Finally, Paul responded to his son. "They escaped to go somewhere else."
Kyle never pushed the subject any further and announced, "I miss my Batman Lego game."
Paul Dickson snickered, "I thought you would have forgotten about that by now."
"I know daddy, but I completed five levels. I was about to kill The Joker, when—"
"You're never going to play those games again, you do know that, don't you?" Paul decided to be brutal with his son, for a change, and was relieved that his outburst hadn't caused too much concern for Kyle Dickson.
Asked Kyle, "Do you think we'll ever see Bentley and Laura again?"
Jesus, Kyle. Give me a break.
Paul tried his best to remain calm. He wanted some peace and quiet, not a hundred questions from his son. Man, he was like a machine.
"Maybe we'll see them again, if ever we go back to the woods." Paul looked around where they were. He was a lucky man, he knew that, and the car smash a few days ago had ironically brought the father and son to a secure place, but he still thought about how much better it was at Bentley's camp. As soon as he did this, he cursed his selfishness. He was a lucky bastard to be still standing after five weeks. He owed Vince and the gang his life.
Asked Paul, "Why are you asking about Bentley and Laura anyway? Don't you like it here?"
The little man shook his head slowly, "I hate this place. It fucking stinks."
"Kyle Dickson!" His father nearly passed out once the profanity left his son's lips. "Where did you learn that word from?"
"Stinks?"
"Yes! I mean...no, I mean..."
"What?" Kyle looked baffled.
Paul was wide-eyed and looked horrified at what he had heard. "The F word. Where did you hear it?"
Kyle shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing. "The men say it all the time."
"What men?"
"The...men. I don't know."
Paul thought that with Kyle being the only child on the camp, the males of the place would be watching what they say. Obviously not. "Right. I'm gonna have a word with Pickle." He put his hands in his pockets and fished out a packet of cashew nuts. "I'm not having this." He handed the nuts to his son and said, "It's a bit early, but you can have these that you've been moaning about."
"Thanks, daddy."
"Won't be long, big chap."
"Okay."
As soon as his dad left him alone, round the back of the area, Kyle excitedly opened the packet of nuts and began to munch on them. The youngster stared at the hedge and wondered what was behind it.
He continued nibbling on the cashew nuts for a few minutes and a small movement was spotted in the corner of his eye. "Wow."
Kyle remained transfixed as a brown rat came from under a very tiny gap, from under the hedge, and began sniffing the air, obviously looking for food. Kyle picked up another nut from the small packet in his hand and wondered if these creatures ate nuts.
Only one way to find out.
He tossed the nut over onto the grass. It was a couple of yards from the hedge and Kyle smiled when he saw the rat immediately go over to the food, sniff it for a few seconds, before gnawing at it. He threw another one, and the rat did the same as before. Kyle began to laugh to himself and threw another nut, but this time the rat scampered back under the hedge. Something had spooked it, but Kyle didn't know what.
Kyle was disappointed that his new friend had only stayed for a matter of minutes, and huffed petulantly. His scowling eyes widened, and a smile emerged on his face. He stood up and went back to his caravan, and began searching through the cupboards.
Moments later, he returned with a small-handle shovel, and stopped walking, wondering if what he was about to do was wrong. He thought for a minute and decided that he wanted a friend, even if it was something that he couldn't communicate with.
He began hacking away at the bottom of the hedge where his rat had originally come from. Looking around, paranoid that he could be seen, he hacked away for another minute, creating a small hole that would make it easier for his friend to get through.
He grabbed the broken branches and covered the hole to make it look like it hadn't been touched, and quickly went back to the caravan with the shovel, as he knew that there was a guard on hedge-duty not very far away.
Once he returned he then grabbed a handful of nuts and scattered them on the floor, near the small gap in the hedge, and hoped that his furry friend would make a return in the near future now that his entrance into the campsite had been made a little easier.
Chapter Eight
"You want more lemonade?"
