Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray

by Shaun Whittington

  Karen moved and stood next to Sheryl. She looked behind her to see that on the wooden reading stand was a red bible. She walked over to it. On top of the red bible was a message written in blue ink, on a piece of small white paper. On the paper was the message: God help us all. Karen opened the bible to see that one of the pages had been earmarked. The earmarked page was Psalm 27, and it had been circled in red ink.

  Karen looked down to see a key on the floor. Maybe it had been dropped. Why? Did someone leave in hurry? Was it the pastor himself? Whatever happened, Karen was sure that Paul wasn't, and hadn't, been in the place at all.

  Karen turned to her left to see Sheryl on her knees, looking through the keyhole of one of the doors.

  "Anything?" Karen asked.

  Sheryl shook her head without making eye-contact with her female companion, and said, "Nothing. The whole place seems to be clear. No man in here. That scruffy guy is obviously full of shit."

  "Poor guy probably panicked after you kneed him in the face."

  Karen walked over to the other door, on the other side of the stage, and copied Sheryl. The room behind the door she was looking through also looked clear. Karen then rose and stood up straight. "We better get back before it gets dark."

  Both women now had their weapons tucked away, and Sheryl walked over to the reading stand. "What's this?"

  "Just a bible."

  Sheryl looked at the page that Karen opened and looked at the passage that had been circled in red ink. Sheryl wasn't a religious person at all. She was never brought up with religion, and didn't care too much for it as she got older.

  She looked at the opened book for a moment, whilst Karen waited patiently behind her. "Well, this is not creepy at all," Sheryl spoke with derision in her tone.

  "What is it?"

  "Listen to this." Sheryl began to read out a section of the psalm from the book, but her reading had come to a premature end once the church doors slowly opened.

  Karen and Sheryl jumped off the stage and hid inbetween the seats.

  *

  Still on the Pear Tree Estate, Bentley and Pickle walked for a further minute and could see two females from a distance. They looked at one another, but knew that it wasn't Karen and Sheryl. They could tell, even from that distance. One had short blonde hair, and the dark-haired female had a long ponytail. The two women from afar eventually disappeared around the bendy road.

  They continued their walk in silence for a further minute. Pickle's arm was gently slapped by Bentley and pointed to his left. They both looked to their left and could see, in a bedroom window, a man with a scruffy beard. The man waved, but neither Bentley and Pickle waved back. They weren't out to bring strays back to the camp, and were now getting tired.

  They finally reached the bend in Hislop Road and could see a church to their right. The place was called 'The Church of the Good Shepherd' and both individuals had never been to this part of Rugeley before and never knew the church existed.

  "Shall we try the church?" asked Bentley with a yawn.

  Pickle looked up to the darkening sky. He looked at the Omega watch. He had no idea if it was the right time, but it stated that it was after eight. It was probably right. "No. Let's just get off this estate. They're probably already back at the camp."

  "Yeah." Bentley nodded. "Probably."

  *

  Karen and Sheryl drew their weapons and waited for whoever was approaching. They could hear the sounds of careful footsteps walking on the hard wooden floor. It was two sets of feet they could hear, and their eyes clocked one another. Both girls were nervous, but neither one wanted to show it. What they knew these days was that even after a month or so, some of the living were more dangerous than the dead.

  Karen was aware that some of the 'bad apples' that were making people's lives a misery was down to the four hundred or so inmates being released from the jail in Stafford, and had probably now scattered themselves around the Staffordshire area. But if that hadn't have happened, she would never have met Pickle and might have been dead by now.

  They took in a deep breath as the boots got nearer to them, and from the side they could see two figures, both holding baseball bats. Two women.

  The woman nearest to them looked to be in her early thirties. She had dark hair, tied in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. She grunted, turned to the side and spat to the floor. Her companion looked to be a few years younger. She was shorter than the older woman, by about two inches, short blonde hair and not the prettiest of females.

  The one on the left, nearest to them, turned to the girls, as if she already knew they were there, and released a small smirk. "Hiding from anyone in particular?"

