Snatchers (A Zombie Novel)

by Shaun Whittington

  "Let me in," Karen ordered with desperation.

  "No chance. Besides, I've blocked up the entrance to the door now."

  The man was on his way to closing his window when Karen spoke out. "At least give me your car keys."

  "Fuck off," was the final reply from the old man as he shut his window.

  Karen peered behind her, and once her eyes reported to her brain what she was seeing, her body furiously pumped with adrenaline. The pain in her stomach had miraculously disappeared, and her body had been given a new lease of energy. Without hesitation, she ran as fast as her legs would go. To her the legs weren't going fast enough as if they were made of lead, but it would have to do.

  She could hear the shuffling behind her and could only assume that the noise from the initial carjacking, as well as the strident banging of doors from herself, had attracted these things. She took a quick look behind her, her neck cracking as she twisted it; there was nine of them and there was one particular one who moved quicker than the others. Some of the others were clumsy looking, like drunks after a Saturday night, but the now solitary figure that was yards ahead of his compatriots, was even gaining on an unfit Karen.

  She cursed out loud, and told herself not to turn around and to concentrate on running as hurriedly and as hard as she could, but she possessed an abhorrence image that played in her mind. She was scared that, as she was running, a hand would eventually reach out and pull her to the ground. If she were going to be attacked, she would preferably be face-to-face to give herself a fighting chance.

  She turned left, and now was heading up the long steep hill that led to a well-known beauty spot called Stile Cop, as well as the woods itself. She cried out in frustration, as even though her life depended on this, she knew she wasn't going to make it. She took another glance behind her, the hill didn't seem to be a problem for these creatures; they may as well have been moving on a flat surface. She was exhausted and could see the Stile Cop cemetery up ahead before where the incline started; she veered left to find the gates shut and locked. She placed her foot onto the railing and used every last bit of her strength to pull herself up and swing herself over the six-foot gates and landed on her back onto the grass with a painful thud. She looked to her right as she lay on her back, her lungs burning with pain, aching for oxygen.

  She could see the hideous beings all crowding around the gate, their arms reaching in, desperate to touch her, to grab her, to bite her. She was confident that the steel gates were strong enough to hold them, and she remained on her back for a further minute trying to get her breath back, before getting to her feet.

  Her heart skipped once she saw a dozen hands grabbing the gate and trying to shake it open, but it wasn't budging. She looked at the poor souls and saw that amongst them was a little boy called Harry—he lived in her street. Although recognisable, his face was pale; his mouth was bloody as if he had already fed on some poor individual. It was a strange predicament to be in.

  Karen was in the local cemetery, and the boy who she had taught to whistle was desperate to rip her to pieces. She thought about if the worst came to the worst. There were nine of them, and she wouldn't stand a fighting chance, as she would be eaten in minutes; devoured before her very eyes until she passed out before her death. It was a death she wouldn't wish on her enemies—not that she had many.

  She ran across to the other side of the cemetery, to the disgust of her admirers as they let out disgruntled-like groans as she moved further away. She climbed the fence and jumped onto the other side of the cemetery, and she was now in the woods.

  If she ran through the woods to her left, she would be led out to another town called Brereton, but her plan was to avoid populated areas, as she thought the more populated, the more danger there was. She decided to head upwards through the woods; this would eventually lead to the Stile Cop beauty spot that was half a mile away. She could achieve this quicker by running along up the steep hill, but Stile Cop wasn't her intention, staying in the woods and being hidden was. She thought that there was a small chance that those things would eventually work out that if they walked around the perimeter of the cemetery fence, they could get into the woods and be on her trail, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

  She decided on the woods for two reasons: one, she didn't really have much of a choice, and two; there were more obstacles for the things to get around. They didn't seem the brightest beings on the planet, but what they did have was a desire, their only goal—like hers—was to feed and survive, and they were determined in achieving that goal. They seemed devoid of much emotion, which told Karen that they had no sense of danger and feared nothing, which also made them extremely dangerous, and she guessed that they probably didn't sleep either, if they were classed as dead.

  She had already tested out the theory of outrunning them on a flat road, and it was a battle she had nearly lost because of her already heavy and tired legs from working nightshift. The woods would provide a different scenario for them—or so she hoped. They walked and even ran awkwardly, and Karen was hoping that the woods would slow down their progress if they tried to follow her in.

  She remembered playing in there as a kid, and if the place was similar to her memory she had of it as a child, then there was numerous obstacles that should slow them down like chopped down trunks from wood poachers, ditches, and a lot of rocks to climb, as well as the incline itself. Despite their persistence, balance didn't seem to be their strong point, even on a flat surface.

  She waved her hands in front of her, brushing away the branches as she strolled through the condensed woods. She took one last look behind her before she progressed deeper, until the trees began to cover the sight of the cemetery. They were still at the gate, although one began to wander away back onto the road and headed back toward Rugeley. She could just about see this through the gaps in the trees, and it made her think that maybe the rest would follow the solitary figure back to the town.

