Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

As they finally left Glasgow City Centre over the bridge, Jack Slade turned the car right and drove through a small place called Tradeston. The traffic lights were still working, but obviously he wasn't adhering to their command.

As he passed the Springfield Quay, alongside the River Clyde, he saw another car in the distance and it flashed its headlights, and the driver gave Jack the thumbs up as he speedily passed his Vauxhall Meriva. Another two cars could be seen speeding out from a junction and waved at him as they went by. The two cars looked like they had children in them, and Jack hoped that wherever their destination, hopefully they would get there in one piece.

He zoomed through the lights still naturally looking to the side to see if there were pedestrians waiting to cross, even though Paisley Road West was deserted. He looked to his left to the passenger seat; Robbie was still in an uncomfortable position. His head was back and he continued to grab his injured shoulder from the car park incident. Jack had promised Robbie that when they got to his home, he would strap him up and try and call Robbie's family to see if they were okay. He looked to be having a fever, the blood looked drained from his face, and cold sweat emerged in pearly drops on his forehead. He then closed his eyes.

"Don't fall asleep on me now," Jack warned.

Robbie responded immediately by opening his eyes, and looked over to his driver and said, "I nearly dropped off there. Don't forget I've just done a twelve-hour nightshift."

"You can get some sleep when you get to my house," Jack said sternly.

As he began passing Bellahouston Park, he saw to the right of him, the large police station. "Wait a minute."

He pulled over, and got out of his car and ran over the empty road to the entrance of the police station. His feet stopped once he saw seven bodies lying on the tarmac of the police station's entrance. The bodies looked fresh and had been shot, and the concrete around them was covered in blood.

He attempted to shake the image off and then tried the large double glass doors that led to where the public would walk in for enquiries, but the doors were firmly shut, in fact, there were a few obstacles put in front of the door—a filing cabinet and a couple of tables.

He looked up to the first floor and saw the twitch of a set of blinds.

A police station would be perfect, he thought; they had guns, protected vans, and a secure building.

He shouted up at the first floor window, but there was zero response. The blinds twitched once more; he saw briefly two people gazing at the cause of the commotion.

He half-laughed at what was happening. He looked up at the sign over the reception area where a banner hung, it said:
Strathclyde Police: To protect your community
. He shook his head with dismay, and was certain that there was probably dozens upon dozens of uniformed officers in there. He really
was
on his own.

Jack lost all control and banged on the glass of the doors and began to sob. No words came out of his mouth; it was noises, noises of frustration and faintheartedness. He didn't really blame the police; if he was in their position he may have done the same, they were only human after all. He obliterated his tears and saliva with his uncovered forearm, and tried to compose himself.

Jack took another look up to the window, and lowered his head in defeat. He looked around to see no sign of life, no people and none of those beings either, just the seven bodies that lay on the tarmac behind him. The closer he looked, the more it appeared that they had been shot more than once. They had been massacred.

He then looked back at the police station and thought, surely not.
Did our own police force shoot these people? Why? Because they wanted to get in? Because they were scared and demanded why their police force had abandoned them? Were they shot because of the noise they were making?

As he began to walk away he heard the window of the first floor open; in the background he could hear a few voices protesting about the opening of the window. Then he heard a voice say to a colleague, "It's just a man on his own."

The face of a middle-aged man peered out. The policeman above Jack finally spoke. "We have an armed unit inside, waiting for those…things. We can't help you; we're under strict instructions. I'm sorry; don't come back here. Good luck, wee guy."

Jack looked behind him and glared at the dead bodies, their blood covered the concrete steps. "And what happened to these people?"

The policeman then began to sob, and cried, "God, forgive us." He was then pulled away from view by a pair of hands and the window was shut firmly.

Jack stared at the bodies again in disbelief. After a thirty-second misbelieving gaze, he jogged over to the car to see Robbie had fallen asleep. He got into the car and drove away.

Five minutes later he was in Pollok. He was home.

He lived in a large and long street called Broomlaw Road, and although he had passed a dozen of the infected, the reasonably populated street was bare of human or other kind of life.

He pulled up on his drive and tried to wake Robbie up, he wasn't budging. He tried slapping his face but the big man was in too much of a deep sleep. Unless Jack opened the passenger side of his door and kicked him out onto the floor, there didn't seem to be any way of waking him up, even then, he wasn't convinced that this would stir him.

