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

by Shaun Whittington

  He made careful steps inside it and could see a door that was shut at the opposite end of the humble place. It must have been a toilet, Paul thought. There was a living room and a kitchen, so the door at the end must be the entrance to a toilet.

  He walked through the place that had little light, apart from what was coming through the side window, and stopped by the door. He leaned to the side and placed his ear against it and gripped the branch tighter with his right hand, just in case he needed to use it once he opened the door.

  He placed his hand on the doorknob, gave it a twist and gently barged the door with his shoulder. The door never budged, but Paul had stirred something that was behind it.

  He could hear the familiar noise of snarling and growling, and knew right away that there was a dead being in there, but how was the door locked? It must have been locked from the inside, because he couldn't see a bolt or a keyhole on the outside of the door.

  The individual inside the toilet must have been bitten, and locked him or herself in the toilet so that they didn't go out there and harm any humans once he or she had turned. At least, that was Paul's theory, but he didn't know for definite. It was a decent thing to do, if that was what actually happened. Paul was impressed and thought that if he himself had been bitten, he hoped he would do something similar.

  He lowered his head and released a heavy moan. He was going to force the door open and destroy the being. It didn't seem fair to leave it in there. Paul was convinced that the person deserved better, especially if they did such a selfless act by locking him or herself in a toilet.

  Paul took a few steps back, lifted the branch, and ran at the door and front-kicked it. Surprisingly, it opened first time and Paul stood and stared as a large bulky Snatcher shambled towards him, quicker than he had anticipated.

  Paul could see that it used to be a man and was wearing dark clothing. It had short dark hair and a beard. Its eyes were milky and its bloated face was the same colour as the sky.

  “Sorry, buddy.”

  Paul brought down the heavy branch on top of its skull, but had to use three strikes to put the dead guy down. The third strike opened up the head at the top, and a small splat of dark blood hit Paul in the face, missing his left eye by an inch.

  That was a tough kill, Paul thought. I bet he was a tough bastard as a human as well.

  Paul crouched down to inspect the smelly corpse and pulled his T-shirt over his nose to stop himself from breathing in the foul stench.

  “I really want to bury you, pal. I really do,” said Paul. “You deserve it.” He then looked around the cabin and back down at the body. “Maybe this should be your tomb. Better than being put in the ground for the worms, huh?”

  Paul stood up and looked down on the corpse. The three strikes to the head seemed to have done the trick and the head wasn't too disfigured. He had seen a lot messier kills than this.

  He looked at the arms of the deceased and could see a bite on one of them. That was how he became infected, Paul thought.

  He placed the branch on the floor, went over to the body, stood behind the head and took a hold of him under the armpits. It didn't seem right leaving the body slumped in the middle of the cabin. He began to pull the heavy body over to the corner of the room, and tried to sit it up, trying to give the man a bit of dignity.

  It was sat in the corner, head lowered, and Paul crouched down and went to pull down the sleeves of the man's T-shirt.

  “What the...?”

  Paul clocked a purple and black nautical star tattoo on the man's right shoulder, and he scrunched his eyes in thought. He looked at the bite on the forearm, followed by the features of the man: dark hair, beard. Then looked back at the tattoo.

  For a minute, Paul gazed at the body of the man. He had heard stories about this individual. Was it really him? It must be. The description was the same.

  Paul Dickson remembered the stories Karen and Pickle had told him over the weeks, especially the terrifying one when they were on Stile Cop beauty spot in the first week. People had died, and the remaining ones had to flee. The remaining ones were Karen, Pickle and KP, Pickle's lover.

  Pickle and KP had to flee to the prison van, whilst Karen distracted the horde, but KP had been bitten. He had been bitten on the forearm and asked Pickle to stop the van and then asked Karen for a bullet for his empty Browning.

  KP then left the van, intending to shoot himself, but nobody knew for sure if he did at the time. Pickle had thrashed the van after he pulled away because he didn't want to hear the gunshot.