  Karen and Sheryl got up, both a little embarrassed, and watched as the two female strangers casually walked towards the stage. They both turned and sat on the stage, facing the front, legs swinging, and their baseball bats sat by the side of them. Sheryl and Karen relaxed, convinced that these girls weren't a threat to them, and sat on the wooden bench at the front and was now facing the women.

  "So here we are." Karen was the first to speak, but none of the women sitting on the stage responded. They ruffled through their bags, pulled out a small bottle of water each, and sipped the liquid in silence, both staring into space. Looking at their clothes, it was clear that they had been through a lot. Dried-in blood was evident on their clothing, some on their hands even, and their baseball bats were bloodstained, chipped and worn-looking.

  "So, are we gonna get an introduction?" Sheryl asked.

  The one on the left nodded, screwed the top back onto her bottle and put it into her bag. "Yeah." The older-looking woman on the left picked up her bat and said, "This is Maria," she then pointed at her friend's bat, "and this is Frieda."

  Sheryl swallowed her anger and decided not to bite. It was obvious that the girls were not in the conversational mood, maybe even psychologically scarred—who wasn't?—and probably just wanted somewhere to rest and not be bothered.

  Karen tried this time. "Where're you from?"

  The woman on the left spoke up again. "Does it matter anymore?"

  The woman's short answers were annoying, but at least she spoke. Her partner on her right hadn't said a word, and looked to have drifted off. She was sitting upright, but her eyes were closed. She had a two-inch scar on her left cheek, but neither Karen or Sheryl asked where it came from. The new arrivals looked unbothered that the two women from the Sandy Lane camp were there, and certainly wasn't threatened that they were present.

  Like Karen and Sheryl, these women were survivors. They had probably did inexplicable things in order to continue to exist, so it was wise for both girls not to antagonise the pair of them. Two months ago they could have been secretaries, with a husband and a dog. Now, they had killed the dead to continue living and, more-than-likely, killed other people too.

  Taking the hint that these two women wanted to be left alone, and the fact that the evening was drawing in anyway, Karen stood to her feet. Sheryl did the same a second later, making the ponytail woman on the left reach for her bat.

  "There's enough room for four of us," the woman on the left spoke up, thinking that Karen and Sheryl was about to approach them.

  "We know," Sheryl responded, and walked out into the aisle with Karen beside her. "Relax. We're not a threat."

  "We already have a place to stay," Karen intervened. "We're here because we're looking for somebody."

  "So you've checked the place out?" The woman that was still holding her bat—that she named Maria—asked.

  Karen nodded.

  The woman on the left, holding her worn bat, walked over to the reading stand and bent down. She picked up a key.

  Knowing what she was thinking, Karen said, "We looked inside the doors, through the keyhole. They're both empty."

  "But you didn't actually go inside the rooms?"

  Both Sheryl and Karen shook their heads. Karen announced, "Anyway, we need to go back to our camp. Why don't you
come with us?" asked Bradley, without conversing with Sheryl.

  "No." The dark-haired woman with the ponytail added, "Camps have people. When there're people, relationships are formed, and then they die and you get hurt."

  Sheryl and Karen turned on their heels and slowly walked to the main door of the church. Sheryl peered over her shoulder to see both of the strange women were now on their feet. And the woman with the bat that was called Maria, was unlocking the left door with the key.

  The woman then said to her partner, in a quiet voice that Karen and Sheryl could hear, "If we're gonna be staying here, we better absolutely make sure that it's clear."

  Karen and Sheryl watched as the girls pushed the door, to the left of the stage, wide open. Karen pulled onto Sheryl's sleeve and said, "Are you coming, or what?"

  Sheryl hushed Karen. "Wait."

  They watched as the two female strangers went into the room, and then heard the words, "Fuck me."

  Intrigued by this, Sheryl and Karen headed towards the now-opened door, next to the stage, and went inside with hesitant feet. Both women could see the room was bare, apart from a table and a chair in the corner, and could see another door to the room's right.