He decided to leave the man inside the car; he wasn't bleeding heavily and providing the car was locked up, he was sure he would be safe, besides, Jack Slade wasn't preparing to hang around for too long. The sooner he dropped Robbie off at his home—wherever that was, the better. At least then the only thing he could concentrate on was driving south to see his son.

He had already made his mind up.

If he was going to die within the next week or month, he wanted his last days to be spent with his boy.

Jack got into his house and locked himself in; he needed caffeine and the first thing he did was fill the kettle. He got a teaspoon from his drawer and took two spoons of coffee and placed them in his mug. He then went into the cupboard and pulled out his bag; he walked back into the kitchen and began to fill his bag with whatever he thought was edible and drinkable, also some toiletries were placed inside.

Although extremely heavy, he was satisfied that his bag was as full as it could be. He opened the front door again and nervously scanned his street; one curtain twitched from across the road, and he could understand why the roads were not so busy. If people thought there was a chance they could die, they would rather die in their own homes with their families. But there were others, like Jack, who had no choice
but
to travel. He would rather stay in his house and wait for the situation to pass, but the waiting and not knowing whether his son was well or not, would torture him.

After putting the bag in the car and closing the boot, he walked back into the house.

He made his coffee, and plonked the bloodied cleaver that Robbie had given him by his feet as he sat down on the sofa.

He switched on the TV and found that the channels had been ditched apart from an announcement on the BBC. He reached down for his mug and took a noisy slurp of his coffee, and continued watching the TV for any movement. After ten minutes he stood to his feet, and walked to his bathroom to go for a pee.

In bemusement, he stared at the cleaver and picked it up and then scrunched his eyes outside and finally turned his attention to the mirror. "Well…this isn't weird at all." His sentence was drenched in sarcasm, but that was Jack Slade. Sarcasm was a part of his defensive mechanism, and the truth was, he was frightened to death at what was occurring. It was either sarcasm or tears.

He took a deep breath, took a bandage to wrap Robbie up, and was now ready to leave. He needed to wake Robbie up to ask him where he lived, then once he was dropped off, he could concentrate on seeing his boy. Danger or no danger, Thomas was his main priority and he needed to be with him. Hiding in his house and hoping that his son survived, would mentally torture him and wasn't an option as far as Jack Slade was concerned.

With the cleaver in hand, he headed for the door. He opened the door to the outside and his eyes immediately saw the sight of Robbie convulsing in the passenger seat of his car. It looked like he was having an epileptic fit.

As Jack stepped onto his drive and got nearer, he was sure that that wasn't the real situation that was occurring. Robbie had turned into one of
them
. Jack could tell by the look on his face that he was no longer human; his face was deathly-white, his eyes looked sunken and bruised, and he was foaming at the mouth, his arms flapping, desperate to get out of the vehicle, desperate to get to Jack.

Knowing that he needed the car, Jack approached the passenger side with apprehensive steps. He had to let him out.

He blew out his cheeks and reached for the passenger handle with his left hand; the defunct Robbie was smacking his head against the window of the door, desperate to get out. Blood emerged the more it smashed itself, and Jack thought that if this continued, then there was no chance he could drive nearly five hundred miles down south with a broken window, as it would be too dangerous.

Okay you fat fuck, calm down!

He opened the door immediately. The thing fell out onto the floor easily, as initially Robbie and Jack were not wearing seatbelts, and then it struggled to get to its feet.

Jack stepped backwards and was now back near his front door; the beast was by the car and was ten yards away from Jack. He looked at the wounded shoulder of Robbie, and had come to his own conclusion that that was how he received the infection.

The cleaver was held tightly. He ran at Robbie and took a swipe at the thing and caught its face. Jack felt his heart beating out of control, like it was going at the speed of a drum beat from a frantic dance tune; he raised the cleaver once again and struck it across the face again, the thing was unfazed from the slice to its cheek. It was five yards away and Jack had promised himself that if the next swipe failed, then he would lock himself into the house.
Why ain't you going down?

What was going on? He was supposed to be a poorly paid office worker in Glasgow City Centre, and now here he was, aiming a cleaver at an infected being who would gladly rip him to pieces with its own teeth!

He didn't have time to dwell on the surrealism that was unfolding, he knew that a lack of focus could cost him his life.

He then remembered how he and Robbie had taken care of the things in the city centre. He released one more strike that penetrated the front of the cranium. Jack let go of the embedded cleaver and took a defensive jump back. It stopped walking and then the thing overdramatically fell to its knees, like Dafoe in Platoon but without the outstretched arms, and collapsed face down two feet away from Jack's shoes. The dark blood oozed slowly out of the wound like thick oil.

