Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry

by Whittington, Shaun

  Johnny shook his head and asked, "How the fuck did you manage to stay outdoors for more than a fortnight? This is a nightmare; the longer the hours go by, the more the factory and starvation seems more appealing."

  "It was worse than this at the beginning," Jack said. He then grabbed the chest part of the boiler suit he was wearing and wafted it to get some air on his body. "It's roasting out here, and these boiler suits are not helping."

  "Look, even if we were wearing just our shorts we'd still be sweating our bollocks off." Johnny pointed up at the sun; there was only one solitary cloud in the sky. "That doesn't help, and neither does running from two big fucking Pit Bulls, avoiding flesh-eating creatures, and men who would kill you for a fucking banana."

  "A banana?" Jack tittered.

  "Oh, at last. A bit of hilarity from the cool Jack Slade."

  "Look, Johnny." Jack placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "I didn't say it was gonna be easy."

  "Look." Johnny pointed at his stained boiler suit where his legs were. "My thighs are fucking killing me. I've pissed myself twice in just a five-minute period—"

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah, seriously. Let's just find an empty house and crash for a few days."

  To Johnny's relief, Jack nodded in agreement to his suggestion. He picked up the crowbar, and used it to get to his feet. With the bar, he pointed to a house at the end of the road. "That front door is open, which means two things: it could be empty, or there could be some of those things inside."

  "I don't care," Johnny sighed. "I need a fresh change of clothes and a decent kip."

  "Sounds good to me." Jack licked the roof of his mouth. It felt all wrinkly, telling him that his body needed fluids. "If it's clear, we'll see if they've got any running water. Do you want a drink when we get in?"

  "Does a bear shit in the woods?" Johnny cackled.

  Jack glanced at his companion with a stern look. "I don't know. Does it?"

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Everything in the bag had been emptied and stored in the kitchen cupboards of the cabin. Wolf was delighted with the items Pickle and Karen had brought back, and asked if there had been any problems.

  "Nothing we're not used to," Karen answered Wolf. "But you'll be amazed what we've been used to."

  Wolf shook his head and patted Pickle on the shoulder and pointed at Karen. "Where'd you get this one?"

  "Long story," laughed Pickle, and began to insert a couple of firelighters underneath the wood where Wolf had built a fire that hadn't been lit yet. Wolf was convinced they were going to come back with something, but had come back with more than he was expecting. He was more pleased with the bleach and batteries more than the food, and told the two that at least now they could drink water from the kitchen sink, if they wanted, without worrying too much about poisoning themselves. He was still adamant on getting his liquids from the barrel full of rainwater, but the sink-water didn't bother Karen and Pickle anyway.

  They drank water while Wolf got the fire going; Pickle looked around the enclosed garden. For the first time in a long while, he felt safe. The fence around the cabin looked solid, and he knew that if there was even a tiny chance that those things could get up the hill, they'd still have to get through the solid perimeter.

  He looked at Karen as they both sat near the fire, and she flashed him a smile.

  "Are yer thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Pickle.

  "Stile Cop?"

  "Actually, no." Pickle took another swig of water that Wolf had given him. "I was just thinking, after everything that's happened, I didn't think we'd be sitting here. I don't want to jinx things, but this place is almost perfect."

  "Apart from having to piss and shit outside."

  "We should be used to that with the woods. At least we have toilet roll now," he guffawed.

  Karen managed half a smile, suggesting she wasn't sharing his positive outlook, but it didn't dampen Pickle's spirits. Everywhere they had gone to had turned to shit after a couple of days, whether it was Stile Cop, the house in Heath Hayes, or the sports centre. Pickle could understand why Karen wasn't getting carried away. She was being realistic, not necessarily pessimistic.

  Wolf was in the kitchen and it looked like that he was making a big pot of soup. He placed a metal rack over the now blistering blaze, and told them that once it was prepared, it'd take a while to heat up on the fire.

  Going back to what Karen had said earlier, Pickle then asked, "Why does this remind you of Stile Cop?"

