He touched her face with his hand and she closed her eyes, allowing the two tears to fall from each eye. "I'll make sure yer okay from now on. I'll look after yer." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
"Think I need a lie down myself." Karen rubbed her clammy head. "I'm exhausted."
"That's the pregnancy for yer."
"Thanks for that, Dr Branston," she sarcastically spoke, then took another gander at him. "I can't believe you're still here."
Karen helped her good friend back to the place Vince had given him, and the pair looked up to the cloudless sky. It was going to be another beautiful day, but as far as the future was concerned, Karen Bradley and Harry Branston had no idea what the future held for the pair of them.
They were unsure if they'd still be alive the following month. They were unsure if they would always have each other; and they were unsure if the new world was worth surviving for anyway.
They were heading for the fifth week of this disaster, and knew there would be more battles and heartache to come, but it was something they had been accustomed to over the last four weeks. It wasn't just the dead that was the problem; it was other people.
As soon as he got to the door of his new place, Karen opened it for him. He stood in the doorway and looked around at the camp, then his eyes scanned the sky.
"You okay?" asked Karen.
Pickle nodded. "Yes I am. In fact. I think we're all going to be okay. I just have this feeling." Pickle felt nothing of the sort, but he wanted to be positive for Karen's sake.
"I hope you're right." She thought he was being genuine. "But we really don't know where we'll be in a month's time."
"Don't worry about next month. Live for now." He gave her a wink, then headed inside. He cleared his throat and said aloud quite clearly, without his usual slurry speech, "Make peace with your past, enjoy your present, and hope for your future, Karen."
"I'll see you later," she called out, before closing the caravan door behind her.
"Indeed you will."
Karen walked away, relieved and pleased that her good friend had returned. She had been lost without him, and his return had given her a lift.
With Pickle back it gave her a little hope, but after all that had happened in just four weeks she was still unsure whether she and her unborn child were going to make it past winter.
She rubbed her tummy and puffed out her chest defiantly. "We'll make it."
Book Five: The Dead Don't Breathe
Chapter One
July 7th
The individual walked with brisk steps towards the barrier with a companion beside him. As soon as they reached the area, they climbed to the top, and Vince Kindl could now see down onto the road. Staring up at him were three boys, no older than eighteen, and Vince remained silent as he glared at the three teenagers, sizing them up.
"I was told that you want to join us," said Vince, his arms now folded. "One of my men said that you lived just a mile away, just by the Ash Tree pub. So why now?"
"I don't understand, pal," came the voice from, what Vince suspected, the leader of the little group. The other two were behind him, and he was a couple of yards in front.
"I'm not your pal." Vince stepped down from the HGV to go face-to-face with the three boys, his two guards now had their shotguns on the boys in case any fracas occurred. Once Vince's feet touched the floor he repeated his question. "Why now?"
The young leader began, "We lost a lot of people. Only two days ago my house was attacked, and my sister and four-year-old brother were killed."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Vince said with little emotion in his voice. "But this place isn't a safe refuge for anyone that just turns up."
"We know that."
Vince paused for a moment, then queried, "What can you offer a camp like this?"
The same person answered. "We can work, we can fight."
Vince began to laugh and took a patronising look at the build of the young men. "Fight?"
The leader nodded. "We're into week five and all we have are hammers for protection. We're still alive after over a month. How many people can say that?"
"True. But hiding in your house for weeks doesn't count. How many have you killed?" Vince looked at all three, waiting for an answer.
The leader said, "Quite a few."
Vince then pointed to a younger-looking boy, standing next to the leader. The young boy was covered in acne and trembled as Vince gazed at him. "What about you?"
"Three," the boy spoke with no hesitation.
Vince glared at the third member. He was blonde, no older than sixteen, and also looked like a bag of nerves. Vince was unconvinced of this one. "And you?"
"None, sir," he answered with honesty.