Vince shook his head at the pub owner, who eventually introduced himself as Stephen. "I'm fine, thanks."
Vince had drank two cups of lemonade, his head was getting better, and even tried one of Stephen's cigarettes, but two drags was all he could manage. It had been a habit he had chucked years ago, and still didn't know why he accepted the man's offer of a smoke.
Stephen Bonser seemed relaxed in Vince's company, and both men had been chin-wagging for nearly twenty minutes. Noticing that Vince had looked at his watch on two occasions, Stephen felt he was holding the man up and knew that he was going to leave eventually.
The men were discussing the beginning of the apocalypse, and Vince had told Stephen that he and his friend, Lee James, had been out for a few drinks one Thursday night, and had come across an injured man while walking home. His friend, Lee, had felt for a pulse on the man's neck and both men noticed blood all over Lee's fingers. The man had been bit on his throat.
At the time, Vince never thought any more of it, until a few days later when it all kicked off. This man had been found on Thursday, but the disaster wasn't announced until the Saturday. How long had this been going on before it was announced? Vince then thought about his friend, Lee James, and wondered if he had made it.
Stephen liked Vince, but something irked him.
"You need to go?" Stephen asked.
Vince pressed his lips together, and nodded almost apologetically.
Stephen smiled and stood his tall skinny frame up, then went round the back of the couch and kicked his shoes off. He leaned over the couch, both hands on the back, and questioned, "There is no friend, is there? Why are you really here?"
Vince was ready to leave, but he owed the man an explanation. "To be honest, I came here looking for someone. Not a friend."
Stephen made a circle with his lips as if he was about to ask the short question. Vince knew what the short question was going to be before the word even left Stephen's lips, but waited for his verbal response first.
"Who?" Stephen finally asked.
"Well, now that I know you're not a fan, and I'm not tied to a chair anymore...Kevin Murphy."
Stephen stared for a while, and a small noticeable smirk appeared on his features. "Ah, Kevin Knuckles Murphy. Our very own child molester." Stephen's tiny smile soon evaporated when he added, "Our little place has a terrible reputation as it is with that fucking family, but a child molester in Little Haywood..."
"Didn't the people do anything about it?"
Stephen laughed, "And then feel the wrath of the rest of the family?"
"That bad, eh?"
"Oh yeah." Stephen clenched his fists together, the rage boiling from within him. "Especially that idiot, Jason. That guy's a fucking animal."
"Where do they stay?"
"You really wanna know?"
Vince said, "That's the reason why I'm here. I figured a landlord would know, and this is the reason why I broke into the pub in the first place. I need to know."
Stephen puffed out his cheeks and began to think. "They lived all over, but I heard that they were all living at their old man's house. "
"What street?"
"Why?"
"Just tell me."
Stephen shook his head. "What are you gonna do if you find Kevin?"
"Kill him," said Vince with no hesitation. "He killed my son, so I'm going to return the favour
."
Stephen nodded and took out another cigarette. Once he lit it, he spoke, "Now that the police have disappeared, you've decided to give him a bit of old-fashioned justice, is that it?"
"Something like that." Vince screwed his face in disgust and added, "I thought this disaster would have killed him off, but it appears that a lot of scum seems to be riding it out."
"Trouble is, my friend," Stephen took in another drag, and smoke escaped with every syllable he spoke during the next sentence, "these fuckers are probably loving this, while good folk are scared witless. They've killed a few folk round here. I know it."
"I just don't understand why the community didn't get together and do something about them."
"Because we're not thugs. We're pub owners, shopkeepers, factory workers, nurses..." Stephen had a chuckle to himself and said, "The only good they've done round here was to remove most of the monsters. But they obviously did that for their own benefit. There's only three pubs in this place, and I still can't fathom why they've never tried to get in this one."
"So, tell me the street this house is in."