  Weeks later, Karen was being shown around the Lea Hall building at Sandy Lane by her old school friend Daniel Badcock. He revealed the Browning. Daniel said he had found it near Stile Cop. Karen took the gun and demonstrated to a shocked Daniel that there was still a round in the chamber. It was KP's gun. He never shot himself after all, and the round in the chamber was the bullet that Karen had given him to end his life. Karen was concerned if this information would mess Pickle up, so she hid the gun down a drain on Burnthill Lane in case Harry Branston came across it.

  “Well, well, well.” Paul smiled, ran the fingers from his right hand over his thin beard and said, “So we finally meet, KP.”

  He walked away from the cabin, shutting the door behind him and left KP to finally rest in peace. He continued through the wooded area.

  Minutes had passed and Paul saw a black bag full of clothes that had been dumped, and a black circle near the bag. It looked like someone had set up camp here and had a campfire on the go.

  Paul bent down and carefully went through the bag; it was all female clothes and there was nothing in it that was beneficial for him. There was also a toolbox to his side. Inside the box were tools like spanners, wrenches and a claw hammer that had seen better days. Paul guessed that people, possibly a family, were here in the first week and probably left in a hurry.

  The toolbox was probably taken from their house as well as supplies. Maybe some of the tools were used as weapons. According to the small chart inside the box, screwdrivers were missing as well as a few box-cutters.

  There was nothing in the box that Paul could use. It looked like most of the tools that could be used for protection were missing and were probably taken, either by the owner or some random stranger that passed by here.

  Paul gazed at the claw hammer and flashes of the recent past went through his mind.

  He sat down, with his back against a tree, and lowered his head.

  What had he become?

  He thought of all the people he had killed since this thing had kicked off.

  Lance Murphy wasn't supposed to die. Paul was protecting his son, as well as Daisy and Lisa, his neighbours, and saw it more as manslaughter than murder. He had killed Lance, but it wasn't his intention. It was a few weeks after that incident before he had killed again.

  His second one was when he was making his way back to Little Haywood. He sat and talked with a man and was attacked from behind. It appeared the man wanted to eat him, so Paul stabbed him.

  Then there was the mother and son from last week, the cannibals from the farm, and he also thought that he was responsible for gunning down the man of the farm. What Dickson didn’t know was that the man he had shot was Ollie Goldwin and not the man of the farm, Arthur Grassington. But after discovering his family had been killed, Arthur did turn the gun on himself and ended his life.

  This week alone he had killed six.

  On his way back from the Woolpack Inn he killed a man that had been recently bitten, the driver of the pickup, three WOE guys that were attacking the street, and a hostage that was refusing to cooperate.

  Was there any more? He couldn't think.

  "Jesus." Paul shook his head and released a sad breath out. He had killed eleven people. He was a serial killer, wasn't he? Weren't most survivors?

  He knew that Pickle, Karen and Vince had killed people, especially in the early weeks. Karen had told Paul a story about an incident when they stayed at Vince’s cam
p.

  A man by the name of Lee Johnson had been bitten and Karen shot the man in the back of the head, with his permission, to put him out of his misery. That was one of many stories, but that was a mercy killing.

  Paul slowly got to his feet and the crestfallen man looked behind him and continued to walk. He was going back to the house.

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Pickle left the street and took a walk over to the field to get some time to himself. He sat by the graves of the dead and crossed his legs. He placed his arms behind his back, the palms of his hands flat on the ground, leaned back and raised his head. It was a beautiful day and Pickle closed his eyes, feeling the glorious heat from the great ball of fire in the sky.

  He felt like lying down, with his hands behind his head and drifting away, but he knew that that would be a dangerous and ridiculous thing to do. If he wanted to do something like that, then he'd have to go back to Colwyn Place, but Pickle didn't want to go back there, not yet. He was growing tired of looking at the same surroundings, and understood why Paul was so eager to go for the occasional walk when he stayed there.