"I thought so." Vince released an exasperated sigh. He could have done with more muscle, but he needed to be sure, absolutely sure, if these kids were going to be a positive addition. One thing was for certain: the camp definitely needed a bit of youth, and Vince was desperate to bring in young additions to the camp.
The leader with dark features began to speak once again. "Sir, my name is Harry Beresford. I'm seventeen years old." He then pointed to his left. "This is Ollie Hopkins. He's sixteen." Harry Beresford then pointed to his right. "And this is David Watkins. He's only fifteen, but he's killed three. You will not regret taking us on."
David Watkins nervously spoke up. "We believe that we have already met two of your residents. Two women."
Vince scrunched his face in confusion.
David Watkins tried to explain further. "Well...at least I think they stay here. They were going this way when they walked away from us. One used to be a nurse, a Karen Bradley. She looked after my dad when..."
Vince nodded slowly, just the once. "That's right. We got separated for a while. Just because you bumped into Karen and Shaz, doesn't mean you have a pass to stay here."
"I know, sir."
"However..." Vince glared at the faces of the young boys again and pointed at Harry Beresford and David Watkins. "You two can stay, but I'm not sure about you." He nodded in Ollie's direction.
Ollie Hopkins could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and began to beg Vince. "You can't leave me here on my own. I don't have nobody. My parents are dead, my—"
"You can't emotionally blackmail me, son." Vince laughed out loud and said, "I'm emotionally constipated. I haven't given a shit in days."
"Please, sir."
Both boys began to beg Vince to allow Ollie in, and the young leader told him that if Ollie wasn't allowed in, then they'd go elsewhere.
Vince raised his hand up to silence the young boys. "For fuck's sake, you're driving me to tears." He then turned around to look up at his men who were now relaxed and had lowered their guns a little. "Any Rotters about?"
One of the armed men nodded to his right. "I think there's a couple in the canal from that fracas a couple of days ago."
"Good." Vince cleared his chest and spat on the floor. "Get the rope and fish one out." He looked at sixteen-year-old Ollie Hopkins and gave him a wink. "It's time for a little initiation test for our blonde visitor."
Ollie took in a deep breath and turned to Harry Beresford and said in a whisper that Vince could hear, "I told you we should have gone to the Sandy Lane Camp."
"The Sandy Lane Camp is imploding," Vince said with a smile. "I heard a couple of days ago that they're fighting amongst themselves due to lack of resources—something we don't have to worry about. But if you want to go there, then be my guest. This is a one-time offer."
"Okay," Ollie said, his voice drenched in trepidation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound disrespectful."
Vince then whistled at one of his men, and the man on the right bent down and picked up a crowbar. He dropped it into Vince's hands, who handed it to Ollie. "Not a big fan of hammers myself. You'll be better off with this."
Chapter Two
It was a dull day as far as the weather was concerned, and after a restless night, plagued
by macabre dreams of the recent past, Paul Dickson finally woke up. It was after nine, according to his Citizen-Eco watch, and he stretched out his arms and yawned a little too loudly. His sticky eyes took a while to open, and once they did, he could see his bedroom ceiling that could have done with a fresh lick of paint.
A few months ago this would have bothered him a little, but he had more pressing issues to contend with. His primary concern was for the little man lying next to him in his bed.
Kyle Dickson was seven years old, had strawberry blonde hair and an amazing pair of green eyes. It was just Paul and Kyle. Paul had no idea where his wife and daughter were.
As normal, like every morning, Paul's day started off with sadness as he thought about Day One.
They—some parts of the media—called it The Sickness, or, The Summer Virus.
At the beginning, the news on the TV broadcasted horrendous images of the vicious outbreak that had suddenly occurred, and had no explanation where it had come from. Once Paul came out of his shock he tried to contact his wife, but to no avail. She had gone out to the shops with his five-year-old daughter, Bell, an hour after the announcement. It was Sunday morning.
