Snatchers (Book 11): The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  The crowd of people began to disperse and some went back inside. Old Tom went inside, so did all four members of the Danson family, as well as Beverley and the young child that she was taking care of. Beverley asked Old Tom if he wanted to join her, but he rudely waved at her, muttering obscenities under his breath about Craig and Jez and that this was all their fault.

  There were fifteen that decided to stay. Pickle, Karen, Vince, Craig, Jez, Stephen Rowley, James Thomson, Stephen Bonser, Joanne Hammett, Lynne Smithers, Sandra Roberts, Gareth Broadgate, Danny Gosling, Freddie Johnson and even John Lincoln himself decided to stay put. If Paul and the girls were present, the numbers could have been up to a healthy twenty, including Terry that hadn't left his house yet.

  Lincoln told the people that weren't carrying a weapon to follow him to the cellar of 2 Colwyn Place. Whilst this was happening, Pickle and Vince went into Terry's house and stood in the hallway as the sobbing Braithwaite sat on the floor, the dead man next to him.

  “Terry,” Pickle said softly. “We need to move the bodies. And we also need to get ready.”

  Terry stopped crying and looked up at Vince and Pickle. “Ready?” He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “Ready for what?”

  *

  The bodies had been put to the corner of Terry's garden. The two men were put in the left area, and Kayleigh's body was carried by Terry himself and placed in the opposite corner. He was going to bury her once the trouble that the street was expecting had passed. Terry, Vince and Pickle stepped into the street and could see a few people had retreated back indoors, but Lincoln was there with over a dozen residents, all armed.

  Whilst Pickle, Terry and Vince were out in the street, Jez and Craig were apologising to the residents and told them that if they knew that something like this would happen, they never would have stayed at Colwyn Place. Some accepted that this wasn't their fault, but others blanked the two men. It was clear what Old Tom thought about them.

  Pickle told Jez and Craig to get back into their house, regardless whether they wanted to fight or not, just in case there was a small chance that further negotiations took place instead of violence. If their faces were spotted, things could turn ugly.

  “So what's the plan, Pickle?” John Lincoln asked. Lincoln was the leader, but this frightening scenario was new to him. “Do we stand here, waiting for them? Or do we hide and provide some kind of ambush, or...?”

  Pickle looked at Lincoln and knew that just three swings of a bat would exhaust the man, but at least he had decided to stand his ground, unlike the other week where he stood on his doorstep with his arms folded as twelve of them destroyed the dead that were near the concrete wall.

  “Yer want the truth?” asked Pickle.

  “Of course.” Lincoln nodded.

  “I'm not sure. I have no idea what's gonna happen now,” confessed Pickle, and could see the people that had stayed to fight were all listening to him. “They may attack us from the front, they may leap o'er the wall in numbers, or o'er the fences.”

  “Or all three, like you said before,” said Karen.

  Pickle nodded the once. “Or all three.”

  “So, you have no strategy for this scenario?” Lincoln was panicking and seemed annoyed by Pickle's relaxed manner. “Is that what you're saying?”

  “No, I haven't. Have you?”

  “I don't know what to do. This is the first time something like this has happened.”

  “Well, as the months tick by, it's more than likely that it'll happen regularly, which is why we need to sort this street out after we've dealt with this problem. Yer see, most survivors were probably family men and women, had normal jobs... But now they have forgotten what they used to be like, and most wouldn't think twice about killing a man if he had something that would help them survive for a few more days. These guys haven't come here for our supplies, although they will take stuff if we all get massacred, but I'm trying to explain how people have changed. People out there have survived because they've had to do some inexplicable things to keep breathing.”

  “But ... But you're a nice guy.”

  Pickle smiled. “I've still killed people, John.”

  “Only because you had to.”

  “True.”

  “You're a man that has dealt with violence regularly,” Stephen Bonser stepped from the crowd, addressing Pickle. “You must know what to do to prepare for this?”

  “I was a drug dealer,” Pickle laughed. “I wasn't in the SAS.”

  Pickle glared at the glum faces of the crowd and could see that they were all frightened. He sighed, “All we can do is hang around and see what happens. Spread out and walk around the houses, check the gardens, just don't stand altogether like sitting ducks. Just make it look like yer ready, even if yer not, especially if we're being watched. And if they do attack, don't hesitate to put them down, because they won't.”

  “I've never killed a man before,” Joan Hammett spoke up.

  “Well, time to learn. Because they won't be too bothered by putting yer pretty face down. If they have enough time, they might even rape yer first.”

  Joanne gulped and tears produced in her eyes.

  Pickle felt bad for saying the things that he said, but they needed to know that if they backed down when the people came, it could be curtains for them and possibly for the other residents of Colwyn Place.

  Pickle then told most of the residents out in the street to hang around their back gardens.

  He told Rowley, Thomson and Bonser to guard the wall, whilst he, Vince and Karen stood by the gate. He didn't know where these guys were going to come from, but it made sense to Pickle that the more experienced people should be by the gate and the wall.

  “We need to listen out for engines,” Vince spoke whilst rubbing his scarred face with the palm of his hand.