  "Remember the fire? The food?" Karen smirked. "KP doing the barbecue?"

  Pickle snickered, "And giving Jamie the shits."

  A silence fell upon the two of them as they realised that they had been talking about people that were no longer alive anymore. Pickle dropped his head, and could feel his eyes welling up for KP.

  "Poor KP," Pickle spoke with a quiver in his tone.

  "Poor everyone," Karen said with genuine affection.

  "Poor Grass, Laz, Jamie, Janine, Davina...I wonder how David and little Isobel are? Man, she was the cutest thing I'd ever seen."

  Karen smiled and nodded in agreement. "What about poor Jack and his family?"

  Pickle nodded and sighed once he could feel his throat getting tighter with emotion. "That was the most heartbreaking thing I'd ever witnessed, seeing that woman and her son lying in that office."

  "I wonder how Jack managed to...well...die?"

  "Poor bastard was probably ripped to pieces like that Lee and Oliver kid at the gates." Pickle's sombre reminiscing wasn't helping his mood and wondered briefly what fate had in store for him. How was he going to leave this earth? Would it be painless or painful? He added, "There was nothin' I could do about Jack. After losing his son, he just gave up, like I nearly did when KP went."

  "No one blamed you," Karen appeased her male friend. "You led the group; but you're not a hypnotist. You can't control what people are thinking and feeling. Jack made his choice, and is probably better off where he is."

  Thinking about things that had happened in the recent past, Karen wondered aloud, "I wonder how Paul and Jade are getting on?"

  "Fine," Pickle said with heavy confidence.

  "You seem certain."

  "Paul's a tough bastard, and besides, he's got desperation running through his veins. He needs to stay alive so he can eventually find his wife and daughter. He mentioned going back to his house, if it's safe enough. Shit," cackled Pickle, "he's probably there now."

  Wolf then appeared from the cabin with the pot of soup being carried with both hands. He gently put the soup on the metal rack and said, "One thing I don't have, and that's pepper."

  "We'll put that on our shopping list for tomorrow," Pickle spoke with a chuckle.

  Wolf knelt near the fire, wearing a set of denim dungarees, and began to stir the pot with a metal spoon. He was reasonably quiet and Pickle asked if he was missing his wife.

  "Yes I am," Wolf remarked. "But I'm mourning for the woman that had died two or so weeks ago, not that thing you killed and buried on the hill. That wasn't her. That was just evil that had taken over the shell she used to dwell in."

  "Well this is a barrel of laughs," Karen spoke with a sarcastic tone wrapped around her words. Pickle was about to reprimand the twenty-three-year-old female for her crass and insensitive comment, but Wolf burst out laughing when she said it.

  "You're not shy, are you?" Wolf shook his head while he continued to titter. "I know you said it was a long story," Wolf turned to Pickle, "but how did you two meet?"

  "I was in the woods," began Pickle. "Karen was hiding and thought I was one of them, so she attacked me and broke my nose."

  "I didn't break it," Karen protested. "It just bled a little. He went down like a sack of shit, though. And he was carrying a handgun."

  Wolf winked at Karen, telling her that he was about to try and wind Pickle up. He then turned to Pickle, feigning surprise on his face. "A big, strong lad like you, and you allowed this petite thing to knock yo
u down?"

  Picking up on Wolf's ribbing, Pickle spoke with a fake defensive tone, "In my defence, she was well hidden."

  "Still," Wolf cackled. "You're built like a bear, and Karen put you on your arse."

  Pickle was starting to give up and was now ready for the soup that was now bubbling in the pot. Wolf could see his guests were getting hungry, so he stood up to get back to the kitchen to get three bowls and three spoons.

  Wolf straightened his straw hat, stroked his grey beard and said, "I tell you what, Karen, you're a cracking girl. You remind me of my wife when I first met her."

  "Hot, was she?" she joked.

