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

by Whittington, Shaun

  Vince had later knocked her door, told her that he had blocked the road, and that he had an idea to turn the caravan park into a secure camp. He then asked her if she wanted to be involved with runs and guarding the blockade. He must have been impressed with her lack of hesitation, and she said yes to his proposal.

  Her reminiscing came to an end once the tears began to form in her eyes. And just like every evening, she cried.

  *

  In the light rain, Jack had taken a walk around the camp and had bumped into a resident that was walking back. The resident said hello and made a weak attempt at humour, commenting on the rain being good for ducks.

  Beaten by the rain, he went back to his temporary accommodation and took the waterproof jacket off. It had been a while since he had heard from Vince and thought that the man was either busy out on another run, or guarding the roadblock that he had created before he had taken complete control of the site.

  Jack searched through the cupboards and pulled out a large glass. He then continued with the searching and noticed a bottle of diluting orange juice. He smirked, and welcomed the break from drinking tea and coffee; his tongue was getting coated with the amount of hot beverages he had consumed. He couldn't really complain because when Johnny had found him, outside the factory, he was almost dying from dehydration. Now he had his pick of drinks, but was still adamant on leaving the place.

  He stood motionless and thought of Johnny. Poor bastard. The trouble with Johnny was that he had no fight in him, and probably would have become a meal for those things eventually. But what Jack didn't like, and still felt anger towards Vince for this, was being forced in that situation where they had to 'prove their worth' by killing those things, like some kind of horror-initiation test. Unfortunately for Johnny, he had failed that test miserably. He had a crowbar and only one of those things to kill, and he still got bit!

  The diluting juice was put on hold once he came across a bottle of South African Shiraz. He pulled out the red wine and, with it being a screw-top, he unscrewed the bottle and poured the delightful red stuff into the glass, almost filling it. He put on the radio and despite only picking up a French station, he left it on and went over to the couch with his glass full of wine.

  It had been nearly three weeks since he had touched alcohol. He tried to remember the last time he drank the hard stuff, and his face filled with wretchedness when he realised that it was when he had too much whisky when he was with Gary in Jemma Marlow's house, when he was looking for Kerry and Thomas.

  All four of those people that Jack had just thought of had all perished.

  His throat had become hard with emotion but his eyes were dry. He took another gulp of wine and noticed that the bottle looked like it was nearly done. It appeared that there was only a third of the bottle left.

  "Fuck it!"

  Jack took another over-generous gulp as he walked over to the bottle, and poured the rest into the half-full glass, filling it once again. He then made a soused smile and thought about Karen, Pickle, Paul and Jade. He wondered how their woods adventure had panned out, and hoped that they were okay. Members of the people in the village hall also entered his mind, and he mainly thought about the demise of Oliver and Lee at the sports centre. "Poor bastards."

  There was a rap at the door that almost made Jack spill his drink. Before he could ask who it was, Vince walked in and immediately made a disapproving look at his guest.

  "What are you looking at?" Jack was clearly drunk and Vince walked over to take the glass away from him. There was a little struggle and the red wine went all over Vince's clothes.

  Vince grabbed Jack by his shirt and snarled, "I was gonna ask you to go out on a trip as we need diesel for the generators, but you've obviously got other plans."

  Jack took an awkward step forward and slurred, "I'm going on no trip with you, Vince."

  Vince smiled and looked at Jack. He looked like a broken man. "What's your problem, Jack? We give you a roof over your head and you're still feeling sorry for yourself. We've all lost people we love. I have a sister in Ireland, and a mother somewhere. When the outbreak happened, I went to the house, but my mother and father weren't there."

  "Where were they?"

  "My father has a little place somewhere; they're probably hiding up there. Or dead."

  Jack scowled at Vince and told him, "You winced when you mentioned your father's name."

  Vince snickered, "That's because the piece of shit used to beat the crap out of me. I don't give a toss about him."

  "Yeah, well. I still don't like you," Jack blurted out, taking Vince by surprise. He remained standing on his unsteady feet; he staggered towards Vince, and poked his forefinger into Vince's chest. "This whole...camp thing is a power trip for you, ain't it? People are looking up to you, asking: What do we do now, Vince? Oh great one. Ain't that right?"

  Vince released an impatient sigh. He was convinced that having Jack on board was something the camp would benefit from, but he was proving, in the short time he'd been there, to be a little unpredictable. Vince eventually answered Jack's query and announced, "Someone has to take control."

  "I know why you're in charge; it's because you were a nobody in the old world, ain't that right, Vince? It's like bullies. When you're out on the town, having a drink, it's very rare you see a lawyer or a doctor eyeballing people and starting fights, you know why?"

  Vince tried to remain patient and humoured his drunken guest, "No, Jack, I don't. But I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

  "Because they already have respect in the workplace. People who don't have respect in the workplace, are the ones that end up in fights. They can't get respect in the workplace, so they try and get it outside by using another method."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Vince began to laugh. "How many bottles of that wine did you drink?"

  "What did you used to do for a living?"

  "None of your business," snapped Vince.

  "Tell me."