  “Paul.” Pickle laughed as he thought about Dickson. “Yer gonna be missed, son.”

  He lost his smile and opened his eyes. He thought he could hear noises coming from behind him. He sat up straight and took a look over his shoulder to see that the noises were coming from Karen Bradley.

  “Bradley.” Pickle smiled. “Yer need to work on yer stealth, girl.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I wasn't sure if you wanted to be on your own or not, but I needed to get out of that place. Some of the people were doing my head in.”

  “What's up?” Pickle's eyes gazed at Bradley's frame as she sat next to him.

  “Now that the Drake thing is over, people keep asking me what's going to happen to the camp and who's going to lead. I swear, if one more person asks me if I know what's happening...”

  “They're probably just scared. Who's asking?”

  “All the shitebags,” she huffed. “The ones that have never killed a Snatcher, like that Jim Danson, Joanne, and the old fucker from number three.”

  “There's nothing much to change as far as the camp is concerned, although the security needs tweaked. Everyone has to muck in, now there're less people here. It'll be fine. We might have to organise someone to go out there, not just for the day, but even for a few days and try and bring survivors back.”

  “Like some kind of scout?”

  “Something like that.” Pickle nodded. “Many are dead, including Jez, and Paul’s gone. There're only a few o' us left now.”

  “The more people are here, the more mouths to feed,” said Karen.

  “True.” Pickle agreed. “But we need more people to make this place more productive. Not only that, if we get attacked again...”

  “Paul would have been a good choice for the scout job. He's a loner, and he's certainly fearless now.”

  “I agree, but he's gone. We need to forget about Paul.” Pickle looked at Karen's sad face. What he was saying was brutal, but true. “He's alive, but he's gone.”

  “Do you think we'll ever see him again?”

  Pickle lowered his head and sighed, “I don't think so. I think Paul knows coming back here will put the rest o' us in danger.”

  “But if he did turn up at the gate…?”

  “I'd turn him away. If one o' Drake's bikers spots Dickson in our company, then another attack could happen. We had an agreement. Them lot losing Paul is nothing to do with us; it was their fault as far as they're concerned. There was no mention o' a razor blade when those two bikers showed up. They said it was down to incompetence by some guy called John. As far as Drake's concerned, his men's stupidity allowed Paul to escape. But if Paul's spotted back here and we're hiding him...”

  Pickle didn't need to finish the sentence. Karen knew what he meant, and he was right.

  She revealed a sad smile and accepted the fact that she would never see Paul Dickson again.

  After a couple of minutes of silence, Karen cleared her throat and said, “All the people that have been hiding are gonna have to step up.”

  “Agreed.” Pickle briefly looked at Karen, gave her a few nods of the head. “I'm gonna start taking people like Jim Danson and Joanne out on runs and o'er to No Man's Land, just to give them some experience. No more slackers. Not on ma watch.”

  “Your watch?”

  “I liked what Lee James had in place at Sandy Lane, with the voting system, but that worked because there were a lot o' people. This place is small and needs a leader and I'm gonna ask them sometime today if they want me to do it.”

  “I can't see anyone objecting.”

  “Me neither.”

  Still sitting, Pickle crossed his legs. His body language was telling Karen that he was ready to go back. He stood up and stretched, moaning as he did this. Karen also stood to her feet.

  She said, “We could get Craig to do the scouting thing, if you're serious about trying to bring people back. He's hard as nails, and was a bit of a loner for months until he met Jez. So he’s not afraid of being on his own. Maybe he could take Danny with him.”

  “I’ve hardly seen Danny since the attack. I think it hit him hard.” Pickle paused and pondered. “Maybe yer right about Craig. He's been through hard times.”

  “Haven't we all?”

  “Hard times, good times or tough times ... it hasn't stopped me believing in God. We're all struggling, Karen.”

  “Even Vince?”

  “Even Vince,” said Pickle. “We're all struggling, but some o' us are better at hiding the pain than others.”

