Pickle looked baffled and said, aghast, "Was that a serious question?"
"Just making polite conversation."
Rick bent over and began scratching at his leg and Pickle noticed they were quite hairy. "Shit," Pickle snickered. "I don't think I've seen legs that hairy before."
"I know," chuckled Rick. "I take after my dad. If you think mine are bad, you wanna see his legs, back in the day. He had legs like a spider."
"He had eight legs?" Pickle joked, trying to keep a straight face.
"No." Rick shook his head. He looked confused. "They were hairy; that's what I meant."
"If this trip to Lichfield is successful," began Lee, interrupting the men's pointless small-talk, "then this tanker could provide us fuel for many months."
"Isn't that a good thing?" Bentley looked confused by Lee's tone. His tone suggested that he wasn't so sure about this trip. Pickle also looked perplexed.
"I just..." Lee paused, then tried again. "I just don't want to be losing people every time we go out."
Pickle cleared his throat and spat on the floor. "How many people 'ave yer lost since yer were here?"
"Including Luke John..." Lee rolled his eyes in thought, wiping his clammy hands on his blue jeans. "Five."
"Considering yer go out on a run every other day, five isn't that bad. That's not even one person a week."
"It's still too many."
"We lost ten people in one morning on Vince's camp." Pickle spoke with sadness in his words. "Yer doing better than most."
"I know about that. It must have been horrific." Lee began to think about his old friend, Vince, and soon brought himself back to reality. He waved at Jimmy Mac, who was sitting inside the cab, and told him to reverse the lorry so they could squeeze the pickup through. All four men got in the vehicle, and Lee drove it through the gap that Jimmy Mac had provided and moved away from the camp.
"Isn't this the way to Cannock?" Rick Morgan queried Lee. "Wouldn't we be better off going out the other barrier?"
Lee answered, "We're going the long way, through the country roads. It's safer, and I want there to be no nasty surprises."
Rick Morgan scratched at his shaved head and tried to get comfortable. It was difficult with four men in the front of a three-seated truck, but the space in the back had been used up by the empty barrels for the optimistic run to Lichfield.
Bentley peered to his left and had a quick gape at Pickle, then turned to his right and had a look at the driver of the vehicle, Lee James. He then faced forwards and gazed out of the windscreen, almost being hypnotised by the white lines on the road that were whizzing underneath him.
"What's goin' through yer mind, Bentley?" asked Pickle, noticing that the man had been staring at him.
"I've just realised that we've all lost our partners." What Bentley had announced was the truth, and it managed to bring Pickle and Lee down. Lee felt emotional, but Pickle took in a deep breath and nodded in agreement.
"Yer right," Pickle said in almost a whisper, "and we've still managed to keep sane, somehow."
Rick Morgan was keeping quiet, and he could now feel eyes glaring at him.
Bentley wasn't shy and asked Rick, "What about you, Rick? I've noticed that you keep yourself to yourself. Did you lose anybody ... special?"
Rick looked uncomfortable and shook his head, still staring ahead.
"You're lucky then."
"I'm not lucky." Rick had irritation in his voice, and added, "Girls don't like me. Never have done."
Bentley was persistent. "You never even had one special lady in your life?"
Rick said, "Only my mother. But she died years ago."
"But—"
"Bentley," Pickle butted in, noticing that the thirty-five-year-old Rick Morgan was becoming uncomfortable. "Give the guy a break."
"My mother used to tell me that women are crazy and men are stupid," Rick spoke up and looked at the three guys to his right, "and the reason why women are crazy is because ... well, men are stupid."
"God rest her," Lee sighed and began to snicker, "but my Denise could go bat shit crazy now and again. Especially if I snored. I'd sometimes wake up in the morning with bruised ribs."
"Laura had her moments." Bentley shook his head with a sad smile, but never added to his sentence.
Rick then looked at Pickle and asked him, "What's your experience with women, Pickle? Are they as mad as some men say they are?"
Pickle cackled, "I think yer talkin' to the wrong man, Rick. Yer see, ma experiences with women are as limited as yours."
