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

by Shaun Whittington

  Jack had travelled down from Glasgow to see his son, and from what he had told Vince it was a heck of a journey. He had stopped off at a petrol station, off the M6, chased by a few of the dead and then fled in his car. His vehicle then crashed and he woke up to find that he had a flat. Once he finally managed to get to Rugeley, with the help of a motorbike he had found, he realised that his son and his ex were not there. Once they all did meet up, he lost his son due to an incident at a sports centre, which forced his ex to shoot herself after shooting her son.

  It was a cruel, vicious world, and Jack's story was probably more heartbreaking than any other that Vince had been told. But to then put his life on the line for somebody else, and receive a bite from the dead during a tussle, proved what a good, selfless man Jack Slade was. It was just a shame that it was all for nothing, and the person that he saved that day, Shaz, had also copped it a few weeks later during the attack on Vince's camp. She was now lying next to him in a shallow grave.

  Vince looked to the right, to the grave that was next to Jack. "Poor Shaz."

  He then saw the cross on Shaz's grave that had been made by the Dicksons. Something wasn't right. Something was missing. Vince couldn't think what was wrong, and lowered his head for a minute to think what it could be.

  He looked back up at the grave and couldn't quite put his finger on what was bugging him. He stood up straight and headed back to his caravan. It was time to go, whether Stephanie liked it or not. He was hungry and what she had in her bag wasn't going to be enough. He glared at the Spode Cottage and thought about all the food and drink they'd stored in there over the weeks. It was soon emptied when they left to go to Sandy Lane.

  He took a quick scan around and gasped when he heard a rough voice come from behind him. "You look lost, my friend."

  Vince turned and could see a huge man walking out of the back entrance of the Spode Cottage. The man was muscular, six-four, and was dressed in black clothing.

  "Hey," Vince greeted.

  "Hey back." The man stood yards from Vince, and the intimidating figure folded his arms. "Any reason why you're here?"

  "Just surviving." Vince had no idea what else to say.

  "And where're you going next?"

  Vince decided to play dumb and shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine."

  "Here's what I think." Bear remained standing with his arms folded and began, "You became lost and now you're heading back to your camp. There's only one camp in Rugeley, as far as I'm aware."

  "And what camp is that?" Vince's face quivered with fright, and had a feeling that this large man was bad news.

  "I know you're heading back to the camp by the town centre," Bear said with a snicker. "I recognise your ugly face when me and my colleagues started checking the place out a week ago. I don't know what the fuck you're doing here, a run gone wrong ... maybe."

  "You've been watching us?"

  Bear smiled and nodded. "Here's a suggestion. I'm planning on getting out of this shit hole, but I need plenty of food and fuel for my journey and for afterwards. We'll set up a meeting point. You get me what I want from your camp once you return, and I won't attack it again."

  "Again?"

  Bear cackled and got closer to Kindl, "Get me what I want, and you won't see me anymore."

  "You want me to steal from my own camp?"

  Bear nodded. "If you refuse, I'll take what I can for myself, cause some carnage while I'm there. And you'll die today."

  "We're armed," Vince laughed at the deranged man. "We have over a hundred people in our camp. You're just one man."

  "You'll be amazed what I'm capable of on my own." Bear began to laugh and gave Vince a playful punch in his chest, making Kindl flinch.

  "Hang on a minute," Vince began to snicker. "How do you know I won't just say yes, then go back to the camp and think fuck you, tell my guards what's happening, and we prepare for your attack, so to speak."

  "The town is drying up of resources, and it seems that you lot have got most of it. Even if you say yes, then go back to the camp with other ideas and warn the others, I'll still wreak havoc and get what I want, and also a woman will die because of you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Vince didn't know what else to say to this intimidating figure. The guy was obviously a psychopath, completely out of Vince's league, and this unnerved him. He was aware that once he got back to the camp and made these demands to Lee, Pickle, and the rest of them, he knew what the answer would be. No! And what woman was this guy talking about?

  If I mess him about, a woman will die because of me. What does that mean?