  "She certainly was." Wolf stared at Karen, admiring her natural prettiness. "You know what, Karen? If I was single, and forty years younger—"

  "I'd be knocking you back right now."

  Pickle and Wolf both laughed collectively, and Karen tried her best to keep a straight face so her dead-pan humour was more effective, but her face eventually cracked.

  Karen stood to her feet and brushed the back of her trousers with the palms of her hands. "Fuck this. Let's get the wine open, and then we can tell you everything that's happened."

  "Now yer talking, Karen," Pickle continued to cackle. "Now yer talking."

  Chapter Thirty

  June 26th

  The two men had slept through the night. Neither one had arranged for one or the other to keep guard and take turns in sleeping; they were so exhausted once their backs touched the soft mattress that they had crashed right away.

  When they arrived at the house and settled down after a few hours, they felt safe almost immediately. The house was locked and secure, and the street had no presence of the living or the dead, and no barricading took place this time before they went to the bedrooms on the next floor.

  Jack was the first to wake; he sat up in the nude and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He looked around and noticed that the bedroom that he was in was probably one belonging to a teenage boy. The seductive posters on the wall of Cheryl Cole and Amy Childs suggested that the teenage boy was a heterosexual and probably used the posters for times whenever he felt horny. Jack looked at the posters of the two women and thought that they were more than likely dead now—either mutilated, or walking round like the rest of the deadheads.

  Jack got off the bed and opened the cupboard that stood by the window. He wanted to check to see if there were any clothes that would fit him, as he didn't know whether the teenage boy was a schoolboy-teenager or a young man-teenager.

  He looked inside the cupboard and it appeared that the family had packed before leaving, so it appeared to be a planned-leaving, rather than a spontaneous one. There wasn't much left in the cupboard, but Jack did help himself to some new briefs, a pair of black socks, a blue T-shirt with bright colours splashed on the front, and a cream pair of combats, which he was sure would not remain cream for too long once he went back out in the new world, but he was glad to be out of the boiler suit.

  He heard a knock on his door and for some reason he asked who it was.

  "Er...it's Johnny," was the reply,

  Jack opened the door and shook his head at his daft query, and had a small snigger to himself. "Morning."

  "Sorry," Johnny looked around; he was in a slight jovial mood. "Were you expecting someone else?"

  "Wasn't thinking."

  Johnny was fully dressed, and it appeared that he had also decided on ditching the boiler suit, and had taken clothing from the man of the house's wardrobe. He wore blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt. "I've found a toothbrush we can share, no toothpaste though...er, or water, of course."

  "I need a drink." Jack ruffled his hair, looked at his fingers, and pulled a confused face as if he was unaware what to do next. "And a shower."

  Jack walked out of the bedroom and sat on the top step of the stairs, and placed his head in his hands; he was still half-asleep. Said Jack, "There're those two litre bottles of sparkling water underneath the sink, that'll have to do."

  "And a half bottle of diluting juice."

  Jack looked at Johnny to see if he was having a joke, but his face told him he was deadly serious. "And how are you going to dilute the juice? You gonna piss in it?"

  "No," Johnny snickered. "I'm gonna use...the...oh."

  "You're gonna dilute it with water that we don't have, is that it?"

  "I wasn't thinking."

  "Don't matter. With the bottles of sparkling water under the sink, and the water left over in their kettle, we could stay here for a couple of days at least."

  "And then what?"

  "I don't know." Jack lifted his head, his eyes closed. He then began rubbing his temples with his fingers as if he was suffering from a headache.

  "Not much of a plan."

  Jack stood up and went face-to-face with Johnny; his countenance was full of rage and his fists clenched. "Well, what the fuck do you want, Johnny? Eh?"

  Johnny was taken aback by the man he had helped to recover, and didn't understand the meaning of his outburst. "I..."

  "When this thing first happened, I had a purpose to stay alive; I had a place I needed to go, but now...now that I've lost everything and everyone I cared for, I have nowhere to go. I wish I could make this all go away, but the only thing that can do that is death. I tried to kill myself just a day after I lost my son and ex-girlfriend, but it never happened, and I'm glad it didn't. I still don't know why, but something inside of me still wants to live."