He moved his shoes out of the way before it reached them.
Thank fuck for that
. He removed the cleaver and took a look at the passenger window and sighed; it desperately needed a clean. He went inside to find some cleaning utensils, but first, he needed to sit down before he passed out. He was still feeling fragile from his alcoholic indulgence over the weekend, and this strange pandemic wasn't helping matters as far as his nerves were concerned. He thought about Robbie's family and felt the suffocation of sadness, but appeased himself when he reminded himself that he was already dead before he hacked him to death.

Chapter Nineteen

Their journey was wordless as they left the town of Stafford; there was a cloud of nervousness above them, as they didn't know what would greet them as they headed towards Cannock Chase. They didn't want to take the scenic route to get to the town of Rugeley, but they knew that there was a petrol station not so far away and Little Haywood was also a destination that Pickle wanted to stop at.

They had also agreed that getting food in a populated area could be counterproductive because of the amount of things that could be strolling about, and also there was more of a chance that the kiosks had been already looted in the more populated areas.

The van pulled up at the station. Apart from a blue abandoned Mazda snoozing on the forecourt, the area was barren. Jamie Thomson pulled up the parking brake and looked around; he then heard banging to the back of him, the prisoners were hinting to be let out and he assumed the hammering mainly came from Pickle.

Jamie jumped out of the van and opened up the back. All four prisoners jumped out and Laz headed towards the kiosk, followed by Pickle and Grass. As the three inmates began to loot the kiosk with no hesitation, Jamie asked Grass to find the authorisation switch in the kiosk, and once he flicked the switch, Jamie tried to top up the van with more fuel. It had only been running for a minute before the fuel began to spill out. The tank was already full.

Janine cocked her head out of the passenger window. "I thought you had a full tank,
and
jerry cans?"

"We have," Jamie called back. "Just topping up, just dunno when the power will go down."

KP walked to the passenger side and gave Janine a smile. She smiled back and said, "I know your face, but I don't think I ever worked on your wing."

"Oh, I certainly know you." KP grinned. "You're the prison pin-up."

Janine assumed that this was supposed to be a compliment, but with most of the prisoners being incarcerated for so long, it was understandable that their chatting-up techniques had deteriorated over the years, due to lack of practice.

"Really?" Janine sounded unimpressed. "I'm about fourteen pounds overweight with a fat rear, and
I'm
the pin up?"

She used her fingers to comb back her short blonde hair over her ears; her body language made KP aware that although his patter was substandard, she seemed flattered by the male attention.

Two minutes later, the inmates came back from the kiosk with bags of food, pre-packed sandwiches, crisps and chocolate.

"Not the healthiest o' food," Pickle admitted. "But it's food all the same. Once we get to ma place, we can stop off at the supermarket and get some real stuff."

"Thanks for the help, KP!" Laz spoke with sarcasm.

KP held up his hand apologetically.

"There's plenty more water in there if yer no' too busy," Pickle moaned as he struggled with the four bags of food, two bags in each hand.

"I'm on it," KP said, and blew Pickle a kiss.

KP jogged towards the kiosk and was followed in by Jamie; they grabbed carrier bags and put the two litre bottles of water in them. They had managed to get three in each bag, which meant they were now leaving the establishment with twelve bottles—twenty-four litres of water. They placed the water in the back where Pickle seemed to be the organised one, by using three of the seven cells of the van as a store cupboard for the food.

"Need water?" KP asked Pickle.

Pickle nodded. "Got another cell that I could fill. Get plenty o' water and juice, even cans."

"What about tea and coffee?" Jamie queried, but nobody had time to answer him.

"Guys!" Janine called out from the van. "I think it's time to go."

Jamie, Laz and Grass turned to their right to look at Janine peering her head out of the passenger window. Pickle looked out also and saw Janine pointing towards the farmers field, next to the garage.

There were seven of them; all stumbling around as if they had just escaped from a psychiatric ward. They were spread out; the two at the front were reasonably close at about fifty yards away, and the others were further behind. The furthest away was about two hundred yards away. This was the group's first experience with the beings.

"Where did they come from?" Jamie asked.

"Must be the wee village about half a mile away from here," Pickle responded.

"Better get outta here," Jamie spoke, and began clapping his hands to hurry everybody up, forgetting he wasn't in the prison anymore.

