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

by Shaun Whittington

  Vince and Karen walked over to the concrete wall, where Stephen Bonser and Rowley were standing. They told them to get everybody out into the street and ask no questions. The two concerned men did as they were told.

  It took seven minutes for every one to be present, including Danson's children and wife. All surviving residents nervously talked amongst themselves, wondering what the hell was going on and what Pickle had to say.

  Pickle moved to the front of the crowd that stood in the middle of the road, with his back to the main gate. Vince and Karen stood next to him. Paul was there, but decided to hang near the back.

  Harry Branston clapped his hands three times to get their attention, and asked for them to be quiet.

  “Guys,” he began, “I have something to say.”

  “Is it bad news?” Jim Danson asked.

  “It's always bad news,” Terry spoke up.

  Talking amongst the residents began again, and Pickle asked for quiet once more and he got it.

  “Sometime today, possibly, we’re going to be paid a little visit by the same gang again.”

  “You mean they're going to attack us?” Jim Danson's wife cried out, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of her two children.

  “I don’t think so,” Pickle sighed. “We just know they might be here within the hour.”

  “That's it.” Jim Danson threw his wooden bat to the floor. He looked over to his wife. “We're leaving.”

  “And go where?” she cried. “We have no car, we have—”

  “Safer in numbers,” Vincent spoke up. “Going out there in the long-term is a death sentence.”

  “Here, here,” Elza spoke up.

  “Staying in here is a death sentence,” Terry Brathwaite snarled. “But it never used to be. Not until those two showed up.” He pointed at Jez and Craig, who were standing at the left of the crowd, on the pavement.

  “If you hadn't have killed that man, Terry,” Craig retaliated, “then maybe we'd be better off.”

  “The only reason they came here in the first place,” growled Terry and pointed at Jez, “was because of that little shit. And you also killed one of their men, so I hear.”

  “I didn't have a choice.”

  “Enough!” Pickle yelled, stopping the argument before it had chance to gather momentum. “The reason why we're in this mess is now irrelevant. It's fucking happening, whether we like it or not.”

  “How do you know all this?” came the rare outburst from Old Tom. “I mean, how do you know they're coming back? I don't get it.”

  “We were out by the river,” Vince decided to step in. “We saw a van. It was heading to the camp, so we stopped it.”

  “And?” Bonser said.

  Pickle said, “And ... it was a gang member that was driving. The plan was to drive the van into our street and release a shit load o’ the dead in here. They were in the back o' the van. We managed to get rid o’ them and contain the guy, but we had to let him go.”

  “I suppose that explains the blood on your faces,” said Bonser.

  “Let him go?” Rowley said in astonishment. “Why, chap?”

  “He told us that he was Drake’s brother. If he didn't report back to Drake within the hour, then Drake would be coming here with an army … or something like that.”

  Jez nodded and informed Pickle, “Drake does have a much younger brother, but his name escapes me.”

  Rowley asked another question “So you let him go because you had no choice?”

  “That’s right,” Pickle said. “We let him go, and we told him that I want Drake to come here to talk. I want the man to be here to prove we’re just normal people and that we’re not animals.”

  “Well, we're not animals,” said Terry and scratched his head. “We're just normal people, trying to survive.”

  “I know, but do they see it like that? The young man we let go said something that made me think before he fled in his van.”

  “And what's that?”

  “We think they're the bad guys, but they think that we are. I suppose it depends on what side yer on.”

  “Pickle, What're you on about, chap?” Stephen Rowley cleared his throat and twisted his neck. “These guys have killed families. Have you forgotten already that one of their guys killed that poor baby?”

  “O' course I haven't. That was one man that killed the toddler. We can't tar them all with the same brush. If these guys have got a base back in Stafford, then there must be women and children there as well. I don't believe it's a place with just men and men only. Which means they're just like us. They have families, but they obviously have a few bad apples in their group.”

  “But what if Drake is one of the bad apples?” Stephen Bonser spoke up. “If he's the leader, then they're gonna do as they're told.”

  “Drake is a bad apple.” Jez stepped forward. “The guy's a maniac. He has a few close buddies that are like him, but most of the guys are good people from what I could gather. I wasn't there long.”

  “Have we got the materials to make a homemade bomb?” Elza asked no one in particular. “I read many months ago that all you need is—”

  “Don't even think about it,” Pickle warned.

  “This is crazy,” said Old Tom. The seventy-six-year old from 3 Colwyn Place was annoyed and pointed his wrinkly finger over at young Jez. “This is all his fault. We should have handed him over when we had the chance.”

  “Let's not go through this again,” Pickle sighed.

  “So what if Drake doesn’t want to talk, and he comes here to give us a beating or a killing?” Rowley threw his arms up like a petulant child. “What then?”

  “Myself, Karen and Vince will greet them, if they do turn up.” Pickle took a deep breath in and tried to swallow his anger. “Everybody else stay inside. I don't want them to think that we're here for a fight. They lost a lot o' men when they attacked us, but we had to fight, we had no choice. When they arrive, we'll open the gate for them, we'll welcome them in. We'll let them know that we just want a peaceful solution to this mess.”