  "I'm sorry." Johnny cleared his throat and dropped his head like a child that had just been reprimanded by a teacher. "I kind of look at you for answers 'cos you've been out there; you know what you're doing."

  "I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm still only alive because of luck."

  "Luck?"

  Jack stared at Johnny, who could see that Jack Slade's eyes were filling up. Jack added, "Most of us that are alive are probably here out of luck. But is it good luck or bad luck? Are we really lucky to be searching around for drips of water and scraps of food, while the dead are out there wanting to rip you apart. There're also people out there that want to harm you for anything that would benefit them, but weeks ago they could have easily have been your neighbours or your work colleagues. It's all fucked up. This whole thing is fucked up!"

  "Again, I'm sorry."

  "Just leave me alone."

  Johnny did what he was told and went back into the bedroom, leaving Jack to sit on the top step and stare into space.

  Chapter Thirty One

  It was a beautiful morning once again.

  June had been good to the middle of England—weather-wise—and Pickle was the first to wake. He was used to waking early from years of getting up at seven am when he was back at the prison, and he decided to take a stroll out of the grounds and onto the grassy hill.

  He opened the tall gate and took a peep over his shoulder, as if what he was doing was wrong, and walked out and shut the gate behind him. He looked at the thick, tall fence that surrounded the area of the cabin and tried to push it with his hands, as if he was stretching his calf muscles. It was solid. Wolf had done a good job, for an old man that could hardly move. Pickle was convinced that he must have had help building it, but it wasn't something that was going to keep him awake at night.

  With his feet covered in blisters, a result of days of walking in the woods, Pickle had left his shoes back at the cabin, and walked along the soft grass, barefooted. It was a well-kept hill, considering that in the old world it used to entertain joggers, kids and dog-walkers, and there was hardly a scrap of litter about or canine shit to be seen. Even though it had the nickname, Cardboard Hill, it appeared that there wasn't much cardboard around either.

  Although he was feeling the strain on his back, he slowly made his way to the very top of the hill, where he and Karen had their falling out, and the moment he arrived at the top, he sat his bum down and pulled his knees into his chest.

  He glared up at the wonderful sun that shone down, and a s
mile emerged on his face. It was one of the few moments that Harry Branston was pleased to be on his own.

  It was good to be alive, he reflected. The sun on his face, the greenery around him, and the soup and wine he had the previous night, made him thankful for what he had. The grave of Grace Kindl, ten yards from his left, was the only thing that soured the moment a little.

  Harry stood to his feet and began to stretch his worn body; he then hit the ground and began doing press ups. He preferred pull ups, but any kind of exercise would do him. Even though he had had plenty of cardiovascular exercise over the days with the constant walking and the odd running episode from those creatures, it was good to do a bit of exercise on his terms.

  After ten minutes, a puffy Pickle wiped his brow with his forearm and decided to take advantage of the cool wind that was around at one of the highest points of Rugeley Town, and allowed the wind to cool his frame down after his short exercise session. Pickle now sat down with his legs crossed and looked up to the beautiful blue sky. He then mumbled, under his breath, a prayer:

  "Father, thank you that you sent your son to bring me life. Life in the fullness. Life for eternity. Thank you that I share Christ's resurrection life. That Christ is alive in me. And his spirit dwells deeply in my being. Right now I receive your healing. I receive the same power that raised Christ from the grave. I receive your life. I receive Your strength."

  A bird that he could not name, flew above him and had interrupted his spiritual time. Pickle looked with his hand almost covering his eyes from the blinding sun, but the bird had now disappeared. He was pleased to see that life for some animals and birds was going on as normal.

  He continued, "Thank you that all things are possible for those who believe. Thank you that you are moving in me right now. May I continue to receive from you. This hour and every hour. Amen."

  He puffed out his cheeks and tears fell from Harry's eyes.