  “I don't think we'll be hearing engines,” responded Pickle.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If they've got any sense, they'll park up a fair distance from the street and do the rest o' the journey here on foot. Element o' surprise. I don't think we'll hear them coming.”

  “What happens if they don't come to the main gate or the wall?” Karen asked, still keeping her machete in her belt. “They could climb over the fences and enter the street through the back gardens.”

  “The trouble is we don't know where they're gonna attack from. If they attack us by climbing the back fences, yer guys should give us a holler before they reach the street, just to let everyone know what's happening.”

  “I think going over the main gate is too obvious. I think we should be walking alongside the back garden's fences,” suggested Karen.

  “I hear what yer saying.” Pickle nodded. “But it'd be sod's law that they breach the main gate and we've only got Joanne and John Lincoln guarding it, no offence to them.”

  “So now ... we wait?”

  “It's all we can do.” Pickle pulled out his machete from his belt. “And get ready for a fight.”

  Vince and Karen also pulled out their blades.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paul could still see the six of the dead outside of the pub, and was baffled when he saw their heads turn in unison to the right, making Paul confused.

  What could they hear?

  Then Paul heard it.

  Engines were approaching and the six ghouls moved away from the pub and shambled onto the Wolseley Road.

  Twelve mopeds and a red pickup that was behind the bikes, appeared from Stafford Road and parked up outside the pub. The dead were blocking their way, so four men got off the bikes and put down the six with ease with their blades, then returned to their means of transport.

  “Oh shit.”

  Paul was certain that these guys were going to Colwyn Place, and it wasn't just for a chat. He looked at the twelve parked-up bikes and then at the pickup that was parked ten yards behind them. Paul didn't see the purpose of the pickup because there was only one man in it, the driver. His eyes managed to see t
hat additional weapons were in the back. That was why the pickup was present. Wasn’t it?

  Not only that, the vehicle may have been brought along in case any of their own men were fatally wounded or if they wanted to take a prisoner or two.

  Paul didn't know for sure why the red pickup was with the bikes, but what he did know was that he couldn't stay in the pub if his people were going to be attacked.

  He needed to act. He needed to act now!

  *

  Barry McIntire waited patiently behind his biker friends as four of them removed the pesky dead that were blocking their path. He kept the engine of his red pickup running and began to drum on the steering wheel.

  He wasn't looking forward to this.

  As soon as two of their bikers returned with news that the residents from the Little Haywood community had killed Paddy and Matty, Drake ordered men to go back immediately and take vengeance for their deaths. They were still unsure whether Jez and his older pal were staying there, but because of the deaths it was now irrelevant whether they were there or not. They had now lost three guys, and people were going to be killed for this. Barry was concerned, because he knew that they were going to go in there and kill random people.

  He had seen these men butcher women before. He wanted out. This gang was too ugly for Barry McIntire, but where else could he go?

  If he left and was caught, they would butcher him in front of the men back at Stafford, just to make a point.

  And if he made it? He'd be out on his own, fending for himself.

  The options weren't great. Barry had lost his wife and three daughters, all under the age of ten, in the first week. They had been at a soft play area when children were beginning to get attacked by a parent, unaware that the parent had reanimated and had been bitten earlier before going in with his child.

  Confused and scared at what was happening, Barry went into the soft play area and looked for his three girls. All five eventually left the building and drove away, back home. They had no idea what was going on and the vehicle took a sharp left at a junction and rammed into a horde. Barry opened the door and told his family to leave. All five began to run away and tried to fight their way out from the circling dead, but Brian's family were taken down and mauled in front of his eyes. There was nothing he could do and it was a miracle that he escaped without a scratch.

  Days later, a grieving Barry was picked up by the WOE gang and taken back to Stafford. The gang had existed before the apocalypse and were taking in newbies to bolster their numbers.

  Barry snapped out of his reminiscing daydream and realised that the gang of bikers in front were waving at him, telling him that they were going to move. He slipped the vehicle into first and moved away once the gang started to move on their mopeds.

  He sighed and was dreading this. But what could he do? Protest?

  Barry heard a clunking noise coming from the back, making the teary man jump with fright. He looked in the rear view mirror but couldn't see anything. He shrugged it off and put the vehicle in second and increased the speed, realising that he was lagging behind the others.

  He could see that the bikers were slipping further away from him and had now disappeared around a bend. He was going to get grief for this; he knew it, even though this wasn't his fault. He had already been mocked for being useless, and one of the gang members had told him last week that Drake was becoming impatient with him, making Barry paranoid that his life could be in danger.

  This little trip was something he was desperate not to fuck up, but it was something that he was dreading.

  A bang was then heard from the back. Barry sighed in defeat and knew what it was straightaway. His vehicle had a flat.

  “Really?” He shook his head and banged the steering wheel in frustration. “Right now? Seriously?”

  The vehicle's steering was becoming heavier and Barry did the correct thing and took his foot off the gas and allowed the vehicle to roll to a stop. The bikers continued on without him and he was in two minds whether to sound the horn to get their attention.

