Karen stood at the edge of a large stretch of grass, that used to be a football field, and looked at the place. It was alive with people, animals, and the sounds of banging could be heard as four farmers looked to be building some kind of shed. The noise wasn't ideal, but the occasional sound coming from the four-legged produce that was on the field wasn't ideal either. Complete silence could not be achieved, but thankfully, on the other side of the flimsy wiry fence where the field was situated, there was the rail-track. Only a few of the dead were there in the first weeks and were quickly removed.
Karen took in a deep breath and thought about Vince. She laughed when she thought of the things he'd come out with. When Karen and Shaz had their short stay at the caravan park, Vince would see them in the morning and say: "Here I am, ladies. Now what were your other two wishes?"
She missed him.
Before she had chance to reminisce further about a man she hated at first, but grew fond of, a voice pulled her out of her dreamy state. She turned around when Kirk Sheen called out her name.
She looked puzzled and queried, "What is it?"
"Follow me to the barrier," insisted Kirk.
"What?"
"Just do it."
She never asked any more questions and jogged over to Kirk Sheen to catch him up. They both briskly walked to the barrier, by the railway bridge. Standing inside the camp, on the pavement by the first house of Sandy Lane, was Paul Dickson.
"He's just arrived," said Kirk.
Karen ran over to him and gave him a big hug. He hugged back, and she kissed him on the neck and burst into tears. She didn't want to reprimand him for just leaving like that, or ask him what the hell he was playing at. She didn't even want to tell him that she and Sheryl had gone out looking for him. He was back, and he was grieving. And grief affects people in different ways.
He was back, and that was all that mattered.
"Let's take you back to mine," said Karen. Still holding onto him, she took a small step backwards and took a look at his face. He looked like a corpse and was obviously sleep-deprived.
Paul shook his head. "I'm going to the house that they gave me. 19 Sandy Lane. I need some time alone."
Karen didn't like the idea, but kept her mouth shut and nodded.
Paul smiled, despite the exhaustion on his face, and said, "I won't do anything stupid, if that's what you're worried about. I'm going to get a drink, and then I'm going to bury my son. Then I'll need to sleep."
Chapter Thirty Eight
The first thing she did once she reached the caravan park was head to the one that her brother stayed in. She was weary that those things could be lurking around the corner, but reached the place with ease. It was on the front, not far from the main road.
The woman from Rawnsley placed her hand on the handle of the door, and was surprised that it opened. She took a sniff. It smelt fusty in there, and she knew right away that he wasn't in. The whole park seemed to be devoid of life.
From behind her, she heard somebody clear their throat, making her jump.
"Shit," the woman gasped and put her hand on her chest. She had only arrived at the caravan site a few minutes ago, and thought the place was clear.
"I'm sorry," the strange man apologised. "I didn't mean to give you a fright."
The woman half-laughed and sat down on the couch in the caravan's living room. Her face had turned pale with the fright, and looked like she needed the sit down. She brushed her greasy blonde hair behind her ears, and the man could see she was a pretty thing. Mid-thirties, maybe.
"I'm sorry," the woman managed to get her breath back.
The man smiled. "Don't be. It's a frightening world."
"Is this your place?"
"The caravan park?" The large man walked over and sat opposite the petite woman. She was thin, too thin, but that could have been down to malnutrition over the weeks.
"Yeah. Do you own it?"
"No." The man shook his head. "Just happened to have stumbled across the place. A bit like you. Where're you from?"
"Rawnsley." She began to look upset. She said, "I've been in my house since the first days. This is the caravan my brother used to rent. I was hoping to see him, but it appears that no one's here."
"And you only came out because you were desperate?" The man leaned back and put his large hands behind the back of his head.
"Something like that. Are they all unlocked?"
Ignoring her question, he asked a few of his own. "When was the last time you ate? Drank?"
"It's been a while since I've eaten anything," the woman confessed, and her dry wrinkly lips also suggested that she was severely dehydrated as well.
The big man stood up and held out his hand and said, "Come on. Let's get you sorted."
She looked hesitant, but he seemed friendly enough, and she took his hand and stood to her feet. The two of them made the short walk to the Spode Cottage, and the woman entered the establishment without asking any queries. The place was cold and dusty. It looked like the lounge area of the place hadn't been touched for a while.
"Take a seat," he urged.
She sat down on one of the chairs, by the bar, as he went behind it. The chair that she was sitting on was one of four at the table. The place had many tables and chairs, and it was the kind of establishment that made most of its money from meals, not booze, in the days it was up and running. She had heard of the place, but she had never been here for a meal.
He returned from the bar area and walked over to her. He handed the woman a litre bottle of water, a packet of crisps and a pre-packed salmon sandwich from behind the bar that was edible, but a few days out of date.
"Really?" She was almost in tears.
"No more questions," he said softly. "Just get it down you."
"Thank you," she sobbed, and made light work of the food and water.
"There's more of that, if you want it."
She never responded to his comment. She took a swig of water while her mouth was full of salmon and stale bread, then went to devour the crisps. She took a quick glance up to see the man staring at this ravenous woman, but she was unashamed about her behaviour. She was starving.
