Snatchers (A Zombie Novel)

by Shaun Whittington

  The one on the left looked no older than twenty, and looked like he hadn't had a bath in weeks. The one on the right was in his forties, dressed in typical farmer attire: checked shirt, Wellington boots and a flap cap sitting on his head.

  "Turn your car around and go back to where you came from," the man on the right spoke vehemently.

  "We just want somewhere to stay the night," David protested meekly. "We have friends here. We wanted to get somewhere before it gets dark."

  "Not anymore," the young boy on the left snapped. "We're looking after our own from now on."

  "That's right," the man on the right nodded, "and anyone trying to get in will be shot, no matter who you are."

  David almost showed his tears to the two men but fought them back swiftly. "So that's it?"

  "That's it," the older one spoke. "Don't get me wrong, I wish you the best of luck, my friend, but we need to survive. We've only had two episodes of those things in a village of three hundred, so as far as we're concerned, that's good going. This is our way of keeping the situation under control."

  "What happened to them?"

  "Some kind of biting virus. I've seen it in dogs and foxes, but never in people. I shot them both, we burned them in a field afterwards."

  "I don't know where to go. Any ideas? We're from Rugeley."

  "You have guns?"

  David shook his head.

  The two men looked at one another, and David was waiting for them to burst into hysterics. The mocking never materialized, and the older gentleman said, "Then I'd go to the highest point."

  "Etching Hill?"

  The man shook his head, and this time almost laughed. "Etching Hill is high, but it's densely populated. I was thinking along the lines of Stile Cop or the industrial estate on the hill on the Hednesford Road."

  David nodded in agreement. He knew where the industrial estate place was; he once had a job there working for a painting and decorating company. There was also a cafe there that his dad religiously used to take him to on a Saturday for a cooked breakfast.

  David turned around to head back to his car, and heard the voice of the man in his forties speak out one last sentence before he got into his vehicle. "Good luck, my friend. No hard feelings. The last thing this village needs is more mouths to feed."

  David never responded, and was still miffed that the small village was prepared to send a family of three away back into that horrific world. Surely an extra three people wouldn't have made that much difference to the village. He came to the conclusion that their way of thinking was that, if you let one in, then others would follow.

  David had turned the car around and headed back into Rugeley.

  He didn't want to venture too far because he wanted to stay somewhere where there was familiarity. If he was going to get chased by these things, he would rather be chased around the streets where he knew and lived, rather than a place where he could easily become lost and further the danger of his family even more, by driving into an area that was even more populated, or into a dead end.

  He looked at Davina and gave his wife a comforting smile; she placed her hand on his cheek and a tear fell from her face, as if squeezed from a teat pipette. She looked behind her and saw Isobel still asleep in her booster seat. Her head flopped forward and even though she never usually had a nap anymore, they decided to leave her be.

  "We're going to Hazelslade; see if it's quiet there. If it is, we'll see if someone might put us up. We'll stop off at Stile Cop first and get refreshments."

  Davina nodded in agreement. "When Isobel wakes up, she'll be needing the toilet."

  "We have one toilet roll in the bag, it'll do for now."

  The car went by Power Station Road and headed back into the town. As they passed St. Augustine's Church for a second time, David and Davina had noticed that the once empty street that ran across the circumference of the town centre, now, had at least twenty to thirty visitors, lifelessly wandering the streets.

  Davina looked at David with horror scribbled on her face. As if he knew what question she was thinking, he began to speak.

  "Maybe more have been bitten, remember what the TV said?"

  She shook her head. "Vaguely."

  "Maybe they were still changing."

  "What do you mean?" Davina asked and leant to the right as David swerved around one of them.

  "Think about it. You go out on a Saturday night, you go back home to your family after being bitten or scratched, and then you go to bed not knowing that you've caught this virus. You then die in your sleep; then you reanimate and attack the rest of your family. Next thing you know, you've got one house with three or four of these things in it.

  "You see, the reason why the streets were so quiet before, wasn't just because people were barricading themselves in, it's probably because some houses were infested with the things, and they just couldn't understand how to get out."

  Davina nodded at her husband's theory and saw that some of the windows were smashed, and thought that they were probably smashed not just because some of them were trying to get in, but maybe some had changed inside and were trying to get out and feed.

  Davina tried to joke, "You've been listening to that radio too much since we left."

  Maybe his theory was correct.

  Whatever the real reason, the episode had seemed to increase with terror and as soon as they found a quiet place to stop, the better.

  David was now leaving Rugeley and headed toward Sandy Lane; his car bypassed Draycott Park where there were more of them, but didn't seem to notice them as much. A lot of the creatures were crowded round in a small street like young pupils watching a playground fight, and David could only assume that they were feasting on some poor bastard.

  They left Draycott Park, exited the town and continued along the Hednesford Road and turned left onto the Stile Cop Road.

  "Nearly there," he said. As the car reached the top of the hill, they turned left into the quiet and surprisingly uninhabited beauty spot, and pulled the car up.