KP tittered, "No way, this is an opportunity not to be missed."

Pickle agreed and patted Jamie on the chest. "This is legal killing; us inmates have got some tension to get rid off. Remember what the radio said, KP. Damage the brain."

Jamie shook his head as the two men began to trot towards the field; Jamie looked at Grass, who cowered and went back into the van. Jamie knew that Grass would probably come unstuck against one of those things one on one, and although it may have looked cowardly, he picked the correct option in retreating to the van. Laz was the same; he was middle-aged and shook his head in exasperation at the two fools who were treating it like a big joke.

"It's ridiculous, if you ask me," Laz blabbed to Jamie, he looked about sixty probably due to his excessive drug taking on the wings, but Jamie was sure he was only in his forties. "All they're gonna do is get exhausted and possibly get blood over the only set of clothes they've got. Fuckin' idiots. What happens if one of them gets bit? We'd have to leave them. We heard about this virus on the radio and TV in our cells before you let us out."

Jamie and Laz couldn't do anything now, but to watch as the two inmates let loose their fury and frustration on the first two beings. It was a fair distance away, and Jamie, although keeping his eyes on the 'fight,' walked around to see Janine.

"Don't ask," Jamie said before Janine had the chance to demand what on earth the muttonheads were up to.

Janine looked tetchy as the inmates struck the lifeless figures; the five others that sauntered behind them had managed to find an extra release of energy, and were gaining on them. Pickle and KP were now seen stamping on the head of one of them. As the other struggled to get to its feet, Pickle booted it in the face and stamped on its head three times. Noticing that the other five were half-galloping their way towards potential food, the prisoners retreated, which forced Jamie and Janine to breathe a sigh of relief as Pickle and KP began to run back towards the van.

Pickle looked out of breath when he returned, and spoke between breathing once he got back to the van. "T'was harder than I thought, we're gonna definitely need those guns," he laughed, almost out of breath then pointed to Jamie. "Little Haywood first, then Rugeley."

"What's in Rugeley again?"

"The highest point, and possibly the safest place to go."

"If you mean Stile Cop, it's not technically
in
Rugeley."

"Just go," Pickle half-laughed, who was in no mood for a geography lesson, and got into the front of the van. Jamie and Janine looked at one another, wondering what he was doing. "We may be out in the open at Stile Cop, but we'd be out o' the way o' the carnage and it'd be easier for us to escape with a truck and the open roads in the countryside."

"Er," Jamie began, "are you sitting in the front with us?"

"Well, I need to show yer where to go, don't I?" Pickle jokingly protested.

KP arrived a second later. Also out of breath, and waved his hand in defeat. "Let's go." He took a look over at the abandoned Mazda and decided against it; it was tempting, but being in a secure van was probably the safest way to travel at the moment, even though
he
wasn't driving it.

He jumped into the back, and Janine got out to shut the back of the door. Jamie looked behind to see that the bodies of the dead were fifty yards away.

"Wait a second." Pickle raised his hand, and Jamie, although he had taken off the parking brake, kept the van stationary using clutch control. The five remaining creatures shambled onto the forecourt, behind the van, and could be seen in the side mirror.

As soon as Janine returned to the van, Pickle ordered, "Slip it into reverse, and hit the gas hard."

Jamie did what he was told and hit the gas pedal, feeling the thuds hitting the back of the van.

"Ooh, that's gotta hurt," Pickle cackled, and clapped his hands in delight.

Jamie wasn't moved by Pickle's little plan, but was surprised to see Janine smiling to herself—she obviously found the incident funny.

Jamie was hoping that Pickle was going to be a bit more responsible once they were all carrying guns. The last thing they needed was a psycho with a gun and began using these things as some sort of duck shoot.

For the first time, Jamie began to have doubts about picking up the inmates. He hoped that he would be proved wrong.

Jamie looked over to Pickle, who gave the officer a cheeky wink.

The officer drove the van out of the forecourt and took a look at Janine, who gazed at him with a smile so small and thin, it looked like a stitch sitting under her nose. Her eyes looked glassy and her face was soaked in concern for the future. Jamie could understand how she felt. The inmates seemed pleased just to be free, and the whole enormity of what was happening to the country hadn't hit them yet, especially KP and Pickle.

Jamie blew air out of his mouth and gazed at the road ahead, wondering where it was going to take them. The future didn't look bright, but for now, he was still alive, and had to be thankful for that.