  Seeing that the man was in two minds about his little deal, Bear said, "You seem like a good person. A man that has a conscience."

  "I'm okay."

  "I have some insurance, just in case you do fuck me about. Come with me."

  "Where are we going?" Vince asked.

  Bear beckoned with his hand. "I'm going to show you the woman I was talking about. Had to restrain her a few minutes ago. She was becoming ... quite hysterical."

  The two of them made the short walk to a caravan. Vince recognised the caravan. It used to belong to Robin Barton, who had come to a grisly demise with the help of a chainsaw. Vince looked up to the dreary sky—his sunny weather prediction was wrong from the day before—and stepped inside. He was expecting a blade in his back any second. It never materialised. Bear told him to take a walk into the bedroom, and that he'd be there in a second.

  When Vince entered the bedroom, he saw the tied-up woman with a sock in her mouth. Kindl was shocked and saw Bear enter with a stupid grin on his face. The Bear saw that Vince was standing in the corner of the room, aghast at what he was seeing. Vince stood near the window and opened it.

  "What're you doing?" Bear asked with suspicion. "I didn't tell you to do that."

  "It's a bit stuffy in here." Vince looked at the poor woman. She looked frightened to death; her eyes wide, pleading Vince to do something. He couldn't even imagine what this sick bastard had done to her so far.

  Bear told Vince to sit down. He did, in the corner of the room, next to the bed where the woman was. He looked at the blue lamp that was on the side-table. With the power going in the second week, it had been a while since it had been used. Vince could see the woman's tears raining down her cheeks and his heart went out to her.

  "Okay." Bear leaned over to the woman with his blade in his hand. The woman tried to scream, but the sock prevented this. "If you mess me about, this woman dies. Simple. If you don't get me what I need, I'll just take it myself, the hard way, which will include casualties from your camp. All you have to do is get a pickup, fill it, and meet me by the arches. Then she can go back with you."

  Vince released a puff of air as he looked at the poor, petrified woman. He didn't know what to do.

  Bear was becoming agitated with Vince's indecisiveness. Trying to control his temper, he said, "Some food and fuel for her life. And you'll never see me again."

  "They won't agree to this."

  "Then don't tell them. Do it off your own back."

  "They'll kick me off the site if they find out, and they will. Nobody goes out on their own." Vince shook his head and rubbed his chin in thought.

  Vince remained silent and looked at the woman apologetically. He had no idea what to do. He knew that there was over a hundred people on Sandy Lane, and didn't want this idiot getting supplies they'd all worked for. But he didn't want to die either.

  The more he thought, the more he was coming round to the idea. If he refuses this man, the woman would die, he'd die, probably Stephanie as well, and Sandy Lane could be attacked without the people given a warning.

  "Okay. I'll do it," Vince spoke up.

  "No you won't," Bear began to snigger.

  "Excuse me?" Vince was unsure what was happening. Was this some kind of trick? "What do you mean?"

  "I can see it in your eyes. You'd never betray your camp. As soon as you go back, you'l
l confess. And then they'll put the place on high alert." Bear pointed at the tied-up woman and snarled, "You don't give a shit about her."

  "I do." Vince tried to convince Bear, but he wasn't fooling anyone.

  "Looks like you're gonna die today." Theodore smiled thinly at Vince, then pointed at the woman. "After her, you're next."

  As soon as he pulled his kukri back, Vince turned away as Bear began hacking the woman to death. He had turned away for a few seconds before he looked back round and could see the blade had mutilated her torso and now he was chopping at the hysterical woman's skull, blood flying everywhere. She was now dead, but this psycho was still attacking her with his blade. He had made his point.

  Vince didn't hang around any longer. He stood, picked up the lamp and threw it at the man's face, then climbed out of the opened window as quick as he could. He ran as fast as his legs would go, heading for the main road, but his clumsy, panicky feet stumbled and he fell over. He picked himself up, aware that the brute was catching him up, and felt a thud in his stomach, immediately taking the wind out of his lungs. He had been kicked. The huge man grabbed Vince by the throat with his left hand and was holding the bloody blade in his right.

