Ghostland (Book 3): Ghostland 3

by Whittington, Shaun

  Gavin stood up, knowing that it was fruitless what he was doing, and prepared himself for a battle he hadn’t experienced before. He knew what to do, but actually doing it was another thing. The only thing he could do was stick his fingers or thumbs in the eye sockets of the oncoming Canavar. He waited for the dead bastard and could see the male approaching.

  All Gavin could do was watch it drop into the ditch and then go over and kick it in the head multiple times, and hope that would be enough. Shoving his fingers in the eye sockets was something he didn’t want to do, not if he could help it.

  His heart was in his mouth as the creature dropped into the ditch. He hesitated a little and ran over to the slumped body and frantically kicked the head of the dead being. He brought the heel of his boot down onto the skull, and his boot managed to go through, black diseased brain sticking to the heel. With his stomach doing somersaults, he wiped his boot on the tattered clothes of the dead man and cried out when an object from above floored him.

  The adrenaline coursed through his veins and he quickly realised it was a Canavar that had fallen on him. Paranoid about being bitten, he pushed the thing off of him and scrambled away to the other side of the ditch. He stood up and could see that the dead being was already on his feet. Another two fell into the ditch, and Gavin wondered how many more there were. Was there a horde coming his way, or was that it?

  “Jesus Christ!” he cried. “No more.”

  He took an intake of breath as the first fallen one made its way over. He knew he had to dispatch this one quickly before the other two got to their feet and advanced towards him.

  It snarled and grabbed his shoulder. Gavin never hesitated and grabbed the Canavar’s face and pushed his thumbs into its cold eye sockets. Something spewed out of the sockets as his thumbs went in further. He didn’t know what it was, but it twisted his guts all the same. His thumbs were in as far as they could go, but the ghoul wasn’t going down. Gavin didn’t know why. Maybe his thumbs weren’t long enough to penetrate the brain.

  He could feel his thumbs pushing into something; maybe it wasn’t far enough. He threw the being from side to side, eventually pulling his thumbs out and throwing it to the floor. He stamped on the thing’s head a couple of times, as the other two made their way over, and didn’t know if he had the energy to put them down. He was exhausted.

  Trying to get his breath back, he front-kicked the Canavar on the left, knocking it over, and tried to put the other one down. As soon as they grabbed one another, Gavin knew he didn’t have the strength to put it down. They continued to grapple and Gavin cried out as Canavar Number Two was back on its feet and heading over his way.

  Somehow the dead being he was wrestling with overpowered him and they both fell to the floor, with Gavin underneath the Canavar. He grabbed the creature by the throat, to stop him from being bitten, and was certain that in a few minutes he was going to lose this battle, especially with the other one near.

  His arms shook with weakness and the Canavar was now only inches away from tearing a chunk out of his face.

  Gavin closed his eyes and was seconds from releasing his grip, but the sound of a heavy thud opened his eyes and he could see the advancing Canavar falling to the floor, and the one on top of him was dragged off and Donald Brownstone stabbing the thing through its temple. He pulled out the knife, wiped it on the Canavar, and put it away.

  “Enjoy your walk, did you?” he laughed.

  “Thank fuck you’re here.” Gavin smiled and remained on the floor. He couldn’t get up because he was so exhausted.

  “Right!” Donald looked up the ditch and called up. “Have you tied that rope around the tree?”

  “Yes,” Gavin heard a familiar voice shout. It was Grace.

  “Good. Throw it down.”

  Gavin sat up and blue rope dropped into the ditch.

  Donald smiled at Gavin. “You first. I might need to help you up, you dig what I’m sayin’? You look fucked.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Yoler and Dicko sat on the floor, listening to the dozens of hands slapping the outside of the cellar door, and both had their knees up with their heads lowered. There was nothing they could do. All they could do was wait, and hope that the dead eventually became distracted and went elsewhere.

  Dicko couldn’t see it happening.

  He was quite happy to wait a while, but overall, he was convinced that they were putting off the inevitable. If they had any chance of getting out of the cellar, they would have to fight their way out.

  For minutes, the door continued to be pounded, but the noise diminished until it sounded like there were only three or four behind the door. They still slapped against the door, but at least the noise was tolerable now.

  “I think I’m getting a migraine,” Yoler moaned. “That’s all I pissing need.”

  Dicko flicked the lighter and lit up the cellar temporarily and asked her if she was okay.

  “I’m okay,” Yoler said. “Just need to ride it out.”

  “Would a head rub help?”

  “Not really, no.”

  A silence enveloped the pair of them as the slapping continued, but it now sounded like it was just two Canavars behind the door.

  “I was thinking about Donald,” Yoler blurted out in a whisper.

  “Oh?”

  “Just thinking about what he went through, and what you went through... I’m not sure I would have coped.”

  “Donald lost his son before the apocalypse,” Dicko said in a soft voice.

  “I know.” She nodded and said further, “But still...”

  “You do cope,” said Dicko. “I don’t know how, but you do. Although I did lose it for a while.”