  The two strangers were standing by the frame of the door, holding their bats, and Sheryl and Karen went up beside them and peered inside.

  "What is it?" asked Karen, now able to smell death coming from the room.

  "I thought you'd left," the woman with the ponytail spoke.

  "The intrigue was killing us."

  "Take a look for yourself."

  Sheryl and Karen could see eleven boys, under the age of ten. They were dressed in green shirts, wearing toggles, and some still had green caps on their heads. They were cubs, but there was no older kids, scouts, and no scoutmaster either. There was remnants of a body in the corner—maybe that was the scoutmaster—and all eleven boys had their backs to them. Some were standing and facing the wall, and others were sitting down, with their heads lowered. They seemed unaware of the girls' presence.

  Just to make sure they were the dead, the dark-haired woman with the baseball bat whistled sharply, and all turned around and glared at them with their dead faces.

  Both women entered the room with zero hesitation and began using their bats. The little heads of the boys cracked open with ease, and Sheryl grabbed Karen and both took a step back. Blood flew everywhere, and these two women seemed to be enjoying themselves and weren't even bothered that there was danger that their eyes could get blood in them. They looked on from a few yards, and Karen winced at the bloody scene. There was two left. The girl with the short blonde hair smacked one of the children so many times that its head was obliterated to mush. The remaining one had his legs swiped by the older-looking female, and she brought her bat down, using a stabbing motion, crushing its head and exposing a fraction of the black diseased brain.

  The strangers took a look at one another, no expression on their faces, and walked out. Their clothes had additional blood on them, to go with the old stains, but it wasn't a concern for these two women.

  The ponytail woman said to her friend, "We need to check out the next door, and make this place home for as long as we can."

  The woman with the short blonde hair nodded and they both left, leaving Karen and Sheryl staring at the eleven little bodies that used to have their whole lives ahead of them. The floor was awash with brain matter and blood, and Sheryl reached for the door, closed it, and went with Karen to leave the room and get back into the main church area.

  The woman with the dark hair went to the other door at the side of the stage, and before unlocking the door she turned around and said to the girls, "You hanging around for a reason?"

  Both Karen and Sheryl shook their heads. It was time to go. They had seen enough.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  After leaving the church, Karen and Sheryl went down Hislop Road and turned left onto Queensway. Karen looked at the defunct streetlight that she had just passed under, and sighed, "It's amazing the stuff you used to take for granted in the old world." Karen could see the evening was close and knew things would look a lot different if the streetlights were on.

  Sheryl didn't respond to Karen's banal chatter, and was too busy thinking about the girls from the church.

  "Not speaking?" Karen brushed her dark hair behind her ears and clocked the tattoo on Sheryl's wrist. "Is your silence anything to do with ... Buddy? You thinking about him?"

  Sheryl flashed Karen an evil glare. How the fuck did she know?

  "I'm sorry." Karen held up her hands. "A little bird told me."

  Fucking Lee! Sheryl lied, "I'm just tired."

  "Any runs planned for the next couple of days?" It was obvious Karen was desperate for some kind of conversation, but Sheryl clearly wasn't in the mood.

  Sheryl remarked, "If there are, I want to be on one."

  They were now descending down Queensway, and passed a small cul-de-sac to their right called Ashleigh Road. They passed the road, and then heard the noise of an engine.

  "Down!" Sheryl instructed, and both girls hid behind a garden wall, on the corner of Ashleigh Road.

  They peeped over the wall and could see a black Ford coming up. They both glared at one another, then ducked down.

  "Over the wall," said Karen, "and wait for it to pass."

  Together, they climbed the four-foot wall as the sound of the engine got nearer, crouched down behind it, and were both mortified when the car pulled up near them.

  "Shit." Karen pulled out her machete and Sheryl did the same with her ten-inch blade. They heard the car doors open and heard steps and voices. It sounded like two males, and the girls listened in on their conversation.

  "Now where?" A man with a gruff voice asked. "We're running short on petrol."

