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

by Whittington, Shaun

  "Hello." Jack's welcome was greeted by silence by all three men. Jack continued, "We were told that this place is pretty much the only safe haven around here. Could I ask you gentleman if you are you taking in more residents, or are you full?"

  Still ignoring Jack, one of the men on the left turned to the middle man and told him, in a voice that Jack could hear, to go and get Vince.

  Jack lowered his arms, realising the men had no intention of pointing their weapons at him and put his arms behind his back, patiently waiting for this Vince guy to turn up. Jack remained silent, knowing that the men on top of the HGV were not in a talkative mood—unless they were ordered not to talk to outsiders—and fortunately he didn't have to wait long for Vince to show up.

  The tall man, known as Vince, stood on the HGV inbetween his three 'soldiers', and flashed Jack a welcoming smile. "Alright, mate?" was the greeting. "How's it going?"

  The welcome seemed genuine and warm, and Jack was relaxed immediately. "Not too bad. I was wondering—"

  "One of my guys tells me you'd like to stay here, is that correct?" Vince was straight to the point.

  "Yes."

  "How many of those things have you killed?"

  Without pausing, Jack answered, "Too many to count."

  "And what about him?" Vince pointed at Johnny who was still sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep.

  Jack sighed, "Well, I'll be honest with you. I don't think he's cut out for this kind of world."

  "Who is?" Vince began to laugh and then nodded towards the jeep that was covered in many bodies worth of blood and other debris. "Ran into a bit of trouble, I see."

  Jack nodded. "It just this minute happened, back in the town centre."

  Vince's eyes narrowed with suspicion at Jack's small story. "So are you really here because you want to stay, or are you just running from someone or something, and we happened to be in your way with this road being blocked and all?"

  Jack looked over his left shoulder at Johnny, and then looked back up to Vince. "We're sick of running, that's all. We want to live."

  Vince climbed down the HGV with protests from one of his men. Vince told him to shut up, and swaggered over to Jack once his feet touched the floor. He stood five yards away from him and began to look him up and down.

  Jack also checked out Vince. He was tall, but he had no muscle mass around his body that would worry the average guy. Vince was definitely a few years older than Jack, mid-forties, maybe, and his grey head of hair did nothing for him if he had any aspirations to look younger. His face was also in a bit of a mess, and appeared to be covered in old scars or scratches.

  "You don't look much to me." Vince grinned, and looked Jack up and down once more. "You look like you could lose a fight with a three-legged dog."

  Jack cackled, "I look meaner when I'm holding a crowbar. Especially the one sitting in the back of that jeep that I've used many times."

  Vince liked Jack's response, but he was unsure of taking in outsiders. They had nearly forty people on the caravan site, and the more people they had, the more food and water they needed to keep the large group alive.

  Said Vince, "We've turned six people away in the last few days; we don't really need anymore, my friend. Some people come here to get to Armitage, realise the road's blocked and then turn back. Others come here because it's a lot quieter than that other shambles of a blockade at Sandy Lane."

  "So what's your story?" asked Jack.

  "Most of the people in here, like me, were living here in the first place, in the park."

  "So you've accepted no outsiders?"

  Vince nodded. "Some. Mainly relatives of the people that live here."

  "And how'd you get those guns?"

  "Inquisitive little monkey, aren't you?" laughed Vince. "Some of us used to go clay shooting before the shit hit the fan, as our American cousins say."

  "Look, even if it's just for one night, can we stay?" There was pleading in Jack's voice.

  Vince was lost in thought for a minute and threw his head back and began to breathe heavily. Jack thought that this was bizarre behaviour, but chose not to say anything. Vince lowered his head back down so that he was making eye contact with Jack once again. "If you wanna stay for a while, you need to prove your worth."

  "How?"

  "You can go on a trip tomorrow morning." Vince looked up to the sky and could see that the evening wasn't far away. "We grab supplies from places and stock them up in the Spode Cottage."

  "You can't rely on looting forever."

  "Don't you fucking worry, boy," Vince cussed. "We have a well; we have animals round the back, and a massive chicken-pen. But if there's food out there, we may as well take it before some other twat does."

  "It seems a bit soon to already be having this kind of set-up after just three weeks, don't you think?"

  "Not really. The caravan park was already here. All we did was block the roads off. It's hardly rocket science." Vince then began to titter and shook his head. "Three weeks. It feels like three months, don't you agree?"

  Jack did agree. Especially the few days when he spent time in the woods, alone. They were the longest days of his life. Months? It felt like years!

  "Stay in one of the caravans for the night. We're going on a run, to get more supplies. And you two look like you need some rest. They'll be a guard outside your door. No offence, but we hardly know you, and you look like the type of men that would steal old ladies' knickers and shag goats," Vince began to cackle loudly, "so I think the guard will be necessary."

  "Thank you." Jack reached out to shake Vince's hand.

  Vince shook Jack's hand and said, "Some caravans are empty because some folk decided to leave; one family had actually killed themselves. There are eight empty caravans out of the twenty that are here." Vince then pointed at Johnny, and beckoned him out of the jeep; he then turned to Jack. "We'll get your vehicle on the premises later. Right, let's get a drink; my mouth is drier than a nun's crutch."