  Bonser folded his arms and asked Pickle, “And if they turn nasty?”

  Pickle gulped and stared at all the adult faces that were waiting for an answer. “I don’t think they will. I’ve just spared his brother.”

  Bonser persisted, “Very well, but if things turn ugly, what do you suggest?”

  He said, “Then me, Vince and Karen will probably die today. The rest of yer should flee, o'er the back gardens and try and disappear into the country.”

  “Is that it?” Jennifer Danson cried, still embracing her two children. “Is that your ... plan if they start attacking us again?”

  “It's the best I've got, darling,” Pickle spoke with his teeth clenched, then flashed Jennifer a menacing glare. “Have yer got anything better?”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Jez was the first to go inside. He wiped the tears from his face and growled at himself as he looked in the living room mirror that hung over the fireplace.

  He then stared out of the living room window and could see that most of the residents were still out in the street, still talking to one another, panic scrawled over their frightened faces.

  What was he doing? Why was he waiting around in this street, waiting to get butchered like the other poor bastards the day before? Pickle said that he wanted to talk to Drake, but what happens when Jez is spotted? What happens then? Will Drake forgive him, forgive the traitor?

  He thought he had finally landed on his feet when he and Craig met Pickle. How long did that last? A couple of days? Then ... a massacre.

  Despite some comforting words by Craig before he left to go in the house, Jez was still convinced he was mainly to blame for what happened yesterday. Once the dust had settled, even if Colwyn Place came out of this crisis on top, some of the residents would want Jez's head. He was sure of it. Terry and Old Tom's negative comments were just the tip of the iceberg.

  The youngster went into the kitchen, grabbed a carr
ier bag from underneath the sink, took a sharp knife from the wooden block and grabbed himself a bottle of water from the side.

  Fuck it! It was time to go.

  He took one last look out of the living room window and could see Craig turning around and looking his way. Craig gave Jez the thumbs up, and the teenager returned the gesture with tears in his eyes. He liked Craig very much and felt like he was betraying him now that he was running away, but he felt that he didn't have a choice.

  He sneaked out of the back door and walked through the long grass to get to the fence. He peered over the fence and could see it was clear. All he could spot was a long road and shrubs on the other side of it. Below his fence was a pavement for pedestrians. The young man put the carrier bag over the fence, with the knife and water bottle inside, and dropped it.

  He climbed over and landed on the pavement without breaking, pulling or twisting anything. Any kind of injury, especially in a world where there was no medical help, would not be a good start to his lone adventure that he was about to embark on.

  The young man picked up the carrier bag from the floor and headed left, knowing that going right would eventually take him by the main steel gate of Colwyn Place. He didn't want that. He didn't want to be spotted leaving the place.

  His walk was non-eventful until he came to a small village. He passed the entrance of the village as well as the Bull and Spectacles pub that was near the entrance. His walk continued and knew that he needed to change direction; otherwise he was going to end up in Stafford. He needed to avoid Stafford and thought about where he could go. He could go to a large town like Stone or Cannock, or a small place like Gnosall or Brewood.

  He had no idea how he was going to survive being on the road. He had only been walking for thirty-seven minutes and was already thirsty. He put his hand in the carrier bag, took out the knife and water, and then tossed the bag away. He put the knife into his pocket and took a couple of gulps of water. He held the bottle as he continued to walk and closed his eyes as the cold breeze tickled his face. He went round a curvy part of the road and could see a residential area up ahead.

  On either side of him were fields, and a large oak tree stood on the right side of the road, twenty yards up ahead. Jez stopped and gulped as his eyes spotted two mopeds, on their stands, next to the tree. He then turned three-sixty, but there was no sign of life.

  “Hello, Jez,” came a voice from behind the teenager. “We thought we heard footsteps, so we hid and...”

  Jez gasped, “We?” He turned around to see a man with a long straggly beard, mostly grey.

  “Well, well, well,” another voice from behind said, making the youngster turn around again. Jez recognised the men. They were the same men that chased after Craig when Jez was a new recruit of the gang. Their other colleague, Hardy, had been killed by Craig, and Jez begged him afterwards if he could go with him. It was also the same guys that had butchered the family in Slitting Mill.

  Both men pulled out knives and Jez turned to his left, looking at the field ahead of him.

  “Don't even think about running, young man,” the bearded man growled. “Don't make things worse for yourself.”

  Jez shook with nerves. How could things be worse? He tearfully said, “Please, I don't wanna die.”

  “Bit late for that,” the man with the beard released a belly laugh.

  Jez climbed over the picket fence and ran as fast as he could across the field. He threw the bottle away and looked over his shoulder. Both men had cleared the fence and were running after him.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Jez panted.

  The young man tried to increase his speed, but it just wasn't happening. The faster he tried to run, the heavier his legs felt. He was going as fast as he could, but he winced whenever he could feel the knife in his pocket pricking his thigh.

  The knife!

  Jez put his hand in his pocket whilst still running and pulled out the knife, only to cry out as he dropped it in the grass. He stopped to pick it up, but couldn’t see it, and then looked up to see that the two men were a matter off yards away. Knowing that he was fucked, the teenager dropped to his knees and put his hands in the air, closing his eyes.