  She was convinced, however, that it was only a matter of time before they began stumbling their way up, following her trail. She still didn't understand too much about them; the only information she had was what she briefly saw on the television. She wasn't aware if they followed movement, or if they could actually pick up a scent the way animals did. She didn't have the answer, but she was aware there was a brook up ahead and that the first thing she was going to do was walk in it.

  The two reasons she wanted to do this was to cool her body down—she was perspiring heavily and had no water on her. The other reason was to throw off a possible scent in case their instincts told them to enter further into the woods. Of course, she was unsure whether this would do any good and if it would slow down their progression, but she thought it couldn't do any harm. She had seen it many times in the movies before, where the bloodhounds were chasing the escaped prisoner, so she thought that it was worth a shot.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As they finally left the city centre over the bridge, Jack Slade turned the car right and drove through a small place called Tradeston. The traffic lights were still working, but obviously he wasn't adhering to their command.

  As he passed the Springfield Quay alongside the River Clyde, he saw another car in the distance and it flashed its headlights, and the driver gave Jack the thumbs up as he speedily past his Vauxhall Meriva. Another two cars could be seen speeding out from a junction and waved at him as they went by. The two cars looked like they had children in them, and Jack hoped that wherever their destination, hopefully they would get there in one piece.

  He zoomed through the lights still naturally looking to the side to see if there were pedestrians waiting to cross, even though Paisley Road West was deserted. He looked to his left to the passenger seat; Robbie was still in an uncomfortable position. His head was back and he continued to grab his injured shoulder from the car park incident. Jack had promised Robbie that when they got to his home, he would strap him up and try and call Robbie's family to see if they were okay. He look
ed to be having a fever, the blood looked drained from his face and cold sweat emerged in pearly drops on his forehead. He then closed his eyes.

  "Don't fall asleep on me now," Jack warned.

  Robbie responded immediately by opening his eyes, and looked over to his driver and said, "I nearly dropped off there. Don't forget I've just done a twelve hour nightshift."

  "You can get some sleep when you get to my house," Jack said sternly.

  As he began passing Bellahouston Park, he saw to the right of him, the large police station. "Wait a minute."

  He pulled over, and got out of his car and expeditiously ran over the empty road to the entrance of the police station. His feet stopped once he saw seven bodies lying on the tarmac of the police station's entrance. The bodies looked fresh and had been shot, and the concrete around them was covered in blood.

  He attempted to shake the image off and then tried the large double glass doors that led to where the public would walk in for enquiries, but the doors were firmly shut, in fact, there were a few obstacles put in front of the door—a filing cabinet and a couple of tables.

  He looked up to the first floor and saw the twitch of a set of blinds.

  A police station would be perfect, he thought; they had guns, protected vans, and a secure building.

  He shouted up at the first floor window, but there was zero response. The blinds twitched once more; he saw briefly two people gazing at the cause of the commotion.

  He half-laughed at what was happening. He looked up at the sign over the reception area where a banner hung, it said: Strathclyde Police: To protect your community. He shook his head with dismay, and was certain that there was probably dozens upon dozens of uniformed officers in there. He really was on his own.

  Jack lost all control and banged on the glass of the doors and began to sob. No words came out of his mouth; it was noises, noises of frustration and faintheartedness. He didn't really blame the police; if he was in their position he may have done the same, they were only human after all. He obliterated his tears and saliva with the sleeve of his uncovered forearm, and tried to compose himself.

  Jack took another look up toward the window, and lowered his head in defeat. He looked around to see no sign of life, no people and none of those beings either, just the seven bodies that lay on the tarmac behind him. The closer he looked, the more it appeared that they had been shot more than once. They had been massacred.

  He then looked back at the police station and thought, surely not. Did our own police force shoot these people? Why? Because they wanted to get in? Because they were scared and demanded why their police force had abandoned them? Were they shot because of the noise they were making?

  As he began to walk away he heard the window of the first floor open; in the background he could hear a few voices protesting about the opening of the window. Then he heard a voice say to a colleague, "It's just a man on his own."

  The face of a middle-aged man peered out. The policeman above Jack finally spoke. "We have an armed unit inside, waiting for those…things. We can't help you; we're under strict instructions. I'm sorry; don't come back here. Good luck, wee guy."

  Jack looked behind him and glared at the dead bodies, their blood covered the concrete steps. "And what happened to these people?"

  The policeman then began to sob, and cried, "God, forgive us." He was then pulled away from view by a pair of hands and the window was shut firmly.

  Jack stared at the bodies again in disbelief. After a thirty second misbelieving gaze, he jogged over to the car to see Robbie had fallen asleep. He got into the car and drove away.

  Five minutes later he was in Pollok. He was home.

  He lived in a large and long street called Broomlaw Road, and although he had passed a dozen of the infected, the reasonably populated street was bare of human or other kind of life.

  He pulled up on his drive and tried to wake Robbie up, he wasn't budging. He tried slapping his face but the big man was in too much of a deep sleep. Unless Jack opened the passenger side of his door and kicked him out onto the floor, there didn't seem to be any way of waking him up, even then, he wasn't convinced that this would stir him.