That Sunday morning, in the little town of Little Haywood, was like any normal day for Paul Dickson. The children, especially Kyle, were up too early for his liking. He wished his son would have a lie-in, but he had always been like that ever since he was a toddler. Paul and Julie had tried everything to let their son sleep longer on a morning, especially on a weekend, which meant that they would also get a decent sleep.
They'd tried keeping him up late. At one time, on a Friday night, Paul and Julie gave the kids a movie night, which consisted of watching a movie from the iPad and having a bowl of chocolate treats halfway through the movie. The children went to bed just after ten, and Kyle still woke up at 6am and looked fresh as a daisy. The trouble with a bored and lonely Kyle at 6am was that because his parents refused to get out of bed, he would go and wake his sister up. This would be followed by arguments, the use of the toilet, and storming into their parents' bedroom every now and then and telling on one another: "Mum, Kyle hit me." "Daddy, Bell said I'm a big baby." "Mummy, Kyle spat on my pyjamas." "Daddy, Bell's peed all over the toilet seat."
The result was the same every morning. One of the parents would get up, and the one that had a lie-in would allow the early riser to go back to bed for a couple of hours, later on in the morning.
On that June morning nothing seemed different when his kids got up. His seven-year-old boy and five-year-old girl were downstairs, and they were arguing with one another once they sat down in the living room.
Paul hated Kyle and Bell's love/hate relationship at the time, and most mornings he would have to send them to their bedrooms because of the severity of their verbal disagreements. An hour later, Bell and his wife went out to the shops.
He hadn't seen them since.
The news had been officially announced on the Saturday evening, but Sunday morning was the first he had heard of it. When he finally picked up his phone in the kitchen, he had seven missed calls, four texts and twelve notifications on Facebook.
That was over four weeks ago.
Now, still lying in bed, Paul's eyes began to fill up. He pined for those days, that he used to dislike, to come back. It still irked him that his wife, after being out for an hour with Bell, never answered her phone when he watched the outbreak being announced on the TV, and after four weeks, the not-knowing if his wife and daughter were alive was still killing him from the inside.
But he had to be strong. He had to be strong for Kyle.
Paul looked to the left of him and noticed that the little man was stirring. It seemed ironic that since the disappearance of his mother and sister, he was now beginning to have lie-ins. His seven-year-old's eyes were trying to open up, and he puffed out his red lips before he managed a wide yawn.
It was time to get up.
Chapter Three
Karen Bradley was awake and sat up in bed. She gazed around the room, wondering where she was. It took a few seconds to realise that her dream about being chased by three armed men wasn't real. She tucked her hair behind her ears and yawned loudly, followed by an inspection of her breath. She cupped her hands, breathed into them and took a quick sniff. Her screwed-up face suggested that it wasn't good. She stepped out of bed and headed for the living room area.
She was sharing the caravan with Sharon Bailey, so never flinched when she heard a bedroom door open. Dressed in a nightgown, Sharon walked into the living room and immediately put on a gas ring from the cooker.
"How much gas have we got left in the canister?" Shaz asked.
"Enough." Karen yawned again, sat down, and took a look out of the window. The day was murky, black clouds hung, and it was clear that the area was just minutes away from rain. "About time."
"I might be going on a run soon," announced Shaz. She poured water from a bottle into a pan and put on four eggs.
"Today?" Karen remained sitting, her queasiness making her weak.
Shaz shrugged her shoulders. "Not sure. Should be about four of us."
"And I assume I won't be allowed to go," Karen huffed with petulance.
"For once, I agree with Vince." Shaz peered over her shoulder to look at her friend, but Karen's head was lowered. "You need to look after yourself. Anyway, you're kept busy, aren't you?"
"Busy?" Karen shook her head. "By doing medical rounds and dishing out drugs to the old people? It's shit, Shaz. If I was eight months gone, I'd understand—"
"Remember what we talked about? About taking a step back?"