"Duke Street. Number eight." Stephen took another drag of the cigarette and shook nervously. "The street's on the other side, on the outskirts. I suggest you leave the village, and enter at the other end, in case you're seen."
"Good idea." Vince stroked his chin with his right hand and began to think more about Stephen's idea. "I suppose driving through the streets makes me more of a target for the dead as well. They look fragile when there's a couple of them, but when they're in groups..."
"I wouldn't know." Stephen raised a smile. "I've never left the grounds of this pub in five weeks."
"I'm off. Best of luck, Stephen." Vince stood to his feet and held out his hand.
Stephen shook Vince's hand. "I'll walk you out. See what damage you've done to my door," he snickered.
Both men trotted down the stairs and finally reached the exit. Stephen took a look at the state that Vince had left his door. It wasn't that bad. It was just the lock that had been broken. He mentioned that he could board the door up once Vince had left.
"Before you go." Stephen furrowed his eyebrows. He had already asked before, but his intrigue wouldn't let it go, so he asked once again, "How did you get those scars all over your face?"
Vince smirked and remarked, "I was attacked by a wolf."
They said their farewells and shook hands once again.
Vince walked towards his truck in the pub's car park and could see a lone Snatcher entering the grounds. Stephen clocked it, but Vince told him that he had it.
He walked over with angry strides and placed his hands on his belt and realised he wasn't carrying anything. The ghoul reached for him, but Vince palmed it in the face, knocking it back a few steps. He then turned to the side of the creature, grabbed the back of its dirty hair and rammed the front of its head against the side of the pub. After the third smack against the brick wall, the creature's head was smashed, and Vince released the hair and watched it fall to the ground.
Vince Kindl then walked back over to Stephen, who was still standing in the doorway, and held out his hands. "Oh, I'll be needing my machete back."
Chapter Nine
Karen Bradley and Sharon Bailey were in their caravan, and were having a spot of lunch. Sharon drank her water, washing down the jam sandwich, and told Karen that Robin Barton wanted her on hedge-duty for the afternoon.
"Did Pickle order this?"
Shaz shrugged. She wasn't bothered about hedge-duty. It was sunny outside, it was a walk in the fresh air, and it allowed her to daydream. She liked hedge-duty.
"I don't mind," Shaz finally answered.
"That's not the point!" Karen exclaimed. "Vince left Pickle in charge, so Robin shouldn't be barking orders at anyone."
There was a rap from behind them and both Karen and Shaz looked at the frosted glass of the caravan's main door. They couldn't see clearly, but knew the image outside of the place was Robin Barton.
"Speak of the devil," Shaz tittered.
Karen huffed and went over to open the door and rudely greeted Robin with a, "Yes?"
"Hey." Robin brushed his white hair to the side with his left hand and added, "Just seeing if Shaz is ready."
"And who made you boss?" asked Karen. "Isn't Pickle supposed to be in charge?"
"He is, but there's nobody on hedge-duty, and Pickle has decided to do another watch this afternoon, so I need to do something. He tried this morning, but he didn't last too long." Robin then eyed Karen up and down and asked, "So how are you today, sugar muffin?"
"Oh, please. Sugar muffin? What next?" Karen laughed mockingly. "Angel cake? Sugar tits? Sweet cheeks?"
"Just trying to be friendly."
"Yeah, well don't."
"Sorry."
"And one more thing."
"Anything, cherry pie."
Karen sighed, but Shaz could be heard giggling in the background. "You and your friend need to stop leering at me and Shaz whenever we're out walking. It's disgusting. You're older than my dad," snapped Karen. She then shut the door in his face, turned her back, and went over to the kitchen to get herself a cup of water.
"God, what's wrong with you?" Shaz half-laughed, amused but shocked that she was so rude to Robin Barton.
Karen drank the water, left the kitchen area, and went over to lie on the musty-smelling couch. "Forget it."
"Is it your hormones?"