  "We'll stay in one of these houses," a man with a high voice spoke.

  "And what if they're not vacant?" Gruff asked.

  "Then we threaten to kick them out like the last lot," High Voice said with a snicker.

  "You know this place better than me," Gruff said aloud, and seemed unbothered about the volume of his voice. "Where's the safest place to go for the night?"

  "We're alright for food for a few days..."

  "So?"

  High Voice said, "There's a church up a road to the right, further up. We can stay there."

  "Let's hope we don't have any bother like the last time."

  "I can't believe you killed that kid. What was he? Thirteen?"

  Gruff replied, "He was running his mouth off, so I stabbed him in the gut. Problem solved."

  "Killing his parents was a bit of a cunt though."

  "Never thought she'd stop screaming."

  "Yeah, until you rammed the knife in her throat, you sick fuck."

  Both men burst into laughter and the girls could hear the men getting back into the vehicle; the doors slammed shut and the vehicle moved away.

  As the sound of the engine faded, Karen quipped, "Well they seemed like nice chaps."

  "They sounded adorable, didn't they?" responded Sheryl, with a heavy dosage of sarcasm.

  Karen asked, in a more serious tone, "What the fuck is wrong with people? Why can't some people just get along?"

  "Unlike me, you've been out there," Sheryl spoke up. "So why are you being so naive and asking stupid questions?"

  "Fuck off," snapped Karen, and stood to her feet. Sheryl did the same.

  Karen climbed over the wall, machete still in her right hand.

  "Let's go." Sheryl began walking.

  "You heard those men." Karen remained standing, watching Sheryl walk away. "They're going to that church where those girls are."

  "And?" Sheryl called back, still walking away from Karen, and now passing Hardie Avenue on her right. "They can look after themselves, and you're pregnant."

  "Is that it?"

  "Yep," Sheryl said in voice that Karen could barely hear. "I'm going back for no one. We've got a quarter of a mile walk back
to the camp, and I'm dying for a piss."

  *

  The man with the long beard sat up, grabbed the bottle that was only half-full, and unscrewed it. He got on his knees, pulled down his trousers and shit-stained pants, and then pulled out his penis. He pulled his foreskin back, and winced at the sight of his bell-end covered in, what looked like, scrambled egg. His nose twitched once the smell of his dick hit him.

  He peed into the bottle, and thankfully stopped when it was getting full. He put the full bottle in the corner and reached for an old one that still had a quarter of a litre of urine, his urine, left.

  He wondered what day it was. He had no idea.

  Living on his own was bad enough in the old world, but at least back then he could go for a walk to the town centre, go to the library, take a walk up to Etching Hill, and nip in for a crafty pint or three in The Albion or The Crown once his dole money came through. Those luxuries had been taken away from him.

  He hadn't left the house at all since he put on his television, on that Sunday morning, to be greeted by the awful news. It had been announced the evening before, but he had spent all his evening on porn sites and drinking white wine, so he never heard anything about it until he woke up the next morning with a hangover.

  He listened to what the news was telling the country. He barricaded his doors, filled pots and pans and his bath with water, and rationed his food. The first week he was too scared to look outside as screams filled his street. In a strange kind of way, especially from what he had seen on the TV coverage, it wasn't as bad as he thought it was going to be, but still frightening all the same.

  After a few mundane weeks passed, he began to check out the windows, constantly. With no television and power anymore, looking out the window was the only source of entertainment he had. He even removed the barricading as the weeks passed, because he thought it was pointless.

  He remembered the third or fourth week; a vehicle pulling up in his street and screams filling the area. He peeped from behind the curtains to see four individuals beating a man for putting up a fight. The individuals were obviously robbing places for supplies, and whoever got in their way was going to get hurt. The man in charge seemed to be wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt with tour dates on the back, and he had slicked black hair. With him was two men and a woman. The woman was ugly-looking, ginger hair, and she looked a right vicious cunt. Thankfully, they never stopped by his house, and it appeared they were picking random ones.