Maybe she should have taken her time, but she couldn't help herself. As soon as she was finished, she leaned back and a big smile emerged on her face.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much." She nodded. "Thank you so much."
"My pleasure. So what now? Where're you gonna stay?"
"Jeez." She scratched her greasy hair in thought. "I don't know. I'm knackered and could do with a nap. Maybe I could use one of the caravans."
"You're probably safer in here."
She sighed with a smile, "Probably. But if it's all the same to you, I'll use my brother's."
"If that's what you want."
"It is." She stood up, was getting ready to go back over and go for a little power nap.
"Well, I'll be going out for a bit. But if you need anything later on, you know where to reach me."
She nodded her head in thanks and held out her hand. "By the way, my name's Pauline."
"Pleasure to meet you, Pauline." He shook her hand and gave off a thin smile. "My name is Ted, but my mum called me Theodore."
Chapter Thirty Nine
Elza Crowe and Ophelia White had had breakfast, which included a packet of almonds, a tin of beans, washed down with some tepid water that they had filtered the day before. After killing the two aggressive and arrogant men yesterday evening, they had slept well and were now planning on what to do next. Staying in The Church of the Good Shepherd was viable, but it was going to take them all morning to remove the bloody remains of the cub scouts in the room by the stage. The other door led to another room, but it was thankfully vacant.
Thirty-one-year-old Elza Crowe grunted whilst she ate, and her dark ponytail gently swung as she took another hurried swig of the water. Specks of dark blood still remained on her face from the massacre the evening before, but it was something
that she was used to, and she certainly didn't want to waste good drinking water just to wash her face.
Elza's companion, Ophelia White, was twenty-six years old, had short blonde hair, and was obviously affected by some of the things she had to do and what was done to her over the weeks of June and July. She had a two-inch scar down her left cheek, given to her by a man that had attacked her, and they both carried baseball bats that they had taken from their attacker.
Both women were from Moseley, Birmingham. They were normal once. They loved going to clubs, listening to 90s music and drinking in the Firkin pubs in town. Both were single, and both worked in River Island in Birmingham's City Centre.
On the Sunday, June 10th, they escaped the city, leaving their families behind, and tried to hitch their way to a place that was remote, where there was a lot of countryside and less people. When they were dropped off by an elderly couple at Stoke, they walked mostly, but at one stage had to run from the dead in order to survive.
When they reached Trentham, they were jumped and beaten by two men for their backpacks. They managed to outrun the men and hide in a house. They stayed in the barren house for a few days, and in week two of the disaster they walked to a place called Stone. They came across a horde of the dead in one street, and ran for half a mile, dodging some strays in the road. The panic-stricken girls then knocked on doors of houses in another street, but nobody came to their rescue, except one man.
He allowed them in, was charming and gracious, then turned on them in the evening and kept them by knife point, tied them up for two days, and the females were beaten and sexually assaulted. They weren't raped; it appeared that playing with himself whilst fondling their breasts was enough for this sick bastard, but it was still abuse that disgusted the pair of them. Ophelia decided to stick up for herself during the abuse, and was used as a football for her 'cheek'.
On the second night, a battered and bruised Ophelia managed to loosen her rope. She gouged the man's eyes out with her thumbs, and ripped out his throat with her teeth. She had never been the same since then. She had never spoken since then. After that, the women escaped and took two baseball bats from the man's house, emptied his cupboards and put the supplies into two bags they'd found.
They made a pact to be strong, take no shit, and be brutal to survive. Their motto, rightly or wrongly, was to trust nobody.
Getting to Rugeley was a complete fluke.
They were not bothered where they went, whether it was Rawnsley, Norton Canes, Brownhills, Wimblebury or Colton. So long as they were near or in the countryside, they didn't mind. Getting to places like the Yorkshire Moors or The Pennines had crossed Elza's mind, but it was a lot further to travel.
They had found an abandoned truck that fortunately had the keys still dangling in the ignition, and managed to get as far as Amerton before the vehicle conked out. They walked the rest and finally reached the town of Rugeley, a place they had never been to before, and stayed in a house in Draycott Park for a night, before moving on to Stile Cop.
Noticing that the place was littered with dead bodies, they continued walking and ended up in the woods. They stayed in there for a while, hoping to drag it out as much as they could. They hoped that the world, or at least the UK, could get itself together in time.
They nicknamed their weapons Maria and Frieda. Maria was the name of Elza's bat, and Frieda was the name of Ophelia's weapon. These were strange nicknames that were given by Elza.
The two girls now sat on the stage with their legs swinging, and Elza took out a toothbrush from her bag and took a swig of water, then brushed her teeth. She had no toothpaste, but her teeth hadn't been brushed for days and were getting that furry way; it was driving her round the twist.
