throat, like he sometimes did before he spoke, and said, "They were spotted by Terry."

"Terry?" Nick Gregory asked. "Terry Braithwaite?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

Changing the subject, Nick gazed out of the window as the vehicle followed the bend. "What do you think of those three people that turned up earlier?"

"Not a lot," said Stephen. "Haven't got to know them yet, chap. A shame about the dead girl they brought with them. Her head was a right mess."

"What caused it? Surely not the dead?"

Stephen had no clue, and didn't look too interested. "No idea. Never asked." Stephen twitched and began to slow the vehicle down. It eventually came to a stop and both men gazed out at the seven dead that were in the middle of the Wolseley Road. "Well, they're still here."

"Seven?" Nick shook his head. "We should drive back and tell them there's too many. Tell them we need more guys."

Stephen Rowley cleared his throat and said, "We'll be okay. I don't want John Lincoln thinking we're completely useless, especially after what happened on that run last week."

"Fuck him! They're always sending us out on suicide missions." Nick pointed at the seven creatures that were now walking towards them, towards the vehicle. The two men had been spotted by the creatures. "Let's go back."

Stephen sighed and gawped at the nervous-looking Nick Gregory. "I suppose you
do
have a point. Seven is quite a lot for two men to take on."

Stephen put the vehicle into first gear and before he could drive off, Nick asked what the hell he was doing.

"Gonna run the fuckers down." Stephen smiled and hit the gas pedal. By the time he reached third gear the Range Rover was already doing thirty and hit the rotten group. Some bounced off the vehicle and others went under it.

He stopped the Range Rover and did a quick turn in the road, so that it was now facing the carnage he had caused. Three of the dead were getting back to their feet, but it appeared that four of them had been put down permanently by the Range Rover.

Both wearing combats and heavy boots, the two men got out, walked over to the three getting to their feet and took out their knives.

Nick went to the left and took out one of them by ramming his blade into the top of the skull of the once-teenage boy. Stephen grabbed the ponytail of the female that was almost standing straight and pulled it to the ground, then went over to the other one, a middle aged man, and stabbed it at the side of the head. Stephen turned around to see Nick standing around, gazing at the countryside.

Stephen looked at Nick, then looked at the pony-tailed female ghoul getting back to its feet.

"It's okay, chap," said Stephen sarcastically, although deep down he was a little angry about Nick's laissez-faire attitude. "I'll get it. Shall I?"

Stephen approached the dead female. It outstretched its arms and went for him. He used his left hand to push it back, but it grabbed Stephen's arm with both hands and went to sink its teeth in him. His knife, in his right hand, went through the left eye of the creature. The beast stopped moving, released its grip on Stephen, and fell once the portly Stephen Rowley twisted the knife clockwise and pulled it out. He then bent down and wiped the blade on the tattered clothing of the deceased.

"You wanna check out the house?" Nick pointed at a detached house that he was gazing at; it was thirty yards from where they were.

"It's never been checked out." Stephen was panting and put the blade back into his pocket. "And I have no intention of doing so. Let's just get out of here before it gets dark."

Nick headed back to the truck, but Stephen stopped him in his tracks when he called out, "Hold on, chap."

Nick turned around, and snapped, "What?"

Stephen pointed at the seven bodies that were scattered along the road. "You know John's rules: No bodies to be left in the road.
We
have to use the road, and so do other survivors. We need to dump them at the side, chap."

"Fine," Nick Gregory sighed, and went over to the nearest one. "I'll get the legs, you get the arms."