"Oh?"
"I bat for the other team."
"God, Pickle." Rick flushed a red colour and began to stammer. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? What for?" Pickle patted Rick on the shoulder, letting him know that he hadn't been offended. "It's not a disease, being gay."
"But you used to be in prison, in a place where there's testosterone-fuelled inmates. Didn't you get flak for being gay, if you don't mind me asking."
"No." Pickle shook his head and added, "They were inmates, people who had broken the law, but it doesn't mean they're homophobic. It's the twenty-first century."
"Didn't you get a lecture from the prison's chaplain once?" Bentley rolled his eyes in thought, reminiscing about his days on the wing with Pickle and his crew.
Pickle nodded. "When I first turned to religion, I confessed that I was gay. The chaplain wasn't too impressed, claiming it was against his beliefs."
"So what did you say to that?" Lee had now joined the conversation and was now on the main road, four miles from Lichfield.
Pickle said, "I just told him that claimin' that ma sexual preference was against his religion was like being angry at someone for eating a cupcake because yer on a diet. Homophobia is not a Christian value."
All men remained silent as they were now halfway to their destination. The roads were clear and little carnage could be seen on the journey. It was an eerie sight.
"I have a good feeling about this trip," said Bentley, breaking the silence.
"Me too." Pickle chipped in.
"Fuck," Lee began to laugh. He slowed down and turned onto another road. "I hope you're both right."
Chapter Twelve
Paul Dickson had been on watch around the perimeter for just twenty-three minutes and was already bored. He was getting used to carrying the sawn-off, but hoped he never needed to use it. He was now off the Burnthill Lane and crossed Sandy Lane to get to the wiry fence around the large field. On the other side of the camp, on perimeter duty, was Daniel Badcock, but so far he hadn't seen him. Paul asked one of the farmers if they'd seen Daniel, and one claimed that Daniel was moaning that he needed the toilet.
"Probably got the shits," Paul snickered to himself.
After walking the length of the flimsy fence, he turned on his heels and was walking with the bushes to his left, on the other side, and knew that the rail-track was just behind. He looked at the top of the fence and shook his head. Once Lee was back from the fuel run, he promised to take a little run to the builders yard, near Power Station Road, and finally get some barbed wire to attach to the top of the weak fence that was present at the moment. The sooner, the better.
He glared up at the sunny sky, clouds were very few, and thought about the future. "How are we going to cope when the winter comes?"
He looked at his dirty shoes, and bent down once he noticed that his shoelaces on his right shoe were undone. He put the loaded shotgun by the side of him, on the grass, and looked up once he had finished tying them. He felt a presence coming towards him. He stood up and smiled as Rosemary headed towards him, holding Kyle's hand.
"What's wrong, big chap?" Paul noticed the sadness on the little boy's face as he got near and put the shotgun behind his back, out of view from his little man.
Kyle never spoke—he looked too upset to speak, and Rosemary responded for him. "He's having a bad day," she said.
"Oh." Paul didn't need to ask what was wrong. The little boy had no
mummy or his little sister anymore. It was obvious he was hurting because of their absence; it came in waves. He had his good days and bad days. This looked to be one of his bad days.
"I was just thinking," Rosemary began, looking awkward for what she was about to say. "Maybe Kyle could stay with his daddy for a while."
"I don't know, Rosemary." Paul stood next to his son and kissed him on the head. "If he sees one of those things from behind the fence, the nightmares could come back. The place is supposed to be on high alert. I don't think walking round with a seven-year-old—"
"It was just a suggestion."
Kyle looked up at his dad with his rainy eyes and this image almost broke Paul's heart. "Okay," he sighed in defeat, and put his arm around his son's shoulder. He said to Rosemary, "Kyle can stay here with me. Then after the shift I think me and my boy are gonna have a game of footie afterwards. What do you reckon, big chap?"
Kyle never said anything.
Rosemary smiled and said, "I'll see you boys later."