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  June 27th

  Karen wasn't feeling very well, so Pickle decided to travel on his own. Karen had been sick through the night and had put her sickness down to the water she drank before she went to bed, but she wasn't entirely sure. Pickle thought that it had something to do with the full bottle of wine she had consumed, but decided to keep his mouth shut to avoid an unnecessary argument with the twenty-three-year-old woman.

  Pickle told the two worried folk that he was a 'big boy' and that he could handle whatever was thrown at him. There was a lack of medication inside the cabin, and Pickle had convinced Wolf that with cupboards of medication just sitting in abandoned houses, it'd be ridiculous not to make just one more trip.

  In a last, stubborn attempt, Karen left with the forty-three-year-old to go back to the street for medical supplies. It didn't work out, as she only managed a few hundred yards before she threw up on the grass while they were heading for the gap in the hedge. Pickle frogmarched her back to the cabin and told her jokingly to get some rest or next time she was going to get 'bitch slapped'.

  Wolf had managed to get a reluctant Karen to settle down, and the exhausted female had fallen asleep in the bedroom of the cabin.

  Pickle had now gone through the hedge and was on the football field. He could see, near the edge of the field, a lone Snatcher, probably making its way to the bottom of the hill to spend the rest of its days crawling to a cabin it could never get to.

  Pickle drew the machete from his belt as the thing had spotted him, and the ghoul was now picking up its pace towards the survivor. It was a pointless attempt by the beast; with one swing of Pickle's arm, the creature's head was sliced in half. The cranium from just above its eyebrows was removed and fell to the ground with most of the black, diseased brain going with it. Pickle looked at the bloody machete with a little surprise. He had taken Wolf's advice and had sharpened it on a stone that sat in the corner of the garden, but he never realised it was that sharp. The effort it took to
remove its head was minimal.

  Unruffled by what had just occurred, he entered the same street and knew for a while that this could be the last time he visited. The cabin was well stocked, and it didn't seem fair to strip more supplies from the street, considering there were other families dwelling there. He also didn't want to get too attached to the people. He knew that the more he conversed with the survivors, the more guilt would eat away at him once he left there while he went to his secure cabin, with its huge supply of food and water. So this was another positive of not having to go back.

  He knew he couldn't save the world, but it wouldn't stop his mind being plagued with shame if he got to know some of the folk, and then had to leave them and make his way back to the comfort of the cabin. But his small group needed medication of some sort for the future, just in case, so this particular trip was vital.

  He walked into a house that had its door left ajar and looked around, taking extra care round every corner he approached. This was the second house he had checked. The first house seemed to have no medical supplies at all. Pickle assumed that maybe the family took medical stuff with them before they left—if they had left.

  The empty houses confused him slightly. He wasn't sure that families that were missing had fled in their cars to go elsewhere, or had fled on foot at the height of the disaster, when the street was more-than-likely crawling with the ghouls. The lack of human blood on the roads and pavements in this particular street suggested that very little slaughter had took place during the start of the outbreak. People had either hidden, were killed in their homes, or moved elsewhere, either on wheels or on foot.

  This time he decided not to check upstairs. He wanted to spend as little time as possible and get the hell out. He managed to find a cupboard that had painkillers, and other medications. He then crouched into the darkened kitchen and took out tins of fruit and tuna to put into his bag.

  "Need a hand down there?"

  The female voice startled Pickle; he spun around on his heels and stood up straight so he could get a good look at the young woman. She was dressed in green combats, a black T-shirt, and was holding a meat cleaver in her right hand that, judging by the stains on the steel, had seen action not so long ago.

  "I'm sorry," Pickle spoke. "I didn't realise this was yer house. I thought it was vacant. The door was left open."

  "It is...vacant, that is. It's not my house; I'm just doing the same as you." She ruffled her short brown hair and Pickle had noticed she had the biggest and most striking blue eyes he had ever seen on a woman. Despite that her clothes had seen better days and her face and fingers were decorated in dirt, possibly some dried in blood from killing those creatures, Pickle could see that in the old world, this woman used to be a very pretty individual.

  "Harry Branston," Pickle held out his hand, "but most people—"

  "Call you Pickle," she interrupted with a small smile on her features. "My husband's sister was married to a guy called Branston. He had the same nickname."

  "Oh. So where is..?" Pickle stopped his question in mid-sentence, but it was obvious what he was going to ask.

  "My husband?" The woman sighed, but it wasn't a sigh that was filled with sorrow; it was one of those sighs that suggested impatience, as if she had already told the story a hundred times before, and now had to repeat herself again. "I found that he had turned into one of those monsters, and had eaten my seven-year-old son."

  Pickle was stunned by her matter-of-fact statement and she looked cold in her facial expressions, almost as if she had shut down her emotions, or was pretty damn good at hiding them.

  Without pestering the woman for any more information, he apologised to her for her loss and asked her if she had come to stay in the house.