  Vince threw his arms in the air, and decided to play Jack's game, although he didn't know where he was going with it. "Okay; I used to drive a forklift truck."

  "And now this has all happened, you have a second chance to make something of yourself, rather than just a minimum-wage fork lift driver who used to take orders off of some fat foreman you probably detested."

  "You're a cock, Jack."

  "Yeah, well, I'm leaving this messed up place."

  There was a silence that covered the two men, and although he was trying to hide his disappointment, an exasperated Vince said, "Good. Pack your things and leave."

  "Hit a nerve, did I?"

  Vince never answered. He just glared.

  Laughed Jack, "I'm going anyway."

  "But you can leave the jeep." Vince's announcement was delivered with a devilish smirk. "I'm taking the jeep from you for wasting my time."

  "Are you now?"

  "Yes."

  "So you're throwing my arse out of here, with no wheels?"

  Vince's smirk remained on his face. Despite no verbal response to Jack's question, or any kind of head gesture, Vince's continuous glaring and smirk suggested that his intention was to leave Jack in limbo.

  Jack added, "Then I'll make sure I bring those things back here. All I have to do is get their attention and watch them follow me all the way back to the blockade, possibly in their hundreds. And they'll never go away; you know that. How's a couple of old shotguns gonna cope with that? Eh?"

  "You'd be ripped to pieces eventually."

  Jack nodded. "And your camp will be constantly surrounded by the dead. And they would never go away; they'd just grow in numbers, like pins to a magnet. I've seen it for myself."

  "You hated stealing off of that shopkeeper, yet you're quite happy to put peoples' lives in danger because you were denied your vehicle? You don't realise that I could have you killed in here right now, and nobody would give a fuck."

  "So why don't you?"

  Vince couldn't gi
ve Jack an answer.

  "It's because you're bluffing. You like me, don't you? And the whole I'm taking the jeep is to keep me here. Why?"

  Again, Vince couldn't give him an answer.

  "I'm leaving with the jeep. Don't make me do anything stupid."

  Vince looked at Jack's eyes. He was drunk, but he meant every word he said.

  Said Vince, "I'm not the arrogant, ego-maniac you think I am, Jack. I'm sorry you're paranoid and you don't like me. And I'm sorry you think I'm only here to feather my own nest and would leave these people in the shit if the going gets tough. I'm here for the long haul. For better or worse."

  Vince put his hand in his back pocket, and Jack gulped and sobered a little when he thought that Vince was going to produce a handgun or a knife. Vince pulled out a set of car keys and handed Jack the keys to the jeep. "You can leave in an hour. Get yourself sobered up. Me and Claire are going out." Vince then headed for the door, and then turned back round as if there was something else he needed to say. "Try not to drive over any mines, fuckwit."

  Chapter Forty Nine

  "Just the two of us?" asked Claire.

  Vince nodded and jumped in the pick-up truck. Claire noticed that he was in a foul mood and wondered if it had anything to do with Jack, as she knew he had gone to visit him in one of the spare caravans.

  She refrained from asking him what was wrong, and sat in the passenger seat in silence. She didn't even ask him where they were going. She assumed it was the same as ever. There was a pub called The Lodge a mile up the road, and she guessed that that was where they were going. She guessed right.

  As soon as Vince pulled up outside the pub, they both stepped out of the vehicle and gazed around the vacant street. One solitary body lay twenty yards away from them on the pavement, and neither one was sure whether it was a person that had been killed, or it was a reanimated being that had been destroyed.

  They both took a look at the entrance of the inn and Vince finally spoke. "Just take what we need. You try the kitchens; I'll try the living arrangements upstairs."

  "Okay."

  Vince tried the door. It opened with ease. This gave them the indication that whoever used to run the establishment, wasn't there anymore.

  Claire took out a hunters knife from her back pocket, she wasn't entirely comfortable with a gun, and they both entered the place and skulked around the dark part of the lounge area. It appeared to be vacant. Claire took the sports bag off of her back and went into the kitchen.

  Vince opened a door that led upstairs. He thought about calling out, but instead he crept up the carpeted stairs making no noise whatsoever. As soon as he reached the top, he looked across the landing and could see that there were four closed doors. He guessed that two were bedrooms, one led to a kitchen, and the other door led to a living room.

  He approached the nearest door and placed his ear against it. Not a sound could be heard. He pulled down the handle and slowly opened it. It was a bedroom, but it looked like it didn't belong to anyone. It had no character to it, and Vince guessed that it was a spare room. The owners of the pub had either kids that had grown up and flown the nest, or, they were a childless couple.

  He left the room, still being quiet, and went for the next door. This room appeared to be the main bedroom. It was a typical room with a double bed, a set of drawers, a cupboard, and a dressing table with a mirror.

  He checked the cupboards and it seemed that one was only half-empty. It looked that the male had taken his clothes and fled the place, but the female hadn't. Why?

  Vince took out a couple of black bin liners out of his pocket and began filling up the bags with the clothes that were left in the cupboards, as well as male and female underwear from the drawers. Once he filled the two bags, he went to the top of the stairs and threw them down, then went back to check out the other two rooms.