  The pair of them turned around and made slow progress to the steel gate of Colwyn Place. Ophelia slid the gate back, and Pickle thanked her as he and Karen entered the street.

  They could see Stephen Rowley and Stephen Bonser chatting by the concrete wall, Old Tom peering out of his front window, and Jim Danson’s wife sitting on her doorstep with her kids.

  Vince Kindl stepped out of his house and began to cross the road. He had done the nightshift stint, only had a few hours sleep, but felt okay for now. Unlike Karen and Pickle who had their machetes tucked in their own belts, he appeared to be unarmed.

  “Oi, Kindl!” Pickle called over.

  Vince turned and smiled at his two friends. He went over to the pair of them and asked where they had been.

  “Needed some time out,” was all that Karen told him.

  “Tell me about it,” said Vince. “It's only early morning and already I'm sick of being inside those four walls. I just can't seem to sleep properly since doing the nightshift.”

  “Where're yer off?” asked Pickle.

  Vince hunched his shoulders and revealed a little cheeky smirk. “Just thought I'd go round and see Joanne. See how she is.”

  “She's probably missing Paul,” Karen said.

  “Yes.” Vince nodded, then lost his smile and said solemnly, “She'll probably need some comfort, a shoulder to cry on.”

  Pickle shook his head at Vince and couldn't help smiling.

  “What?” Vince laughed. “Why are you two looking at me like that?”

  Pickle laughed, “Yer an animal, Kindl.”

  Karen agreed. “You're only going over there to see if you can get some action from a vulnerable woman.”

  “Honestly,” Vince feigned disgust on his face and shook his head, “I don't think I've ever been so insulted. And you guys are supposed to be pals? Really?”

  “So you're going over there out of the goodness of your heart?” Karen queried her friend.

  “Yes.”

  “I hear Old Tom is still shaken after the attack. Are you gonna visit him as well?”

  Vince smiled. “Nah, probably not.”

  Pickle said, “And yer definitely going o'er there to give her some comfort?”

  “Yes, I am.” Vince paused, then held his hands up to Karen and Pickle and said, “However, if she's in the mood, bends over and pulls her kni
ckers to one side ... I'm not going to turn it down, am I?”

  “That's what we thought,” Pickle sighed with a grin and began to shake his head.

  “Laters.” Vince winked at the pair of them and was watched as he went to Joanne's front door and knocked it. She answered it and Vince stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  “He has no chance,” Pickle laughed.

  Karen agreed and giggled, “There's more chance a rocking horse taking a shit than Kindl getting balls deep with Joanne.”

  Pickle gazed at Karen with narrow eyes. “Yer really do have a way with words, yer know that, Bradley?”

  Karen shrugged and said sarcastically, “It's a gift. You can't teach that kind of shit. It's something I was born with.”

  “Come on,” Branston sighed and placed his arm around her shoulder. “Let's go back inside and get a little snack.”

  “Okay.”

  Once they had reached their house, Pickle opened the door and allowed Karen to step inside first. He turned around before entering the house himself, and saw Vince stepping out of Joanne's place with the young pretty woman giving Kindl some verbal abuse. Pickle laughed and shook his head.

  He then lost his smile and released a gloomy moan.

  Things were changing, and not necessarily for the better, but Pickle needed to keep going, keep surviving.

  It was all he could do.

  Surviving was a natural animal instinct, and Harry Branston knew it was sometimes painful to be alive, but he was glad he was still around. And he was glad that he still had Karen. She was a tough woman, but on occasions he had heard her weeping in the next room.

  However, just because she cried, didn't mean she wasn't a strong person. Pickle had lost count how many times he had broken down since this had started.

  Back in prison, before the world had turned to shit, the Chaplain told Pickle that the inmates that appeared to be the toughest and strongest were the ones that smiled through the pain, cried behind closed doors, and fought battles nobody knew about. It was what most people were doing now.