Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

by Shaun Whittington

  “I was going to wait, but I couldn't leave her like that,” Terry said with a quiver in his tone, and then pointed at the two dead gang members lying in the corner of the garden. “Couldn't give a fuck about those two, though.”

  “We'll get 'em shifted after...”

  Terry nodded and said, “I'll just toss them over the fence.”

  “Remember,” said Pickle as he began to walk away, “yell if yer see anything. I'm off to see Lincoln.”

  “Will do.”

  Pickle left Terry's grounds and headed for Lincoln's house, bypassing the house that Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie stayed at. He walked down Lincoln’s drive and went through to his back garden and could see the rotund man pacing up and down, alongside his fence.

  “Yer okay, John?” Pickle's query had given Lincoln a fright, as he didn't know there was another presence in his garden.

  “Not great,” Lincoln gasped. “In fact, Pickle ... I've never been so scared in all my life. This is not me. I'm not a fighter.”

  “I understand. But at least yer volunteered. People here will remember that.”

  “Had no choice,” Lincoln huffed. “I can't expect to be a leader, if I send people out to fight while I hide in my house. That'd be me finished. Respect would be out the window.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About being a leader?”

  “Somebody has to do it. And if anything happens to me...” Lincoln nodded in Pickle's direction.

  “Not me.” Pickle shook his head. “I may have led a small following on the prison wings and had people working for me when I was outside, but I'm not really a leader.”

  John smiled, stretching his chubby cheeks. “A lot of people would disagree with that comment. You've only been here a few weeks and some people already look up to you. I'm not blind.”

  “I'm not here to step on yer toes.”

  “I know, but I do like it that I can share the burden with you.”

  “Vince would be a good choice, if ever yer decided to take a step back. I know he messes about, but he used to run a camp, although in the early days he was too brutal for my liking. He used to do initiation tests for newcomers.”

  “I've heard.” John smiled.

  “I think finding Lisa, when he came here to kill the Murphys, and the arrival of Kyle Dickson had softened him a little. He's not to everyone's liking, but he's a good guy. I like him.”

  “So do I.”

  Pickle smiled thinly and patted John on the shoulder. “Hang in there. Nothin' might happen tonight.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  “Anyway, I'm gonna check on a few others and then get back to the gate.”

  Pickle left John alone and went back out to the front. He waved at Karen and Vince, who were at the gate, then looked to the side and could see the guys, Bonser, Rowley and Thomson, by the wall. He went along the path and went up Joanne Hammett's drive.

  He could see that she was also in her back garden, peering over the fence, and looked like a bag of nerves. Pickle cleared his throat before speaking, so that he didn't give the woman a fright, like he did with John Lincoln.

  Joanne turned to face Pickle and he asked her how she was holding up.

  “I'm okay,” she shuddered.

  Jesus, Pickle thought. We don't stand a fucking chance with these people. He told her, “If yer see any climbing the fence, use yer bat to put them down.”

  “Okay,” she gulped.

  “Don't hesitate. They won't.”

  Joanne shook her head and looked ready to burst into tears. Pickle walked over and gave her a hug. He broke away and kissed the young woman on the head. “Yer will be fine. If there're too many, get back into yer house and hide.”

  “I'm scared, Pickle.”

  Pickle smiled and touched Joanne's cheek. “So am I.”

  “Bullshit,” she snickered nervously.

  “It's true. This is something I'm not looking forward to, I can tell yer that for nothing.”

  “But you've been out there, you've—”

  “I'm still nervous. This is a situation that's new to me. Potentially, a gang o' people could storm this street from all directions. That's not something I've experienced before.” Pickle smiled and gave Joanne a cheeky wink. “Yer will be fine. Just sit tight. I'm gonna check on Danny.”

  *

  After listening patiently to the Londoner babble on about his life for hours, Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie were relieved that it was coming to an end. Stephanie stood to her feet and asked the man if she could use his bathroom before leaving.

  He puffed out a breath. “Yes, of course you can, darling. Just watch yourself. It stinks like hell in there.”