  He decided to leave the man inside the car; he wasn't bleeding heavily and providing the car was locked up, he was sure he would be safe, besides, Jack Slade wasn't preparing to hang around for too long. The sooner he dropped Robbie off at his home—wherever that was, the better. At least then the only thing he could concentrate on was driving south to see his son. He had already made his mind up. If he was going to die within the next week or month, he wanted his last days to be spent with his boy.

  Jack got into his house and locked himself in; he needed caffeine and the first thing he did was fill the kettle. He got a teaspoon from his drawer and took two spoons of coffee and placed them in his mug. He then went into the cupboard and pulled out his bag; he walked back into the kitchen and began to fill his bag with whatever he thought was edible and drinkable, also some toiletries were placed inside.

  Although extremely heavy, he was satisfied that his bag was as full as it could be. He opened the front door again and nervously scanned his street; one curtain twitched from across the road, and he could understand why the roads were not so busy. If people thought there was a chance they could die, they would rather die in their own homes with their families. But there were others like Jack, who had no choice but to travel. He would rather stay in his house and wait for the situation to pass, but the waiting and not knowing whether his son was well or not, would torture him.

  After putting the bag in the car and closing the boot, he walked back into the house.

  He made his coffee, and plonked the bloodied cleaver that Robbie had given him by his feet as he sat down on the sofa.

  He switched on the TV and found that the channels had been ditched apart from an announcement on the BBC. He reached down for his mug and took a noisy slurp of his coffee, and continued watching the TV for any movement. After ten minutes he stood to his feet, and walked to his bathroom to go for a pee.

  In bemusement, he stared at the cleaver and picked it up and then scrunched his eyes outside and finally turned his attention to the mirror. "Well…this isn't weird at all." His sentence was drenched in sarcasm, but that was Jack Slade. Sarcasm was a part of his defensive mechanism, and the truth was, he was frightened to death at what was occurring. It was either sarcasm or tears.

  He took a deep breath, took a bandage to wrap Robbie up, and was now ready to leave. He needed to wake Robbie up to ask him where he lived, then once he was dropped off, he could concentrate on seeing his boy. Danger or no danger, Thomas was his main priority and he needed to be with him; hiding in his house and hoping that his son survived, would mentally torture him and wasn't an option as far as Jack Slade was concerned.

  With the cleaver in hand, he headed for the door. He opened the door to the outside and his eyes immediately saw the sight of Robbie convulsing in the passenger seat of his car. It looked like he was having an epileptic fit.

  As Jack stepped onto his drive and got nearer, he was sure that that wasn't the real situation that was occurring, Robbie had turned into one of them. Jack could tell by the look on his face that he was no longer human; his face was deathly white, his eyes looked sunken and bruised, and he was foaming at the mouth, his arms flapping, desperate to get out of the vehicle, desperate to get to Jack.

  Knowing that he needed the car, Jack approached the passenger side with apprehensive steps. He had to let him out.

  He blew out his cheeks and reached for the passenger handle with his left hand; the defunct Robbie was smacking his head against the window of the door, desperate to get out. Blood emerged the more it smashed itself, and Jack thought that if this continued, then there was no chance he could drive nearly five hundred miles down south with a broken window, as it would be too dangerous.

  Okay you fat fuck, calm down!

  He opened the door immediately. The thing fell out onto th
e floor easily, as initially Robbie and Jack were not wearing seatbelts, and then it struggled to get to its feet.

  Jack stepped backward and was now back near his front door; the beast was by the car and was ten yards away from Jack. He looked at the wounded shoulder of Robbie, and had come to his own conclusion that that was how he received the infection.

  The cleaver was held tightly. He ran at Robbie and took a swipe at the thing and caught its face. Jack felt his heart beating out of control, like it was going at the speed of a drum beat from a frantic dance tune; he raised the cleaver once again and struck it across the face again, the thing was unfazed from the slice to its cheek. It was five yards away and Jack had promised himself that if the next swipe failed, then he would lock himself into the house. Why ain't you going down?

  What was going on? He was supposed to be a poorly paid office worker in Glasgow City Centre, and now here he was, aiming a cleaver at an infected being who would gladly rip him to pieces with its own teeth!

  He didn't have time to dwell on the surrealism that was unfolding, he knew that a lack of focus could cost him his life.

  He then remembered how he and Robbie had taken care of the things in the city centre. He released one more strike that penetrated the front of the cranium. Jack let go of the embedded cleaver and took a defensive jump back. It stopped walking and then the thing overdramatically fell to its knees, like Dafoe in Platoon but without the outstretched arms, and collapsed face down two feet away from Jack's shoes. The dark blood oozed slowly out of the wound like thick oil.

  He moved his shoes out of the way before it reached them. Thank fuck for that. He removed the cleaver and took a look at the passenger window and sighed, it desperately needed a clean. He went inside to find some cleaning utensils, but first, he needed to sit down before he passed out. He was still feeling fragile from his alcoholic indulgence over the weekend, and this strange pandemic wasn't helping matters as far as his nerves were concerned. He thought about Robbie's family and felt the suffocation of sadness, but appeased himself when he reminded himself that he was already dead before he hacked him to death.