  "I was thinking about it. I was just upstairs, checking the place out." She smiled and said, "We could share, if you want."

  Pickle shook his head. "That's okay. I have somewhere." Pickle then pulled out a small empty bottle and began twisting the tap of the sink to fill it up; the water was trickling out. "Not too sure what's happening at the moment with this damn water."

  The woman said, "Water facilities, although automated, still depend heavily on people to operate them. When those people stop going to work or have been attacked, then the water will stop shortly thereafter. In an ideal world people would keep a twelve-volt battery-powered water pump. If the power goes out for long enough, so will your water and water pressure. The pipes in the house alone likely have many gallons. You can get water from water heaters, the chlorine can keep them fresh."

  Pickle laughed, "You used to work for the water-board or something?"

  "No." She shook her head, her face was blank.

  His laughing ceased immediately.

  She continued, "You're lucky water has been running this long."

  "How do yer mean?"

  "If people can't go to work to keep the facility operating, then after three days water quality starts to degrade, as the chemical tanks start to run empty after three or four days. This will not be noticed as there will still be a four or five day supply already in the reservoir. So doing some simple math: after four days the water situation is normal, but should start to degrade. After six days the reservoir is half-full of untreated water, and after eight days the reservoir is full of untreated water. At this point the water will not be safe to drink, but the automatic systems will still be pumping water into the distribution system. At home all you would need to do is boil your water for it to be safe."

  "The electricity's gone now, though," Pickle spoke up.

  The woman added, "After fourteen days the generator stops and the system shuts down."

  Pickle was lost in thought and said, "I suppose the sanitation will be a concern as well."

  She nodded in agreement. "We're only in week three, but eventually people will die from unsanitary conditions. Then we'll have all kinds of diseases to look forward to. Cholera is an excellent example of a waterborne disease that is a direct result of decomposing animal tissues in a water supply. Thirst will drive people to the nearest supply of water, then many will die on the banks and contaminate the lakes and rivers."

  "How do you know all this?" Pickle asked.

  "Google. I read about it in the first week."

  "I never caught yer name."

  "That's because I never gave you it."

  Pickle cracked her a smile and waited patiently for her to introduce herself, and continued to stare at the mysterious thing.

  "Sharon." She held out her hand. "But Shaz'll do."

  "Okay, Shaz." Pickle looked around the kitchen and opened his arms. "It's all yours. There's plenty o' food left." He winked at the woman and walked by her with his bag hanging off of his shoulder and said, "I'll see yer around," as he left the premises.

  "Maybe."

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Vince had only been running the camp for just under three weeks, and already the many residents looked up to the forty-five-year-old. The place pretty much ran itself. Vince would get his own crew to sort out the minor problems such as caravan fittings, drainage and any problems with the running water. He, on the other hand, would spend most of his time either guarding the blockade or going out on a run and getting supplies.

  The residents had given him a medical list, as there were a few people who needed medication such as painkillers, asthma inhalers, and tablets for some or the elderly who had high blood pressure or angina. Vince could only get some medical supplies, and although most chemists had been emptied by the end of the first week, there were still newsagents that would sell medical gear, but nothing too hardcore.

  Vince had an idea to go to Stafford Hospital and see what was there. He had a feeling that it may have already been pillaged, and it could also be crawling with the Rotters. But a van full of medical supplies could keep the camp going for months and would also, and more importantly, as far as Vince was concerned, make him look good.

  He knew that the longer he waited,
the less chance that there would be anything there. They were doing fine at the moment, but the trip to Stafford Hospital could be an experience that would benefit them in the long-term. The only trouble with the journey to Stafford wasn't just the hospital itself, which could be littered with all kinds of dangers, but the place was eight miles there and back. This meant that the actual trip could be littered with hazards even before they got to the hospital, and a lot of petrol was going to be used up for the journey.

  It was something worth thinking about, but it wasn't just the paranoia of going to the hospital that bothered Vince. He would have to leave the camp for at least a couple of hours and this meant leaving the people exposed, as it wouldn't be worth the risk going with just two people. He needed all of his blockade people and at least two pick-up vans to make the one-time trip worthwhile.

  Vince only had a few people to lean on when it came to some kind of security; only a handful of shotguns were available and they were hardly top-of-the-range equipment. He needed more men; most of the residents were elderly or too scared, and they put their efforts into what they were good at in order to help the place keep running smoothly.

  Security was a problem.

  Vince was selective in his choice, and although a few others had volunteered, they looked nervous as hell just holding a shotgun. Vince thought it'd be better to have small numbers and people who were able to fight, rather than large numbers with men and women who could be a hindrance and a danger to the rest of the group.

  He wanted Jack on board.

  Jack was a man, like everyone else, that had been thrown into the deep end and had been managing to tread water so far. The trouble with Jack was that he was a good guy, too good in fact. Vince wanted to see for himself what Jack was capable of.

  If he wanted the camp to survive, the people out on a run had to be ruthless. He had never killed another human being to get what he wanted, as Vince tried to raid places that were already empty, but if he had no choice in the matter, he felt he could shoot another person if his back was against the wall.