  Stephanie looked at an annoyed-looking Elza and said, “Sorry, but I really need to go.”

  “Just don't take too long,” Elza said. “We've left that vehicle in the road. Don't want to be hanging about too long.”

  Stephanie went by the scruffy man, smiled thinly at him, and stepped out onto the landing. He began to pace up and down whilst they waited for her to return.

  “So … you're leaving now?” he asked Elza.

  She nodded.

  “And you have room for one more?”

  She shook her head, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “I'm not a bad person.”

  Elza smiled. “It's not going to happen.”

  Three minutes later, Stephanie stepped back into the living room and announced, “Okay, I'm ready to leave.”

  The man ran at Stephanie and quickly put his arm around her throat. He produced a blade from his pocket and placed it against her cheek. “I don't think so, darling. Not yet.”

  Elza jumped to her feet. “Don't you fucking touch her!” she screamed.

  Ophelia was also up on her feet, bat raised.

  “Look, I'm not a bad guy. I'm just desperate.” The man still had his arm around Stephanie's throat and the blade against her cheek. “I know you have a camp. Take me there and I'll show you I'm a good guy. I can contribute. I can fight.”

  “Don't touch her.”

  “I'm okay,” cried Stephanie, although she didn't look sure.

  “Just fucking sit down and hear me out,” he hissed.

  Ophelia and Elza gaped at one another, lowered their bats and slowly sat down.

  “Right,” he began. “Now you've calmed the fuck down, I'm gonna sit back down in this armchair with... What's your name, darling? We never introduced ourselves.”

  “I'm ... I'm Stephanie.” The fourteen-year-old gulped and was relieved that he had loosened his arm against her throat. She then pointed over at the sofa. “And that's Ophelia and Elza.”

  “And I'm Chris,” the man said. “Anyway, I'm gonna sit down with Stephanie on my lap.” He could see Elza shifting uncomfortably in her seat and added, “Relax. I'm not a pervert. If you two so much as move, I'll get mad.”

  “What do you want?” Elza tried to remain calm, but all she wanted to do was beat the man's brains in.

  “I want to convince you guys that I'm okay, that I could be a welcome addition to your camp.”

  “Okay, okay.” Elza held her hands up and added, “You can convince us on the way there. I don't wanna hear your fucking life story again. Now let's fucking go before it gets dark. We've been here for most of the day.”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “No?”

  “You don't believe me. Not yet. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don't.” The man smiled and pulled Stephanie onto his lap. “But you will. You see, I'm desperate. If I turn up at any camp looking like this, who's gonna take me in?”

  “You'd be surprised.”

  “I don't have much left here. Another month and I'll starve to death.”

  Stephanie said nervously, “Taking a hostage isn't the way to convince us. Why don't we sit down and talk about this?”

  “I'm sorry I ha
d to do this.”

  “So, let her go,” said Elza. “She's fourteen. She's done nothing to you.”

  He lowered his head and genuinely looked sorry for what he was doing. “You're right. I'm just doing this because you're my last hope. You're my only hope.”

  “This isn't helping anyone, is it?”

  He released an exasperated sigh and seemed to have lost his confidence. “I don't know what to do anymore.”

  “If you make us drive you to our place by force, our people won't let you in. In fact, Pickle would probably kill you.”

  “I know that. If I take you by force, it'll be a wasted journey.”

  “So the plan is…?”

  “The plan is to get to know me, then at least on the way back to your camp you won't try anything silly when you realise I'm actually a decent guy.”

  “We don't have time to be listening to more of your stories. We need to get back before it gets dark.”

  “You won't be going anywhere tonight.”

  “What?”

  “You don't trust me yet. I can see it in your faces. Make yourselves comfortable, kids. Convincing you guys may take all night. We'll be leaving in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was getting near to 9pm and the evening and darkness was creeping up.