  Bear's face was sprayed with the woman's blood. He squeezed Vince hard around the throat and picked him up onto his feet.

  Vince thought he was going to pass out. Jesus, this guy is fucking strong.

  He slammed Vince up against a tree, and Kindl looked over to his caravan, hoping that Stephanie would get out alive. He screamed out, but this forced the large man to squeeze him harder.

  Bear snarled. "Time to die, fucker."

  Chapter Fifty Four

  The camp the night before had to be informed of another death—this time it was Jimmy Mac, and the sympathy from the people was very low. He was lazy, foul-mouthed, and his death created little ripples amongst Sandy Lane. Even his own son wasn't that bothered, and nobody saw the body off as Jon Talbot and Robert Newman drove out of the camp and dumped it at Market Hall, with the rest of the maggot-infested corpses.

  Now it was the morning, the first day of August, and it had been an uncomfortable hour for Rick Morgan. He had been on barrier watch with Sheryl Smith, someone he was strongly attracted to. With them was Bentley Drummle. He had decided to go for a crafty nap in the cab of the vehicle. Neither Sheryl or Rick protested.

  Nothing was happening.

  Both guards that were awake were in front of the barrier, leaning against the HGV, and Sheryl was due to go home after this short shift. She could feel Rick Morgan's eyes occasionally glaring at her. She knew he fancied her, and she was also aware that he had very little experience, if any, with the opposite sex.

  Rick Morgan lived at 23 Burnthill Lane, was a thirty-five-year-old man, portly, and shaved his head whenever he could get a hold of a razor. He was somebody that Sheryl wouldn't touch with a bargepole, even if he was the last man on Earth.

  She looked at her watch that she rarely wore, and could see that there was still over twenty minutes to go before she was relieved of her duties.

  "So what're you up to later on?" Rick Morgan enquired, out of the blue.

  Sheryl rolled her eyes. Oh fuck. Here we go.

  "Not a lot," Sheryl sniffed. "Probably go for a walk to town. Get a few drinks at Bo Jollys, grab a pizza at Starburger and go home. What about you?"

  Rick Morgan gaped at Sheryl for a while, then a small smile emerged on his face. He pointed, then wagged his finger at her. "You're joking, right?"

  "The penny's dropped, I see."

  "So what are you really doing later?"

  "Oh fuck, I dunno," she huffed. "No doubt a few people will be round to use my shower, because mine and Jimmy Mac's house are the only ones with solar energy. And after they've fucked off, I'll probably have a drink of some filtered water, and munch on some stale cashew nuts that I've got in the cupboard. Then I'll probably go upstairs and play with myself. You?"

  "Probably the same." Rick nodded, then blushed, realising what he'd said. "Apart from the playing with myself bit."

  "Of course," Sheryl snickered. "You men don't masturbate, do you?"

  "I do." Rick said with a straight face. "I knocked one out before I came here."

  "Lovely."

  There was a silence between the two individuals, which Sheryl welcomed, but it didn't last long.

  Rick began, "Did you know that if you say raised up lights it sounds like razor blades in an Australian accent?"

  Sheryl looked at him with confusion and shook her head. "No, I didn't."

  "Now try saying well oil beef hooked."

  "I'd rather not," Sheryl sighed. "Do you know that if you put your ear to a stranger's leg, you'll probably hear them say: What the fuck are you doing?"

  Rick Morgan looked lost. "I don't get it."

  "I didn't think you would."

  Rick cleared his throat and began to think, desperate to continue the chatter with the woman that he liked, but kind of feared a little as well. "I've always thought that birds didn't really sing."

  Sheryl couldn't hide her impatience for the man any longer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "I reckon birds are actually screaming. I reckon they're afraid of heights. Also, if you put your finger in your ear and wiggle it up and down, it sounds like Pac-Man."

  "Right." Sheryl held her hands up, exasperated by the drivel that was coming out of Rick Morgan's mouth. "Please. Stop talking."