Karen ignored her and sat back, her arms outstretched on the couch.
There was a rap at the door, and Karen took a look at the battery-powered clock hanging on the wall. It was just after nine. "If that's Mandy wanting me to do a morning round, she can bugger off. I don't know why she just doesn't go round herself. The old people here hate me."
"Maybe because you called Mr Jenkins a miserable prick."
"He is." Karen finally managed to get to her feet. She wandered over to the living room area of the caravan. She looked out of the window to see who was standing at the door.
"Who is it?" asked Shaz.
Karen turned to look at her friend. "It's Pickle."
*
"Ready when you are."
Vince was back on top of the HGV, waiting for the 'show' to start. Beside him, sitting down, was seventeen-year-old Harry Beresford, and his fifteen-year-old friend, David Watkins. Both young boys had their fingers crossed, hoping that their sixteen-year-old friend, Ollie Hopkins, wasn't going to fuck this up.
Ollie hadn't adapted to this new world well at all. If it wasn't for the protection from his friends, he would have died weeks ago.
The two guards had managed to bring out a Rotter from the canal and had carefully untied the material from around its throat, and freed the bloated deadhead that now headed towards the crowbar-wielding Ollie Hopkins.
While the two guards made their way back to the top of the HGV, Vince and Ollie's friends could see that Ollie was a nervous wreck, and that he was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
"There's nothing to be nervous about." Vince tried some words of comfort. He almost felt sorry for Ollie, after all he was just a scared kid. But this needed to be done. His camp was never going to be strong if it was full of people who were unable to fight. The fact that it had a lot of senior citizens wasn't helping matters, but what was he supposed to do? Kick them off the site? He had known these people for years before the apocalypse kicked off. He was harsh, but he wasn't that harsh.
The once-male ghoul stumbled towards Ollie. The youngster took a pathetic swipe at the creature, striking through thin air.
"You can do it," said Vince. "You have a crowbar. All this creature has is its teeth. You should have put him down by now."
"But I'm scared," Ollie cried out, the crowbar still shaking in his hands.
"That's unders
tandable," Vince called out. "I was also scared when I first had sex, when I had my first driving lesson, and when I first killed one of these freaks when I saw one coming at me. You get the first one out of the way, and you'll find it gets easier."
Ollie took another timid swipe at the creature, but the crowbar simply bounced off its head and the dead beast continued towards the youngster.
His two friends began shouting words of encouragement from the HGV, but Vince feared the worst.
A teary Ollie closed his eyes and struck out once more, and this time the crowbar slipped out of his fingers and clattered on the road. The pair of icy hands grabbed Ollie around the neck, and his two friends screamed at Vince to do something...anything!
"Don't look away," ordered Vince, glaring at the two youngsters. "Watch everything."
There was a struggle between boy and beast. Harry stood up to go down and help out his friend, but Vince told him to sit.
Ollie released an awful, high-pitched scream once the set of dirty teeth ripped open his neck. He fell to the floor, writhing and screaming as dark crimson spewed out from the gaping wound.
"Keep watching," Vince yelled at Harry and David. "Don't look away."
Ollie was crawling along the road, bleeding heavily from the neck, and his fruitless attempt to escape was unnerving his friends. He flipped over onto his back while the bloated beast stumbled over to him. Ollie was almost dead, and never cried out when the creature tore into his torso and began pulling out his insides.
"This is what happens when you hesitate." Vince looked at the boys who were now both crying for their friend. "No crying. It's his fault. If he really wanted to live, he would have killed it."
"But we're just young boys," Harry cried out, refusing to look any longer.
Vince could see anger in Harry's eyes, and was certain that this seventeen-year-old was having visions of taking Vince down. "Imagine we go out on a run and your friend, Ollie, is with us. We get attacked by twelve Rotters, but your friend freezes and can't take even one of them. What do you think would happen?"
Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) Page 27