Karen closed her eyes and began doing some breathing exercises. Shaz watched her friend, as her chest went slowly up and down, and could see a tear escaping from her friend's right eye. It slowly ran down the side of her cheek, but she never made an attempt to wipe it away.
"Karen?" Shaz probed again. Concerned for her friend, she asked, "What's wrong? You was fine earlier on."
Eventually, Karen spoke. "It would have been my mum's birthday today."
Shaz walked over to her friend and placed her arm around her. "You don't even know if she's dead."
"I do."
"If she has your feisty character," Shaz tried to make a little light of the situation, "Then she has a chance."
"Maybe."
Chapter Ten
After having a power nap in his caravan, Pickle was confident that he could manage the watch this time without falling asleep.
Sitting in the Vauxhall, he remained in the driver's seat with the engine off. The windows were down and the peaceful setting, despite the sight of bodies in the distance, relaxed Harry Branston. The peace reminded him of the hours he would spend sitting on Cardboard Hill, when he and Karen used to stay at Wolf's cabin.
The feeling was the same.
He dropped his head for a few seconds and lifted it once he had finished muttering his short prayer.
He gazed at every house in the street, individually, and decided to stretch his legs. He exited the vehicle and began walking slowly along the street, machete tucked in his belt. He stared at every living room window that he walked past, but all were covered by closed blinds or curtains. All main doors of the houses were closed, except one. As soon as he reached halfway down the street, he turned on his heels and headed back to the truck, the sun now behind him, burning his neck.
He stopped in his tracks and could hear a noise coming from behind him. He slowly peered over his shoulder. He could see the back of a little girl walking away from the street, and it seemed that she had come from the house that had the opened main door. It was the only explanation. Where else could she have come from?
Pickle walked towards the little girl with long strides, but was certain that she was one of them. Her sloppy walk suggested that she was one of the dead, but he just needed to make sure.
From the back, he guessed that she was no older than eight, judging by her height, and her dirty matted hair could have been blonde six weeks ago.
"Excuse me," he called out.
The girl stopped walking and turned around, slowly.
As he had guessed earli
er, she was a Snatcher, a Rotter, a Grabber, a Biter, a Deadhead, a Lurker, a Monster, a Killer, a Moaner, a Groaner—whatever people called these things, she was now one of them.
Pickle took a few steps further on, drew his machete and put her down with ease. He picked up the poor thing and placed her on the pavement. He then walked over to the opened door, knowing that this was something he shouldn't be doing.
Pickle remembered the treatment Trevor Barkley received from Vince for sleeping on a watch, so for Pickle to actually go in a house and leave his watch should have resulted in similar treatment if ever he got caught.
He knew that wouldn't happen.
He was Pickle, and Vince worshipped the man, maybe even feared him a little. Six weeks ago Vince was a sad, single middle-aged man driving a forklift truck for a minimum wage. Whereas Harry Branston was a drug baron, who had been involved with violence for decades and was worth a fortune.
That was only weeks ago. Both men had adapted to the new world, but they hadn't changed that much in character. If push came to shove, Vince knew that Pickle could kill him with his bare hands.
As he approached the front door, he hesitantly peered inside. His main concern was that there could be someone in there, possibly a child, who could be hiding in a cupboard or an attic, waiting to be rescued. Going back to sit in his car for hours, knowing that there could be a miniscule chance that he could save a life, was something that he couldn't do until he checked out the place.
The other houses were okay. They were shut and blocked off. This told Pickle that people were still inside, trying to survive, but not quite ready to face the new world yet. Or, they had killed themselves, or had turned and couldn't work out how to get out.
He entered the reception area and once he took a look upstairs and along the hall, his first room to inspect was the living room. The door to this area was shut, so he placed his hand on the knob, ready to twist and push it open. Bringing the machete back, he did just that.
The door swung open to reveal a man standing in the corner of the room. The world was surreal enough, but noticing that this thing was wearing a bright green curly wig did nothing to quench the weirdness of the situation.
Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) Page 56