  “Leave me alone!” he wailed.

  The men stopped running and began to giggle inbetween their panting.

  “Let me tell Drake how sorry I am,” Jez cried out. His eyes were still closed and was expecting a punch any second, but the punch never came. He looked up to see the two panting men standing over him.

  “Too late to explain yourself,” the bearded man puffed. “With some of our guys dying, because of that fucking street where you now live, Drake just wants you dead.”

  “What?” Jez shook his head. “No, please. I'm just a boy. I don't want to die.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “Please, give me another chance,” Jez cried. “Take me to Stafford and let me see Drake. I'll tell him that I'm sorry, I'll—”

  “There's no point taking you to Stafford, because Drake's not there.”

  “Wh-wh-what? Where is he?”

  “Drake and the rest of our crew are on their way to your place. They're only five minutes behind us. We're ahead of them to make sure that there're no nasty surprises along this road. We see anything bad, then we turn around and let the convoy know.”

  Jez placed his hands over his face and began sobbing. He cried, “Is Drake going to kill the people in Colwyn Place? There's a family there; some good people.”

  “Drake is coming here to talk to the leader of the street. He also wants to pick up some guy, some prick that killed some of us on his own. He also wanted you to be handed over, like what we originally asked before your lot turned nasty. We thought we'd find you in the street, not out here. Making it easy for us, eh?”

  “I don't want to die. Please.” Jez dropped his head and continued to cry like a baby, his shoulders shuddering as he bawled.

  “Why are you out here anyway?” the bearded man asked Jez.

  “Had enough. Just wanted to go ... I don't know.”

  “Anyway, it doesn't matter now.” Both men raised their six-inch blades. “The only thing we do know is that he wants you dead.”

  Jez looked up at the men with his blue soaked eyes, his lips trembling. “Please.”

  The bearded man nudged his partner and told him to go behind Jez and hold his arms. He did as he was told and put the knife away. The bearded man smiled, and then raised his blade.

  “You ready?” the bearded man grinned and waved the knife in front of the nineteen-year-old, taunting him.

  Jez never answered him.

  The man released a sigh. “I said ... are-you-ready?”

  “No, I'm not,” Jez blubbed, his face was now saturated in tears. “Please, don't do this. Tell Drake you did it. You'll never see me again.”

  “Too late, sunshine,” the man feigned regret and nodded to his pal who was behind Jez. “Hold him tight. He might wriggle a bit.”

  Once he could see that his pal had a hold of Jez, the man took a step forward, crouched down to Jez's height and giggled, “Okay, here we go.”

  The man began to stab Jez in the stomach, and Jez cried out as he watched in horror, seeing the blade going in and out of his midriff. The bearded man stabbed and stabbed at the youngster, and his grin grew the more he did it. Jez began to lose consciousness after being stabbed for the seventh time, and continued to be mutilated even when he took his last breath. The bearded man only stopped once he became tired.

  He stopped, lowered his head to get his breathing back to normal, and looked up at the dead boy that was still being held. He stood up straight, nodded to his friend to let go of the boy and was satisfied with the mess he had created, looking down on Jez's mutilated stomach. He had been stabbed twenty three times.

  “Happy?” the bearded man asked his buddy.

  His comrade nodded and said, “When we tell Drake that we killed this little traitor, I reckon we'll be given a job on guard
duty. I'm sick of going out on runs and scouting for other folk.”

  The bearded man said, “I wonder if Drake is really going to just talk.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Or ... he's got something else planned,” said the man with the long beard. “I know there's a lot of upset people back at our base. Even Drake himself has lost his cousin.”

  “I know. Gerry was a good guy. And his twelve-year-old son was in bits when he was told about his dad.”

  “Right,” the bearded biker said, still panting. “Let's go back before the rest catch us up.” He wiped his bloody hands on Jez's trousers and stood up straight. He looked down on the boy and could see he was on his back; his eyes and mouth were open, and the bottom half of his T-shirt was covered in blood and rips from where he had been butchered.

  “Wait a minute,” the other biker said. “I need a piss.”

  He took out his penis and began to urinate on Jez's body, mainly on his face, trying to get the urine in the opened mouth of the deceased teenager as if he was having some sick game of target practice.

  He started giggling and said, “Ah, that's better.”

  The bearded man shook his head and snickered, “You're a fucking animal, Thommo, you know that?”

  The man called Thommo shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” He zipped up, then booted Jez in the side of his head and walked away from the corpse.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  The surviving residents of Colwyn Place had been asked to retreat to their homes and stay there. Every adult, as well as David MacDonald and Stephanie Perkins, were armed, but all were hoping that their weapons wouldn't be needed. Only Pickle, Vince and Karen were to be present in the street.

  “Is everyone inside?”

  Pickle had asked the question to Vince. All three were standing by the main gate. Their freshly cleaned machetes were tucked in their belts and wanted to keep them there, but it depended on what Drake had in mind.

  “Kind of,” Vince eventually answered.