  The engine was switched off, and although they had been travelling by car, David was panting as if he had run up the road. His eyes met Davina's and gave her a reassuring wink.

  As David got out of the car to stretch his legs on the sandy surface of the beauty spot, Davina turned to her daughter and tried to wake her up by gently shaking her, while trying not to alarm the young four-year-old. David looked around and thought the place was almost perfect.

  It felt like it was in the middle of nowhere, and it was high up. The only part he didn't like was the wooded area.

  He stood facing the entrance of the secluded area; to the right of him was the woods, but to the left of him was a steep hill that was on such a decline, it would be humanly impossible to walk down without falling over. The decline was covered in grass and fresh bracken. It would be impossible for those things to get up. The only way they could get up was through the woods, if that was possible, or by walking up the steep Stile Cop Road—an impossible task for David to cycle when he was a kid.

  His thoughts went back to Sherree from his street, and his throat began to swell hard as he saw the destruction of her four-month-old baby being replayed in his head. He tried to shake the memory off and knew that keeping busy was the only way to stop this thing from sinking in. There was no point running away from it mentally; it was happening, whether he liked it or not.

  Chapter Thirty

  June 11th

  It was early Monday morning, and Jack Slade released a strident and exaggerated yawn. He looked at his watch; it was nearly 7am and his stomach was grumbling for food.

  He sat up and couldn't understand why the car was in the position it was in. It then came back to him that his tyre had burst and he must have blacked out as his head was throbbing so hard, it was making him feel nauseous. Wondering why the airbag never worked, he stepped out of the vehicle and stretched his elastic legs; he checked his body for any kinds of injuries, but the only injury he had sustaine
d was minor whiplash.

  He took a look at his car and saw that both tyres on the left had burst. The front was badly damaged at the side, and the rear was in an even worse state, so much that Jack couldn't get the boot open. "Fuck!" he yelled. His bag was in there.

  He began to rub his aching head and couldn't believe he had been out for so long.

  Cursing his luck, he headed back for the main road. He knew he was totally exposed, but at the same time, he didn't want to be somewhere enclosed where he could get ambushed. If he could see one of those things it would be a simple feat to outrun it, or so he hoped.

  The road was bendy and he had made this journey numerous times by car, and was sure that he was about forty miles from his old town. Forty miles was a lot for an individual on foot, and he deliberated that as soon as he clocked a car or any other type of vehicle, he would try and hitchhike it back to the town. He thought about stealing a car, if ever he came across an abandoned one, but he had never hotwired a car before, he didn't know if it was even possible. If the worst came to the worst, he would have to break into a house and find the keys to a car. It seemed a little drastic, but he was desperate to get to his son.

  Fifteen minutes and two miles later of thinking about crazy situations he could end up in that were filling his head, he saw a car in the distance. Just seeing the car furiously pumped adrenaline through his bloodstream, and a new found energy overcame him.

  He began to sprint toward the car, and as he approached nearer, he could see the car was a Ford Focus. His jog turned to a brisk walk once he was ten yards away from the vehicle, and his walk slowed as he soon realised it had been left vacant.

  He popped his head through the already opened door, and took a look into the front to see the keys still dangling from the ignition. He looked around; making sure it was safe. He was surrounded by a lot of shrubbery and it had briefly crossed his mind that a gang of desperados could jump out on him and kick him to death if they wanted the vehicle for themselves. It seemed unrealistic, but Jack knew that if this thing continued for months, fuel, food, water, and even medication would be fought over. Jack had never thought to raid a chemist. It would have been handy, even if it were just for a first aid kit.

  As soon as his eyes finished scanning the front of the car, his misbelieving eyes stared at the passenger seat. He turned away to vomit on the road, his black jeans almost paying the price with some splash back, as it slapped the hard concrete ferociously. He wiped his mouth and spat the last chunk of vomit lodged inbetween his teeth.

  He used his thumb and index finger of his right hand to wipe the water in his eyes, and looked back into the car to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The left of the passenger seat was covered in blood. The belt was strapped together and hadn't been unclipped, and the only thing that was left of what used to be sitting in the seat, was one little finger, some entrails and a severed arm that sat to the right. A pair of headphones and a pocket games console sat covered in blood. A teenager possibly.

  Jack came to the horrific conclusion that because the seat hadn't been unclipped, the person must have been eaten there and then, and was devoured so much, they came away in pieces. But he couldn't understand why the person didn't try and escape, and why the driver's seat was clean.

  Maybe the driver got out to fight off the things as his or her daughter or son sat innocently in the back unaware what was happening, and too engrossed in their game. Or maybe they simply ran off.

  He couldn't believe that the second theory had happened; it was unthinkable for a parent to leave their child to a horde of human-eating beings. He couldn't make out what had happened, or even why the car couldn't have driven straight through the things. What was blocking the road? Maybe they decided to fall asleep for the night in what at first looked like, a long and harmless, uninhabited road.

  Whatever the reason for the tragedy, he knew he had to switch it off from his mind, as scenes like these were not unique anymore.