  *

  Harry Branston walked along the top half of Burnthill Lane, passing Hagley Park High on his left, and walked by a married couple he had hardly conversed with since his arrival from Vince's camp. He didn't even know their names. As they came towards him, enjoying a peaceful stroll, they seemed oblivious that there was anybody about. That was until the man looked up and clocked the ex-inmate coming towards the pair of them. The man whispered something to the woman, she looked up, they both gave off a thin smile in Pickle's direction and crossed the road to the other side.

  Pickle had been out for a while, and had encountered five people before seeing the couple. The first two people had ignored him, an elderly woman wished him a good morning, a young man gave him a high-five, and Jasmine Kelly stopped and spoke to him for five minutes. He guessed that the camp was split down the middle. He thought about being voted out, but knew that he had Karen, Bentley and Sheryl on his side.

  Could the camp afford to lose these people?

  Plagued by melancholy, Pickle decided to take a walk back to his house. His steps were short-lived once his eyes clocked Paul Dickson, sitting on a kerb near Hill Street. Pickle mentally reprimanded himself for being down. For what? For not being popular anymore, or because some people now thought he was some kind of barbarian?

  Paul Dickson. Now there's a man with real problems.

  "Hey," Pickle called over and stood next to the sitting Paul Dickson.

  Still staring down, Paul spoke, "Hiya."

  "How're yer feelin'?"

  "Not bad. Heard about Jimmy Mac?"

  Pickle nodded. "Never mind him, what's happening with you?"

  Paul looked up and smiled. "Did Karen say anything to you?"

  Pickle smiled and sat on the kerb next to Paul. "Aye, she mentioned the note. I've thought abou' it maself. Yer know, doin' yerself in," he slurred.

  Paul looked stunned. "Really?"

  "Absolutely." Pickle turned to the side, away from Paul, and spat on the floor. "But there's a big difference between doing it and thinkin' about it."

  "I just don't have it in me."

  "I'm glad yer still here. It'd break Karen's wee heart if yer went."

  Paul Dickson wiped underneath his eyes with his thumb, and could feel a heavy weight in his throat that was stopping him from speaking in a clear voice. "I just don't know how I'm gonna cope." The tears fell, and his head leaned against Pickle's shoulder, taking Pickle by surprise. The former inmate put his arm around the broken man. Paul Dickson added, "I can't stop thinking about ho
w he died. Every time I close my eyes... My poor big chap."

  Pickle had no words of comfort for the man. What words could ease a father's pain after losing a child? There were no words. All Harry Branston could do was be there for him, comfort him, and allow the man to let it all out. Paul Dickson cried on Pickle's shoulder for minutes, whilst Pickle glared out and waited for the man to finish. Then once Paul had managed to compose himself, he sat up straight and apologised.

  "What are yer apologising for?" Pickle snickered falsely. "Yer 'ave just lost yer son. If that was me, I'd be a mess. Yer a lot stronger, mentally, than yer think yer are."

  "Bizarre, isn't it?"

  Pickle asked, "What is?"

  "I've lost everybody," Paul began to explain, "and yet I still want to live. Or at least, I want to give it a shot."

  "Yer do have family left," Pickle spoke softly, and now could feel his own voice quiver with emotion.

  "Who's that?"

  "Karen, Bentley ... me." Pickle felt a little embarrassed about what he was going to say next. "We're your family." Pickle wasn't saying this to help ease Paul's pain; he genuinely meant what was coming out of his mouth.

  "Thanks." Paul cleared his tears with his forearm and decided to change the subject. "About that business with the intruders..."

  "Heard about it?" Pickle laughed. "I think people in here think I'm some kind o' psycho."

  "I think I know why you did it."

  Pickle stood to his feet, leaned over and kissed Paul on the top of his head. "I'll leave yer in peace, brother. Give me a holler if yer need anything."

  "Okay."

  Pickle walked away and stopped when Paul called out his name. Pickle turned around and asked, "What is it?"

  Paul gulped and said, "It's a pleasure to know you, Harry. You're a good guy."

  Pickle smiled, turned back round and strolled away with his eyes filling up.