  “No wonder.” Yoler cleared her throat and looked around in the darkness. She literally couldn’t see a thing. “Did you manage to take care of your son, like we did with Imelda and Simes?”

  “What do you mean? Put him to rest?”

  Yoler nodded. She had no idea why as Dicko couldn’t see her. “Yeah,” she eventually said.

  “I managed to bury my son,” Dicko said with a quiver in his voice. “But not my wife and daughter.”

  “Why?” Yoler then immediately apologised and said, “Do you mind me asking? I know you mentioned it weeks ago when we were playing that daft truth game, but you never went into detail as such.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Dicko. He ran his hands over his face, released a groan and said, “I met up with a guy called Bentley Drummle. I don’t know if he was some kind of criminal in the past, but he had a gun on him that he called Glen.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I know. A bit weird.” Dicko began to chuckle and continued with the story. “Anyway, this guy and his partner had a camp in the woods. He had been predicting this thing for months, apparently.”

  “A prepper?”

  “I suppose so,” Dicko said. “I was with my son at this camp, and I asked Bentley to take me to the supermarket where my wife had gone before the announcement was made. I knew which one it was, but didn’t want to leave the house because I had Kyle.”

  “But you were at this guy’s camp, so you did leave your house eventually. You mentioned leaving your house a while back, but never went into detail why.”

  “I did eventually, but that’s another story why I had to leave.” Dicko cleared his throat and added, “So, to cut a long story short, Bentley took me to this supermarket in his car and we found my wife and daughter in our Renault Clio. They had both reanimated.”

  “Shit, sorry about that, Dicky Boy.”

  “Bentley shot them, but we had to leave them there. I didn’t mind. Those two sleeping together in the family car feels better than putting them in the cold ground, which is what I had to do for Kyle.”

  “And your son was killed in that camp?”

  Dicko nodded. “Yeah, that was my fault. I let him go to the toilet on his own in the changing room. What I didn’t know was that there was a Snatcher in the changing room.”<
br />
  “A what?”

  “Sorry,” Dicko laughed. “A Canavar. Anyway, he was buried at the camp that was called Sandy Lane. It was a nice service, to be fair, but sometimes the thought of him being stuck in that ground...”

  Dicko allowed his sentence to linger and the two of them remained silent for a while. Dicko could hear an intake of breath and knew Yoler had more to say.

  “So why did you leave your house in the first place?”

  “I didn’t want to.” Dicko answered straightaway. “I wanted to stay there in case my wife and daughter came back, but we didn’t have a choice in the matter.” Dicko paused, but Yoler never persisted with more queries, as she knew that her male companion was ready to speak further.

  Dicko said, “I had a neighbour called Daisy. Her husband and one of her daughters had turned, but we all kept quiet for a month or so. We got talking eventually and she and her other daughter, Lisa, stayed with me for a couple of days.”

  “Just a couple of days?”

  Dicko could understand why Yoler was confused and decided to elaborate. Why not? They weren’t going anywhere for a while.

  “Our house, as well as others, was targeted by scavengers,” Dicko explained. “A guy came in and went upstairs to where we were hiding. I hit him with a hammer and he fell and died. My first human kill, and it was an accident.”

  “And I take it these guys forced you to leave?”

  “Well, they were a notorious family called the Murphys. They came into the house and we all hid. They found the body of this guy called Lance, their brother. They went in and searched the house. They found Daisy and her daughter.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well,” Dicko released a depressed sigh when a flashback entered his mind. “To her credit, she never told them that Kyle and I were in the house.”

  “So they thought that your house was hers, and...”

  “And they thought she was responsible for killing this Lance character,” Dicko decided to finish off Yoler’s sentence for her. “Kyle and I remained hiding in the cupboard as they were being dragged out of the house. The guilt I felt, and still feel, was quite overwhelming.”

  “You had a son to protect,” Yoler jumped in. “If anything happened to you...”

  “I know, but it doesn’t stop the guilt.”

  “And the mother and daughter? What happened to them?”

  “The father of this Murphy family caved Daisy’s head in with the butt of a shotgun.”

  “Jesus Christ on a cross!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “She was thrown into the back of a truck. She turned up at the Sandy Lane camp when a resident went out on a run and brought her back. Apparently, the same family that killed Daisy was responsible for killing his son years ago. The girl, as well as many others, eventually died when the camp was attacked by the dead.”

  “Jesus, and what—?”

  Dicko shushed the woman and this made Yoler stop talking. Almost.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Can you hear that?”

  “I can’t hear fuck all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly?” She huffed. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “They must have gone elsewhere, probably to another part of the pub.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Grab your bag.” Dicko flicked the lighter and the cellar lit up. He looked at Yoler’s face and smiled. “Time to go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Donald Brownstone trudged through the bracken with Grace and Gavin lagging behind. Donald and Gavin were exhausted and Donald felt a lie down in the darkness would be needed if he had to manage through the rest of the day. He looked over his shoulder and told the guys that they should be back at the camp in another five minutes or so.

  “Donald, wait!” Grace called from behind.