  The kitchen was small, poky, and he could smell a repugnant smell coming from the now defunct fridge, as if the food inside was rotting. He couldn't get out of the place quick enough and decided to try the final door before going downstairs and giving Claire a hand.

  He placed his ear against the door; he was greeted with complete silence. The whole pub was silent. Even Claire was making little noise downstairs.

  He pulled down the handle and slowly pushed the door, allowing it to swing fully open. His nose was greeted with a dreadful smell, and he should have turned on his heels and walked away, but his intrigue was too strong for him to do that. He kept the living room door open. The room was drenched in darkness; the curtains were closed, and the stench grew so bad that he lifted his shirt up over his nose in order not to breathe in any more fumes from whatever was giving off the smell.

  Vince stepped further inside and gasped a little when he saw a lone figure standing in the corner of the room. It reminded him of the end of a scary film from years back called The Blair Witch Project.

  It never moved, and Vince peered around the couch to see the carcass of a body of an animal, which clearly used to be a German Shepherd, as the head was still present. Vince should have walked away, but with the ghoul's back towards him, he turned his shotgun round, ran at the creature and smacked the back of its head with the butt of the gun.

  Its head squished against the wall and its body dropped like a stone. He looked at its face in the darkness and could just about make out that it used to be a female. The lady of the pub, perhaps.

  It explained why only the clothes in the male's cupboard was taken. Maybe she was the wife, became infected, and he then locked her in and decided to leave. But the dead dog didn't make sense. Why didn't the man take the dog with him? A dog would run through fire for its master; surely he could have saved his pet.

  Vincent sighed and went downstairs to see how Claire was getting on.

  *

  Something had stirred the woman but she had no idea what it was. She rolled over to her side and could see the time on her iPod station telling her that it was 3:14am. She was confused for a few seconds why she wasn't in her bed, and then realised why she was sleeping on the leather sofa.

  There was only ever one reason why she slept downstairs on the leather sofa, and that was on Saturday nights/Sunday mornings, without fail. Every time her husband drank beer on a Saturday night, he would snore like a hog with asthma.

  Sometimes she would go to bed before him so she could sleep before he made his way upstairs, but his snoring was sometimes so loud, especially if he was lying on his back, it would wake her up anyway once they were sleeping together.

  They both worked all week and their treat at the end of the week would be a Chinese takeaway. She would always have the Kung Po Chicken, whereas he would mainly have a Beef Curry. This was then followed by her husband going into the living room to watch the football.

  Her husband was a mad Liverpool fan and would watch Match of the Day every Saturday night, right through to midnight. During the ninety minutes of watching his favourite football programme, he would traditionally drink his six bottles of Perlenbacher beers, his favourite. These beers were the result of her sleeping on the couch. He always snored heavily with a few beers inside him. She didn't know why she just didn't stay up, wait for him to go to bed, and then sleep on the couch.

  It had been a story she had moaned about for years whenever she used to catch up with her close pals. Her friends would argue that the soused individual should sleep on the couch himself, while she remained in her bedroom.

  That would happen on the odd occasion, but sometimes he'd be so forgetful with the alcohol that he would automatically stumble upstairs to bed anyway, where only a crane could move him once he was in his soused, comatosed state.

  On this particular early morning, she had lasted well. She sometimes usually went downstairs to the couch before one or two am, but had lasted till three.

  She sighed as usual, grabbed her dressing gown, and left her partner. She then looked in on her seven-year-old boy who was dead to the world, with his Phineas and Ferb q
uilt covering most of his body. He was sleeping like an angel as usual, legs wrapped around the quilt, lips puffed out, and snoring slightly with the mild cold he had picked up from primary school.

  She then crept downstairs, turned off the fish tank in the kitchen, because the noise from the water filter drove her nuts when she was on the couch, and went into the living room that was situated below her own bedroom. She then pulled out a brown blanket from inside the leather footrest and threw it on the couch.

  Then it was time to sleep.

  But as soon as she got herself prepared for a night on the sofa, she was disturbed once again. For fuck's sake! This time, in the early hours of the Sunday morning on June 10th, she could hear a stumbling coming from upstairs. She shook her head, thinking that her husband was getting up for a pee, and was still drunk.

  Before they were married, he had got so drunk before that he walked into a cupboard, had a pee, then walked out of the cupboard and went back to bed. On another occasion when they visited her mother's, they both went out and she woke up to find her future husband, sitting on her mother's stairs, naked, and peeing all over them. He was completely oblivious what he was doing, and at two in the morning, she had to use towels to soak up the wetness, use lots of spray, and had to put the towels in the outside bin.

  She crept upstairs, and was hoping that she could catch her husband before he made a serious faux pas. But he only had six bottles of beer, she told herself. It wasn't as if he had gone out with the lads on an all-day bender.

  She then thought, maybe it was her son, Spencer, that had got out of bed.

  She reached the landing and suddenly stopped on the edge of the last step of the stairs. Her body refused to go any further, and she couldn't understand why.

  She could hear, coming from her seven-year-old's bedroom, a slopping noise. It was a weird predicament. She was supposed to be his mother, somebody that would do anything for her child, but her legs were refusing to move.