  Stephen Rowley was holding his bat in his right hand and was speaking to Stephen Bonser and James Thomson, both men holding bats. All three were nervous, but were trying to hide it from one another. Despite the three men being reasonably experienced when it came to danger, the anticipation of what could potentially happen was affecting their psyche.

  Both Bonser and Thomson kept on glancing over the wall, then back at the main gate, whereas Rowley continually gazed over the wall and down the neglected road that used to be a part of Colwyn Place.

  “I can't believe this is happening,” Thomson huffed and spat on the floor. “All because of those two new pricks.”

  “The reason we're in this mess, chap,” Rowley began, “is because Terry killed one of them. If he hadn't have kept his daughter in the cellar and was straight with us—”

  “I don't give a shit what you think,” Thomson snarled and flashed Rowley a hard glare. “I'm putting the blame of this onto that Craig and that teenager that hangs around with him.”

  “I suppose it makes a change that Paul Dickson isn't getting the blame this time. He usually does.” Stephen Rowley then cleared his throat and twisted his neck. “I wonder where he went. I hope he comes back. I kind of felt sorry for the bloke.”

  “He won't be back,” Bonser scoffed.

  Thomson sighed and gave Bonser a nudge. “Nice one, gobshite.”

  Rowley look puzzled. “What's going on? Do you two know anything about Paul's disappearance? Did he tell you he was going to leave?”

  “Not exactly,” said James Thomson.

  “Not exactly, chap?” Rowley cleared his throat again. “What do you mean ... not exactly?”

  Bonser and Thomson looked at one another.

  “Guys,” said Rowley, “what's happened? What have you done?”

  “He's done this to himself,” Thomson snapped. “We warned Pickle about him before he gave me this.” Thomson held up his left hand. His pinky and ring finger were broken and had been strapped by Karen hours after Pickle had broken them.

  “What the fuck happened to your hand, chap?”

  “Have you only just noticed?” Bonser laughed.

  “I've been busy,” said Rowley. “I've hardly seen the two of you all week.”

  Thomson lowered his head, embarrassed. “Doesn't matter now.”

  “Anyway, back to Paul Dickson,” Bonser sighed and said to Thomson, “We may as well tell him. Stephen's one of us.”

  Rowley huffed, “What?”

  “We snuck into his room last night,” Thomson began. “We took him out of the street and dumped him miles from here. It's for the best.”

  “What? That's mental.” Stephen Rowley scratched his head. “Does Lincoln know?”

  “No. And it's going to stay that way.”

  “Who are you to decide—?”

  “It's fucking done!” Thomson yelled. “Stop going on about it. As far as everybody else is concerned, he's done a runner.”

  “And you think people will believe that, chap?”

  “Of course they will. He was an unstable guy.”

  “So you threatened him and he just agreed to leave?”

  Thomson paused and looked at Bonser, both hesitant to give Rowley an honest answer. “Not exactly.”

  Rowley dropped his head. “Did you beat him up?”

  “He got a bit of a slap, that's all.”

  “And where did you dump him?”

  “What's this? Twenty questions?”

  “Where did you dump him?”

  Thomson was beginning to get tired of all these questions. “Miles from here. And we left him food and drink.”

  “Where, chap?”

  “The other side of Rugeley.”

  Rowley paused for a few seconds and tried to let the information sink in. “You went out on a dangerous four to five mile journey, in the dark, with Paul in the back. Jesus, you must have wanted rid of him badly.”

  “We did.”

  “And what a waste of petrol.”

  “I wouldn't worry about it now,” Bonser spoke up. “We've got bigger things to be concerned about.”

  “True.”

  Stephen Bonser lit up a cigarette and inhaled the toxic fumes. He could feel the looks from James and Stephen Rowley and explained, “I managed to get a few off Joanne. She's running pretty low on the stuff now.”

  “Haven't had a cigarette in years,” Thomson groaned.

  Bonser laughed and said to both men, “Wanna drag?”

  Both Thomson and Rowley shook their heads.