Rosemary walked away and left father and son to their own devices. Paul took the gun from behind his back, gave his son a sympathetic look, and said, "Let's take a walk, son."
They walked side-by-side and Kyle remained quiet throughout their stroll through the field, and didn't even ask his dad about the gun he was carrying. Paul didn't want to push him until he was ready to talk, so their silent walk continued. They had been on Sandy Lane, passed the barrier by the railway bridge, and walked through an alley, near where the school was. As soon as they reached the green metal railings, they both began walking by them on Burnthill Lane.
Finally, at last, Kyle spoke. "Daddy?"
"Yes," Paul said with some relief. He's spoken at last.
"I'm bored."
Paul let out a laugh and said, "So am I, big chap. But what situation would you rather be in? Bored and hungry, or just bored?"
"Neither." Kyle gazed up at Paul with his hazel eyes. Paul noticed that Kyle's face wasn't as round as it used to be.
In the old days Kyle used to have two breakfasts. He would have two weetabix with milk, followed by super soggy toast. Super soggy toast was something that Julie used to make both Kyle and Bell. It was basically warm bread with butter. Paul could never get it right, so they always used to ask Julie for it. For mid-morning snacks that were put in their bags before they left for school, they'd have a croissant with a chocolate middle, an apple, and whatever they had at school for dinner. When they came in from school they'd have four buttered crackers each to keep them going till dinnertime, and after their dinner they would sometimes have a treat—depending if they had both eaten enough greens or not. Now, Kyle's calorific intake had been reduced, like everybody's, and it appeared that he was losing weight.
Very little chatter occurred between both individuals, but once they reached the very same place where they'd met up, Paul and Kyle began to converse with one another again.
Paul was the first to break the ice this time. "After we've done another two walks around the place, I need to wait for a guy called Nigel who's going to take over, okay?"
Kyle nodded.
"Then we'll go over to Rosemary's, get Lisa, then we can go to Hill Street and play piggy in the middle—"
"We always play that," Kyle huffed. "You said we'd play footie."
Paul sighed and tried not to get irate with the young boy. He was only seven—eight in March.
Kyle scratched at his strawberry blonde hair, and looked up at his father. His eyes were filling and his bottom lip began to tremble. Both males had now stopped walking.
Kyle screwed his eyes and sobbed, "I miss mummy." He wiped his eyes with his forearm, and said, with a shudder in his voice, "I miss her cuddles; I miss her calling me her special man. And ... and I want to see her one last time."
Paul took a step forward, feeling heartbroken for his little man. He felt helpless. He couldn't take the pain that was eating away at his little boy, but he could give him love. It was all he had.
A broken Paul crouched down so that he was of similar height to his son, and he gave him a cuddle. Kyle's soft palms were felt on the back of Paul's neck, and he could feel his chubby arms, scattered in freckles, around his neck and face. Paul patted his son's back as Kyle's body jiggled up and down as he blubbered, and both remained there for more than a minute.
They eventually pulled away from one another and Kyle announced, while wiping away his tears, "I need a wee."
"Okay, big chap." Paul pointed at the side of the fence. "Just go there."
"No. Someone might see."
"Like who?"
Kyle pointed at three farmers that were a hundred yards away. "Them?"
"Don't be daft, just go."
"No."
Paul sighed, "Okay. You see that changing room door, over there?" He pointed at the side of the Lea Hall building.
Kyle nodded.
"It's an old football changing room. Some of the guys go in there to use the urinals, but it's a bit smelly. Go in there. And keep the door open. It'll be too dark in there otherwise. The door's quite springy, so if you don't open it far enough it'll eventually shut itself. You want me to come with you?"
Kyle Dickson shook his head and began to walk away. "I can have a wee on my own, daddy."
"I'll just stand outside the door."
"Don't bother." Kyle stormed off.
"Okay then. I'll stay here," Paul called over, watching his son walk away.
"Whatever," Kyle said with a huge pinch of attitude, making Paul laugh out loud.
"Cheeky little monkey."
Chapter Thirteen
"Once we've done this run," Lee spoke up, shifting the truck in a higher gear, "we're gonna have to go out again. Either tomorrow or the next day."
"Running short of stuff?" Bentley asked.
Lee nodded. "The robbery didn't hit us too hard, with the exception of Nicholas' death. But we need filters, water purification tablets, wet wipes, paper towels, trash bags ... and barbed wire."
"There's also a Powerhouse shop near a pub in Lichfield." Bentley Drummle suggested. "We could pass it on the way to the supermarket."
"What's a Powerhouse?" Rick Morgan scratched at his hairless head in confusion.
"It's a bodybuilding supplement shop," Pickle said. "It should have tubs o' whey protein, weight gain, MRPS, multi-vitamins, glutamine ... a lot o' stuff. Unless it's already been raided."
Rick sighed and continued to glare out of the window. They were ten minutes away from entering Lichfield.
"That was a heavy sigh, Rick," Bentley remarked. "What's up?"
Said Rick, "I'm having phone withdrawals."
"Even after all this time?" Lee sniggered, and then wished that that was all he had to worry about. Rick was a mystery, but Lee was certain that the man hadn't lost any family, because he was sure that he didn't have any. He practically told them that he had no experience with women, so he was sure that he didn't have children.
"Yeah." Rick nodded. "I miss Facebook especially."
Lee produced a wide smile, noticed by Harry Branston, and before Pickle had a chance to ask him what he was smiling about, Lee began, "A few years back, a friend of mine had his birthday on the twenty-second of December, but on Facebook he hardly had any birthday wishes. On his status, the following day, he put: To all the people that wished me a happy birthday yesterday, I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. For those that didn't ... you can all go and fuck yourselves."
All four burst into hysterics. Rick held his hand up to silence the men, and said, in his morose voice, "You think that's funny? Get this. Why do elephants paint their toenails red?"
Lee and Bentley shook their heads, and Pickle said, "I don't know. Why?"
Rick snickered, "So they can jump out of trees."
Pickle, Bentley and Lee looked at one another, the silence making Rick shift in his seat uncomfortably. He then rubbed his chin in thought, and said out loud, "That didn't sound right. I thi
nk I got it mixed up with another joke."
"Three Snatchers up ahead," announced Pickle.
They all glared out, and could see the familiar sight of the dead, stumbling around in the road, not really going anywhere in particular. Lee slowed the vehicle down, unsure whether he could go around them or not. "What do you think?" he asked.
Pickle was the first to speak. "We'll take them out, otherwise yer could damage the truck."
"Okay." Lee nodded, and parked the vehicle ten yards from the three infected. Engine off. "But don't use the guns from the back. We can take these things out with our blades."
"You stay where you are," Bentley said to Lee. "Me, Rick and Pickle can take these, one-on-one."
"Right then, lads." Pickle clapped his hands together, as if he was looking forward to this. "Pick a ghoul."
They clambered out of the pickup truck and Pickle marched, with Rick and Bentley in tow, over to a female ghoul and rammed his knife through its eye socket, as Bentley was also making light work of his beast that was a few yards away to Pickle's left. Rick paused for a moment and allowed 'his' creature, a once-male teenager, to grab onto his shoulders.
"Rick!" Bentley called over with concern in his voice. "Hurry up now."
Rick was now face-to-face with the snarling ghoul and screwed his eyes at the thing that now had its mouth open, its decaying teeth had seen better days. Rick jumped as a loud squelching noise made him snap out of his daydreaming. He looked to the side of him to see that Pickle had rammed his blade into the side of its head, and removed it before it dropped to the floor.
"What the fuck was that?" Pickle snapped at Rick, and suddenly noticed that Rick looked emotional, making Branston feel guilty immediately after seeing his face.
Rick lowered his head and never uttered a word of an explanation.
"Yer have killed these things before, haven't yer?" Pickle asked him.
Rick nodded.
"So what happened? Yer were nearly killed."
"I just had a shock," Rick finally spoke. "That ... thing looked so much like my brother."
"Yer brother?"
Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Page 5