  Bad idea.

  The plan was to get close to Colwyn Place, then the bikers and Barry would park up, then make the rest of the way on foot so the residents couldn't hear them coming.

  He rested his head on the steering wheel and knew he was going to get a hard time for this.

  He cussed aloud, then reached for the door handle, letting himself out. He clocked the left back tyre and screwed his face up in puzzlement. “What the fuck?”

  A large knife was sticking out of the side of the tyre, and he took a look in the back to see if there was anyone in there. He pulled out a knife from his pocket and had a slow walk around the vehicle. If someone had been in the back, they weren't there anymore.

  He took a full walk around the pickup until he was back at his driver's side and scratched his head.

  “What the fuck's going on?”

  He decided to go back inside and grab the shotgun that was on the passenger seat. It was the only gun the gang had with them. In fact, they only had three altogether, back at their base in Stafford.

  He reached for the shotgun, but he quickly swivelled around when a noise came from behind. He was head-butted, making Barry fall onto the side of the road, screaming out, but more in surprise than pain.

  Barry had dropped his knife and cowered as Paul Dickson stood over the man. Paul had a large knife in his hand that he had taken from the back of the pickup—the small blade from the pub was in his back pocket—and kicked away the blade that Brian had dropped.

  “What do you want, man?” cried Brian.

  “Why are you going to that small camp?” snarled Paul.

  “We're not,” Brian stammered and his face quivered with fright.

  “Don't lie to me. You're going to hurt people, right?”

  “What's it to you anyway?”

  “It's where I'm from.”

  “They killed some of our guys. They’re gonna attack at nine, from all sides.” Brian held his hands up to protect his face, then lowered them slowly and scrunched his eyes in thought. “Was you in the back of my truck?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Don't kill me, man,” begged Barry. “I don't want to die. I don't deserve to die. I'm not like them.”

  “You wanna live?” Paul asked the man.

  Barry nodded.

  “Then grab that jack and spare tyre,” Paul pointed in the back, “and change your back tyre. Now.”

  “Wh-what are you gonna do?”

  “I'm gonna take the truck.”

  “And what about me?” Brian cried.

  “You can fuck off and disappear.”

  Brian nodded.

  He had no initial plans on leaving the group, but he wanted to live.

  Barry grabbed the tyre, then the jack, and quickly went to work. His hands shook, but it looked like he knew what he was doing. It looked like he had changed many a tyre before.

  “Hurry up,” Paul puffed. “I'm running out of time.”

  As soon as the tyre was on and the vehicle lowered, Barry nervously stood up, and began to wipe his hands on his trousers. He spat on his right palm and rubbed them together. He asked, “Now what?”

  Paul took a step forward and rammed his blade into Barry's throat. The look of horror and shock on Barry's face didn't move Paul at all. Blood pissed out and Barry fell to his knees once Paul Dickson removed the blade. He fell face down and Paul leaned over and watched as the blood poured out until Barry stopped moving and making noises.

  Paul Dickson wiped his bloody hands on his shirt and got inside the vehicle nonchalantly. He adjusted the seat as if he had all the time in the world, then his head turned and saw a shotgun lying across the passenger seat. He checked to see if the weapon had shells in it and snapped it back shut once he saw it was loaded.

  With a wry smile on his face, Paul Dickson pulled the vehicle away, now heading for Colwyn Place.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Karen and Vince were on hig
h alert at the main gate, and Pickle informed them that he was going to go round and see if everybody was okay. There had been a deathly silence for almost an hour and he was growing concerned.

  All the residents that opted to stay and possibly fight were content to stay guard in their own back garden, and peering over the fence to see if anything untoward was coming. Jez and Craig were told to remain indoors in their house of 15 Colwyn Place. Pickle told them only to come out and fight if the street was under attack.

  Pickle was hoping that there would be a chance of negotiations, and didn't want to antagonise the situation further by having Jez and Craig on display, but with two gang deaths, yesterday alone, he wasn't holding out much hope for a calm discussion.

  “I'm gonna take a walk around the gardens, check on folk.” Pickle began to walk way from the main gate, away from Karen and Vince. “Won't be long, guys.”

  “Wait a minute, Pickle,” said Vince. “We can't keep this up all night. We can't have everybody out for too long. It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

  “Why not?” asked Karen.

  Vince added, “Everyone's going to be tired by midnight. What if they wait until it's the early hours of the morning before storming the camp? We'll have no one fit to fight.”

  Pickle didn't have answers for Vince. He hunched his shoulders, puffed out a breath and continued to walk away in silence, heading for the back garden of 1 Colwyn Place, where Terry was.

  “Pickle?” Vince called after him, but he was being ignored.

  Karen nudged Vince. “Leave it.”

  Pickle walked down Terry's front garden and went by his house at the side. He entered Terry's back garden and saw the paranoid man looking over his fence. Pickle looked around and could see that within the hour Terry had buried his daughter next to the rest of his family.

  “I see yer have been busy,” Pickle called over and nodded towards the grave as Terry clocked him.