  Donald stopped and turned around. “What is it?” he puffed. He could see both Gavin and Grace had stopped walking, and both were looking to their right.

  Donald looked in the same direction and released an angry huff, shaking his head with anger. Two male Canavars were slowly shuffling through the woods, twenty yards away, but hadn’t spotted Donald and co yet.

  “I’m ready to fall down,” Gavin said. “I couldn’t possibly put another one down.”

  “Stay there,” Donald instructed the pair of them.

  “Just leave them,” Grace said in a whisper.

  “No chance.” Donald put his hands on his hips and gazed at the two dead, seething. He hated these things. “They’re too near the camp, you dig what I’m sayin’? I’m not taking any chances.”

  He quickened his feet and moved in the direction of the dead. They spotted him and headed towards him. Donald pulled out his knife and assessed the situation. One was behind the other, so if he quickly put down the first one, he would have plenty of time to remove the second without putting himself in danger.

  Donald rammed his blade into the side of its head, but it dropped quickly and he had no time to retrieve his blade as the second one grabbed him. He grabbed the hair of the Canavar and with what strength he had left, he smashed its head off of the nearest tree. He became a little over zealous and hit its head off the tree six times before allowing it to drop to the floor. He looked down, panting hard, and could see that he had smashed its diseased brain in. He made tired steps to the first body, bent down, and pulled out his knife, wiping the blade on the clothes of the deceased by his feet.

  He stood up, hearing his knees crack, and looked over at Grace and Gavin who stood looking over, with wide eyes.

  Donald smiled and made his way back over.

  “No more,” he moaned to himself. “I’m dead on my feet.”

  Once he was back with Gavin and Grace, he told them that he needed to sit down for a couple of minutes. His heart was beating out of his chest and thought that it’d be Sod’s law that he had survived the apocalypse for nearly twelve months, only to die from a cardiac arrest.

  Neither Gavin or Grace complained, and both stood patiently as Donald sat on the floor, against the tree.

  “I hope that was just a one off,” Grace said, looking around the area, seeing if there were any more lingering about.

  “Me too,” Donald spoke with a nod. “We can’t just assume that it was, though.”

  Neither Gavin or Grace responded and waited for Donald to rise to his feet. Eventually he did. He put his arms in the air and stretched his back, making a groaning sound, before leading the way back to the camp once more.

  Like two obedient dogs, Grace and Gavin followed behind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ready?” Dicko asked in the darkness.

  He received a positive reply from his female companion, and slid the bolt across and opened the cellar door by an inch. It took a while before his eyes could be accustomed to the light from inside the pub, and after twenty seconds had passed, he could see perfectly. From what he could see, it looked clear of danger. He couldn’t hear any noises, so he opened the door wider and stuck his head out. He was certain that they were still in the establishment and had moved to the bar area, but the lounge area of the pub was clear.

  Dicko turned to Yoler and announced that the area was clear, or at least that was what he thought. The main door was only yards from the cellar door, so escaping the place was an easy feat.

  He left the door open and grabbed his bag off of the floor, and threw it over his shoulder. Yoler already had her full rucksack. He told her it was clear and he asked if she was ready.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Both straps were over her shoulder and she had her machete in both hands.

  Dicko crept through the lounge area with Yoler closely behind, and both could see that the dead had gone into the bar area. They had no idea why this was the case, whether they had been distracted by a noise or something, but they were all there and this made Yoler and Dicko’s es
cape easy.

  “Where to now?” Yoler asked.

  The pair of them were outside the pub, on the outskirts of the town, split on what to do next.

  “Well, our bags are full,” Dicko eventually spoke and looked to his right, down the road where the residential area was. “Maybe we should just head back. We can come back and search the houses tomorrow.”

  “I’m happy with that,” she said. “We’ll search for medical stuff as well as food.”

  She didn’t specify why she needed medical accessories, and Dicko never asked. Yoler thought it’d be advantageous to have some kind of first aid kit, or even make up one with whatever she could come across. Most homes, in the old world, had some kind of medical gear. Whether it was just plasters, bandages, or drugs that could help with certain illnesses, she thought that these kind of medical supplies for the camp would come in handy.

  Over the last few weeks, David had cut open his finger on a twig, which could have been taken care of with a plaster. Gavin had sprained his wrist two weeks ago when chopping wood. He had to rest it, but with the correct equipment it could have been strapped. And Helen had been suffering headaches over the last few days. It may have been dehydration related, but painkillers could have helped.

  They strolled along the bendy country road and began to talk about Donald, and how he didn’t seem to be as annoying compared to the first time they had met him.

  When Brownstone was living with them at the farm, he was aggressive and argumentative, resulting in him being kicked out. Once the place was torched by Hando and they had to flee to the very same camp where Donald was staying, he seemed to have mellowed.

  He still had his moments, but he was tolerable.

  He could have been smug about them having to stay with him, especially after kicking him out, but he never dwelled on it. In truth, he was glad to have company again, especially Helen and David, two people he had grown close to during these crazy days.