  He shut the door of the car and continued to walk along the road. He was desperate, but he wasn't prepared to take a car that was in that state. The fact that possibly a young person had been killed in the vehicle, unnerved him, and from a selfish, and some would say, a harsh point of view, he didn't fancy driving the remaining forty miles of the journey with the horrendous smell of death tormenting his nasal area.

  He was hoping for some wheels soon, as his stomach was now aching to be fed, and he wasn't sure how much energy he had left in him, especially now that whatever was left in his stomach wasn't there anymore.

  More monotonous minutes passed as his tired legs soldiered on, and he saw something else up ahead that made his heart gallop. He came to another scene after another mile was completed, and this time, from what he could see, it involved two cars and a motorbike.

  The two cars looked to have collided with one another as both front bonnets were crushed a little. A head-on collision, it looked like to Jack. The motorbike lay on the grass and Jack thought that the rider might have lost control of the vehicle and came off, leaving the bike to slide across the road before hitting the grassy bank. But where were the accident victims? There was no sign of blood or body parts, so he could only assume that the individuals involved in the accident, had fled the area in panic. Maybe this road used to be swarming with the beasts.

  After what he had witnessed earlier on, he carefully stepped toward the carnage. To his right, was a wooded area, and he was aware that danger could be prowling all around him. He peered into both cars, but both of them were empty. There was no sign of carnage, no blood, no dead bodies.

  Both cars were spotless and Jack couldn't fathom on what had happened. Inspecting the front of both cars, he was sure that they were un-drivable, most probably with radiator damage, so he set his sights on the motorbike. It had been years since he had ridden one, especially one of this size.

  Its bodywork was lime green, and it looked like a BMW with a 1300cc engine. Apart from a few scratches, it appeared that the bike was in working order, and like the car a mile down the road, the keys were in the ignition. There must have been some of those things here. It was the only conclusion he could come up with on why someone would leave a perfectly working motorbike.

  Whatever the real reason, his or her loss was Jack Slade's gain. He was taking it. The motorbike would expose him and provide no shield like a car would, but it was all he had, and there were positives with this vehicle, especially if it were needed to escape through a field or an alleyway. Jack convinced himself that there were pros and cons riding a motorbike or driving a car.

  A motorbike in this current climate, Jackie boy? Are you completely insane?

  Chapter Thirty One

  He stepped out of the Wolseley Arms and breathed in the country air. It smelt wonderful to be free, but he knew that not so far away, the smell of death was awash in towns and cities all across the nation and possibly other countries. It was something he was trying not to think about and was glad to a certain degree that TVs were down, as the only thing reporters would show the world from now on was the carnage across the country, and would give an insight to the average human on how they were going to eventually die.

  Harry Branston felt his smooth freshly shaven face, that was achieved with cold water and a used razor from the owner—he guessed—and span slowly around gawping at the area he was in. He was now standing in the middle of the pub's car park, yards away from the van. He saw the river, and the main road leading to Stafford, and the more he spun around he could see the garden centre and the road that led to Rugeley and Little Haywood, where they were the day before.

  It was only a mile up the road, where dozens upon dozens of the things were when the van left the premises, and he was reasonably surprised that he couldn't even see one of them.

  He spent the night with KP, and slept restlessly, and could have sworn he had heard noises outside. On two occasions he went downstairs into the dark, barren lounge of the pub, only to find nothing inside. He checked the
doors and looked out of the windows. He saw shadows moving, but wasn't sure that it was anything untoward.

  For minutes, he glared until the tiredness and the effects of the alcohol that had been consumed were beginning to take their toll once again.

  He checked his watch and knew he was the first to rise; the rest seemed to have over-indulged more than him as far as the booze was concerned. He walked slowly over to the river; it looked to be in a dirty condition and he was surprised if any fish dwelled in that murky watery place.

  Pickle—Harry Branston—screwed his eyes and continued to walk toward the river. He was now out of the car park and stood on the grassy bank that had a reasonable steep decline. He saw a hundred yards down the river, a body. When he was in the car park, that's what he thought it was, but he wanted to make sure. Poor soul.

  He took a deep breath in as he saw the washed up corpse on the bank and didn't understand why he—he assumed it was a he—wasn't walking around with the rest of the dead. Maybe he tried to escape as a human via the river and drowned.

  His thoughts were shattered when he heard the rest of the group talking in the background and KP shouting his name, wondering where he was.

  Time to go back.

  He whispered a prayer for the dead man, turned around and went back to the car park to meet his nervous group who were wondering where he had gone.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  They shared an orange juice between them, and sat eating a cold tin of beans. Twenty-four hours ago, Karen would have turned her nose up at such a breakfast, but her stomach ached for food, any food.

  The two of them had decided to take turns in sleeping the night before. Oliver slept from 9pm to 4am, whereas Karen managed another four hours sleep afterwards. The pair of them both admitted that the sitting around was killing their psyche. The boredom was self-evident as the conversation, once it had covered most of their personal and private life, went onto the subjects of politics, religion and why what was happening, was happening.