Ophelia lay down and used her bag as a cushion. Elza looked at her friend with sympathy. They had both been through a lot, but Ophelia had gone through the worst of it. In the old days, when they both worked and Ophelia spoke, Ophelia was always the sensitive one. She'd be upset if she was ever dumped or stood up, and Elza was her rock. But something had snapped in Ophelia after she killed their captor, and despite the fact that she never spoke anymore, she was more brutal than her friend. The trouble with not speaking was that Ophelia would act without conversing with Elza, so Elza had to take control. She was the leader of the two, and with the psychological damage that Ophelia had received, she had to be.
Elza took a walk through the door, to the left of the stage, and looked into a mirror that hung over a cupboard. She moved a few inches closer to the mirror and inspected her face. Two months ago her face would have been caked in make-up; her hair washed, blow-dried and straightened. Her uniform would be washed and ironed; underneath her uniform she'd have her lacy matching underwear, and her eyebrows would be plucked.
Now, she didn't recognise herself.
Her clothes were a mess; she had on a dirty, long and grey bloodstained cardigan, and her hair was greased back in a ponytail. It hadn't seen shampoo for a while. At least her face was clean, kind of, but her eyebrows were now taking on a different, thicker shape with the stray hairs that were growing. She smiled thinly and shook her head at herself. It had been a funny old year.
She briefly thought about the two men they had killed yesterday evening. She smiled. Fuck them!
She turned around, and opened the door to see the battered corpses that she and Ophelia had dealt with. The young cubs. They were going to have to get rid of them, if they wanted to stay in the church for a while.
No time like the present.
Fortunately, there was a door in the room that led outside, a fire exit, so at least she didn't have to drag them out to the main door and smear the aisle with the infected blood. She kicked open the door and felt the outside breeze lick her features. She could see the defunct youth centre behind a metal fence, closed her eyes, and took in a gulp of fresh air. She called Ophelia to give her a hand, and both girls dumped the bodies in a pile on the church grounds. Because of the mess, that particular room was out of bounds, but at least the rotting corpses had been taken care of, and now they could concentrate on what they did best ... surviving.
Their backpacks were full enough to keep them going for a few more days, but they couldn't be complacent. There were thousands of houses on this estate alone, never mind in Rugeley, which meant there could be a lot of bits and pieces that would benefit the two females. Because they were in a church, they had plenty of candles, which meant they had light during the evenings, but they could always do with more.
There was so much more stuff they could do with, food and water aside. A torch would be advantageous, as well as batteries, more toiletries, binoculars, more lighters, more clothing, and a camp stove which they may find if any caravans were on the estate.
They were going to rest for a while before going out. The moving of the bodies was harder than it looked, and both girls needed another energy bar before making tracks.
Chapter Forty
Many people gathered on this sunny morning. A few white clouds hung in the sky above the mourners, but the day was another good one, weather-wise. He had done this before, but Harry Branston was nervous of what he was about to carry out, simply because of the amount of people that would be listening to his words.
At least ninety people gathered on the field, in an organised semi-circle around the already-dug grave, near the hut. Pickle walked through the crowd of people and stood opposite the grave, with Paul Dickson to his left, and Karen to his right. The body of Kyle Dickson had been tightly wrapped up in sheets, and had already been placed into the shallow grave that was just over three feet in depth.
Pickle looked around and asked, "Is everybody here?"
He looked to the left to see Lee, Rick, Bentley, Sheryl, Lee, Kirk, Charles Washington, Henry Winter, Garth Bateman and Jon Talbot. Rosemary stood behind with a sobbing Lisa, and a woman called Gillian Hardcastle was standing next to a tearful Jasmine Kelly. But what warmed Pickle the most was seeing David McDonald and Charles Pilki
ngon. The boys were cruel to the seven-year-old when he first arrived, and now looked to be smothered with guilt and regret.
Another thing that impressed Pickle was that he knew David McDonald was attending against his father's wishes. Jimmy Mac was in a minority about his disgust at the burial, and the only reason why more were not attending was because some were on guard duty and others didn't want to attend such an upsetting event, especially because it was the death of a child.
The mourners were talking quietly amongst themselves, and Pickle thought that it was time to start. He cleared his throat and said aloud, "Can we have some silence, please?"
The people began to settle down and listened to the man who had only arrived a week ago, but was greatly respected. Even Lee James very much valued the man.
"I have done this kind o' thing before, but not with so many people present," Pickle began. "So bear with me. I'm a little nervous."
Harry Branston felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, smiled at the owner of the hand, Karen Bradley, and gave her a wink. He continued, "Before I begin, I want to thank the farmers, Harold Grantham and Kevin Wilson, for digging the grave." Both farmers stood at the side with their shovels and had no expression on their faces. They were also going to bury the child once the procession had finished. Pickle added, "And also a big thanks to Rosemary and Lisa for the lovely cross they have made." A cross was planted at the front of the grave, and Kyle's full name was carved into it, vertically.
Pickle looked around at the faces. Some had their heads lowered, others glared to the front, and several were looking at him. Pickle pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and opened it up. Karen could see he was shaking and put her arm around him.
She kissed him on the cheek. "You can do it."
Karen was about to move away to stand next to Paul, who was at the other side of Pickle, but the heartbroken man was already being comforted by a young Jasmine Kelly, who had lost her mother during the attack on Vince's caravan site.
Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Page 16