  Bonser could see Gareth Broadgate by the side of his house and called him over. Gareth was a quiet guy; he was thirty seven years old and lived with Vince. He had blonde hair and was hardly seen by the Colwyn residents. He had only ever killed one of the dead before, so this situation was extremely frightening for the man.

  “What are you doing out here?” Thomson asked him.

  “Sick of hanging about in my back garden,” said Gareth. “Have you seen anything?”

  All three men shook their heads.

  Gareth smiled. “Maybe they won't come back.”

  Nobody responded.

  Bonser took another drag from the cigarette and gently blew out the smoke whilst asking Gareth, “How are you feeling? Nervous?”

  “Not sure I have it in me to kill a man,” Gareth admitted.

  “Well, if you don't, chap,” Rowley grunted and twisted his neck. “This could be your last day on this earth.”

  Gareth Broadgate was physically shaking and all three men could see that his weapon, a worn baseball bat, was shaking in his hand. “I don't have your experience,” he addressed the three of them. “I never went out on runs.”

  Thomson said, “Killing the dead is part and parcel of being out there. If you can't put a knife through a Creeper's head, you're no good out there. But this scenario is new to most of us.”

  “I don't know.” Gareth shook his head. “People attacking people? It's not right.”

  Thomson sniffed, “It is what it is.”

  “I wouldn't say people attacking people is a new thing, chap,” said Rowley. “Don't you remember what the Murphys did? But it's new for us.”

  Gareth said, “I know that people have being doing bad things to each other since this thing started, it's just that we've been hiding in here and haven’t experienced much of it. I've heard stories about Pickle and Karen—”

  “Those stories are exaggerated by them themselves,” Thomson groaned. “It's just to make them look like hard cases.”

  “Well, aren't they? Pickle used to deal drugs, went to prison ... and he sorted you out no bother.” Gareth nodded to Thomson's broken fingers. “He sounds like
a hard case to me.”

  “He got lucky,” Thomson growled.

  “Pickle and Karen have also killed people when they had to.”

  Nobody responded.

  Gareth looked at the three of them and released a short laugh. “So, how many men have you killed between the three of you, you know, when you've been out on runs and stuff?”

  Rowley, Thomson and Bonser slowly looked at one another and dipped their heads.

  “That's what I thought.” Gareth smiled.

  “Are you taking the piss?” Thomson gripped his bat tighter with anger.

  “No.” Gareth shook his head. “But for all that you don't like Pickle and Karen, I feel safer with those two here than with you three by this wall.”

  Bonser took a threatening step forward. “Why don't you go back to your garden?”

  Gareth smiled and said, before walking away, “I think I'll just do that.”

  Bonser took one last drag of the cigarette and flicked it at Gareth's back as he walked away. The cigarette struck him, making Bonser and Thomson snicker like a couple of schoolboys.

  “I felt that,” Gareth moaned.

  “You were meant to,” said Bonser. “That's for your fucking cheek.”

  “Little twat,” Thomson huffed.

  “Forget it.”

  Thomson turned around to face the wall, unzipped himself and announced, “I'm going for a piss.”

  Stephen Rowley moaned, “For fuck's sake, chap. Not here.”

  James Thomson laughed, “I don't want to leave my post, do I?”

  Bonser joined in on the laughter. “Relax, Steve. It's only piss.”

  “Don't call me Steve, chap,” Rowley groaned.

  Rowley turned away from Thomson as he urinated, and looked at the back of Gareth as he was making his way back to his garden.

  Rowley then gasped when he saw two figures climb the wall from ten yards down, both donning leather jackets. The first one to jump over grabbed Gareth from behind whilst the other man pulled out a knife and began to repeatedly stab Gareth in the stomach.

  “Shit,” Rowley and Bonser said in unison, and raised their bats with their shaky hands. Thomson had quickly zipped himself up and was now behind the two, unsure on what to do.

  Rowley and Bonser remained staring in shock and were seconds from reacting, but a scream from behind them now made the two men twist their necks to the right, and they witnessed their friend James Thomson collapsing to the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest.