Snatchers (Book 7): The Dead Don't Yield

by Shaun Whittington

  Vince looked reluctant to close his eyes, despite his tiredness.

  "Just relax," Pickle tried to appease. "If anything happens, I'm here."

  Vince sat down and sighed, "Just don't fall sleep."

  Pickle snickered, "Not even forty winks?"

  Vince threw Pickle a sharp glare. He didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes.

  "Oh, so it's alright for yer to make a joke, and no' me?"

  Vince closed his eyes and began cussing under his breath.

  "What's the matter with yer now?" Pickle giggled.

  "Can't settle."

  "Yer have been sitting, literally, for seconds."

  "You know, quiet times like these makes you realise the magnitude of what's happened."

  Pickle nodded in agreement. "Yer know what I wonder sometimes?"

  "What?"

  "When's it all gonna end?"

  Vince nodded and knew where Pickle was coming from. It was a question he asked himself every day. Vince asked, "Do you know what I wonder?"

  "What's that?"

  "Who picks up guide dogs' shit?"

  "Or what happens if yer get scared half to death twice?" Both men burst into fits of laughter, while Pickle added, "I've always thought there was a decent man underneath tha' hard exterior. Even when I first met yer."

  With his eyes still closed Vince announced, "I'm trying to think when we first met."

  "Seriously?" guffawed Pickle. "Yer can't remember?"

  "Nope."

  "You and Jack turned up at yer dad's cabin."

  "That's right. That was the first time I spent the night in the woods after we came back from Stafford Hospital. Our trucks got shot up. Claire and Paul was in the other truck." Vince then released a sad breath out. The names that he had just mentioned were no longer living anymore: Jack, Claire and Paul.

  An eerie hooting filled the woods and Vince quickly opened his eyes. Seeing that he was startled, Pickle smiled and teased, "Deep underneath that tough exterior, yer a bit o' a wet blanket, aren't yer?"

  "We're all human."

  "No shame in that," Pickle spoke with a more serious tone in his voice. "I've shed many a tear o'er the weeks, especially for KP. Even had a breakdown after what happened at yer camp."

  "Who didn't? You'd need a rock for a heart if you didn't feel anything that night." Vince closed his eyes again, and leaned his head back.

  Pickle allowed there to be silence between the pair of them, but there was intrigue drilling away at him and he couldn't keep his mouth closed. "Yer never seem to mention yer parents much."

  "Nothing much to say," scoffed Vince. "We weren't close, but I do miss my sister. And Brian." Vince opened his eyes and Pickle could see Vincent Kindl was becoming upset.

  Pickle wondered if he should keep his mouth shut, but said, "Did it feel better after killing Kevin Murphy?"

  "Not really. But I wasn't really doing it for me, I was doing it for justice for my son."

  Pickle opened his mouth but paused, wondering if he should ask the next question. He gulped and asked, "And do yer think yer got it?"

  "Not really." Vince ran his fingers over his stubbly, scarred features and shook his head. "I think if I even tortured him and took him apart limb-by-limb, it wouldn't have been enough."

  "Well, yer shot him in the balls with a shotgun. Very hard to survive that in the old world. At least he experienced some kind o' pain."

  "Being a father it was never enough." Vince's lips then began to wobble, and Pickle knew that a mini-breakdown was on the cards. "Sometimes it just gets to you."

  "Are yer okay?"

  Vince never answered verbally, he just shook his head. The tears fell plentifully and the man had now lost it in front of Harry Branston, a man he respected greatly, and didn't seem to be bothered as he was engulfed in a cloud of grief. He sobbed hard and loud, maybe too loud for Pickle's liking, considering the situation they were in, but the forty-three-year-old former inmate kept his mouth closed as his friend fell apart in front of him.

  Pickle felt awkward and was unsure what to do. He took a hesitant step forward, about to crouch down and put his arm around the broken man, but Vince quickly composed himself and apologised more than once while furiously wiping his face with his forearm.

  "There's nothin' to apologise for," said Pickle. "We're people. Sometimes crying is what we do, it's what we need to do."

  "I'm sorry," Vince apologised once again and cleared his throat, while his fingers rubbed his soaked eyes.

  "Yer probably not just crying for yer son. It's probably everything. Yer lost yer parents. I know yer say yer no' bothered, but they were still yer parents. Yer were also responsible for the camp and people died."

  "Are you supposed to be cheering me up?"

  "Then there's this Claire that I didn't know. Jack, Shaz..."

  "I suppose everything gets on top of you after a bit."

  "Yes it does. So there's no need to apologise."

  Feeling embarrassed about the breakdown he couldn't stop, Vince blushed a little and desperately tried to change the subject. "I can't believe we have to spend another night in this place."

  "You wanted to go," Pickle began to cackle. "Yer said yer were getting bored."

  "So I did." Vince playfully slapped himself and added, "I think I'll stick to barrier duty from now on. I'm getting too old for this Rambo shit."

  "Just get yerself to sleep," Pickle ordered jokingly.

  Vince gave Pickle a Nazi salute and said, "Yes, Fuehrer," in a bad German accent. Vince puffed out his cheeks and said, "Don't get wandering anywhere now. I don't want my throat being ripped out while I'm asleep."

  "I won't be going anywhere." Pickle pointed at a large thick branch that hung eight feet high to his left. "I'm gonna be doing a few sets of pull-ups on that branch. It's been a while."

  "Seems a waste of time and energy to me."

  "And that's probably why yer built like a twig."

  Vince never responded. His small breakdown earlier seemed to have exhausted him and he was ready for sleep. He closed his eyes, this time relaxed, knowing that Harry Branston wasn't far from his side.

  *

  Karen Bradley had gone to bed early, and seemed to be spending the night in the house alone for the second time.

  It was a humid night, despite the lack of sun over the last few days, and she wriggled about on top of the quilt in her Snoopy pyjamas.

  She was restless.

  Her mind was going a hundred miles an hour and was finding it impossible to sleep. She placed her hand on her belly and smiled to herself, wondering when she was going to feel the first flutter, the first sign that there was a living thing growing inside of her.

  As her mind wandered she began thinking about Pickle and Vince—Pickle especially. She knew he could handle himself, and she knew he was in good company with Vince, who was no shrinking violet himself.

  She sighed and was imagining all kinds of macabre images and scenarios in her head that reduced herself to tears.

  She wiped her eyes and sat up in bed.

  She shook her head and giggled to herself. "Karen, you're such a tit."

  Chapter Fifty One

  July 24th

  It had taken most of the morning, but a team of individuals had gone into the school and began removing the dead one-by-one. A pick-up truck was parked outside the railings as bodies were passed over and placed in the back. Once it was full the truck, driven by Charles Washington, then parked up at the Lea Hall building and then the bodies were placed on and around the patch of grass to the side of the building.

  Exhausted and covered in almost black blood, Sheryl, Lee and Bentley were dumping the last bodies. Lee wanted to just leave them to rot in there, but Bentley insisted on moving the bodies as the school could eventually be somewhere to use.

  One last look around inside the school was achieved by a group of four individuals, then they got washed up and had lunch.

  Half an hour later Lee James was in his hou
se and was sitting, thinking about his wife, Denise, and his kids, who all perished when they were in the woods. He did what he could to protect them, but he had failed and was lucky not to be bit himself.

  A knock on Lee's door interrupted his quiet time, before he was due to go to the barrier. He got out of his chair and could see the blurred outline of a female through the frosted glass of his door. He sighed and opened it, knowing he was about to be greeted by Karen Bradley.

  He huffed jokingly, "What have you come to moan about now?"

  "What do you think?" She had her hands on her hips and her face was raging. "They're still not back."

  "They probably ran into a bit of trouble."

  "That doesn't help."

  Lee rubbed his hands over his head in exasperation and began stroking his thin beard. "They'll be fine. Stop worrying."

  Karen was close to tears. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."

  "That's bullshit. You can't feel anything," snickered Lee. "Look, I'm sick of saying this to people and I'm sick of repeating myself, but we lost Luke, and had one person missing. Four went out to look for Bentley, Sheryl and I came back, Bentley came back, now we have two missing. Do the maths. If we keep sending people out to look for others, then there could be nobody left."

  "Don't fucking exaggerate." Karen was furious and looked like she was ready to strike out. "Can't you even take a drive alongside Hednesford Road? I'm not asking you to get lost in the woods, just drive along the two mile road and back."

  "What would be the point? If they've managed to find the road then there'd be on their way back."

  "What if they're exhausted, dehydrated, starving? Have you ever tried walking two or three miles in that condition? You've never experienced the woods the way we have in the early days. It saps you."

  "Don't patronise me, Karen."

  "I'm not." Karen tucked her brown hair behind her ears and looked like she was calming down a little. "I'm just saying that I know what it's like to be out there, dehydrated with a banging head and starving. Even if they make it on the Hednesford Road, those last two miles can feel like twenty." Karen paused and looked at Lee, knowing now that he was thinking about what she had said.

  He bit his bottom lip in contemplation and began, "Okay. Me and a couple of others will go out and drive along the road for a while, but that's it."

  Karen smiled.

  "I suppose a quick drive won't hurt."

  Karen mocked, "You sure you and your colleagues won't need to vote on this first?"

  "Don't take the piss, Karen."

  Karen's anger had disappeared, and now her face seemed to be pleading. "Can I tag along?"

  "No chance."

  "Why not? All I'll be doing is sitting in a truck."

  "You know why. You're not leaving this camp with the condition you're in."

  "Look—"

  "Karen!" Lee interjected and pointed at the young woman. "Listen to me! It's not happening!"

  "Fine!" she huffed, and her face reddened as she turned on her heels to leave.

  Lee giggled as he watched the twenty-three-year-old storm off. "Crazy bitch," he muttered.

  *

  With Bentley Drummle sitting in the back, Sheryl and Lee made themselves comfortable in the front of the pick-up truck. Sheryl insisted on driving, which didn't bother Lee or Bentley, and soon left once Daniel had reversed the HGV so they could get out of the camp.

  The beginning of the journey was made in silence.

  The vehicle passed the entrance to the Pear Tree Estate, and went into the area of Draycott Park. The truck then passed the Welcome to Rugeley sign, swerving and sometimes running over bodies from weeks gone by, and had now exited the small town, now on the Hednesford Road, swerving around a burnt out Porsche and passing the Stile Cop Road on their left.

  They had been told the story of the Porsche by Pickle. The story that Pickle had passed onto them was a story that was told to Harry Branston by Vince which had come from Jack Slade, days before he died.

  Pickle had told them a few days ago that the Porsche was taken by an inmate, at the beginning of the disaster, who was at first reluctant to leave when he was first opened up; he finally decided to leave the prison. He was called Gary Jenson, and eventually bumped into Jack Slade and became friends for a few days until Gary was raped and murdered.

  They had crashed the car into a horde after a fuel run, and the vehicle wasn't fit to drive after this. Gary decided to set the defunct car alight to stop the many Snatchers from following them, but they walked through the fire with ease and followed them up Stile Cop Road. Some followed the men, or tried, across the field, whereas others went further up the Stile Cop Road.

  When Vince told Pickle this story, Pickle thought that maybe some had gone through the woods as well as making their way up the road, and this led to the attack on Stile Cop that had killed the officers and made Karen, Pickle and his lover, KP, flee the scene, eventually leaving in the prison van.

  Sheryl took a quick glance to her left, looking up the Stile Cop Road, then faced forwards as they went by it.

  "You okay?" questioned Lee. "Did you see anything?"

  Sheryl shook her head twice and kept her eyes on the road. "How far are we actually driving out?"

  "Not far. Don't worry, we won't even need the sawn-offs that are in the back of the truck."

  "How far?" Sheryl asked with impatience.

  Lee announced, "We'll get to the entrance of the industrial estate, then we'll turn around and go back."

  "Okay."

  They made it to the entrance with no hullabaloo whatsoever. Sheryl turned the vehicle around, moaning that the short journey was a waste of petrol, then began to head back to the camp.

  Lee began to chuckle. "That should keep Karen off my back for a while."

  "I can't stand that whiny cunt," Sheryl sniffed. "She's always fucking moaning about something."

  Lee was taken aback by Sheryl's comment. It was a strong statement, even for her. "She's not that bad once you get to know her."

  Sheryl never responded.

  "What about up the Stile Cop Road?" Lee queried as they were only hundreds of yards from the road that was to their right.

  "What about it?"

  "They could have got lost and ended up in that direction."

  "They're fine." Sheryl shook her head with anger and huffed, "They're grown men. And if they're as tough as people say they are..."

  "Just go up the road and back," Lee snapped and gave Sheryl a dirty look. "Now who's being a whiny cunt?"

  "Fuck off." Sheryl seemed reluctant to go up the road, but eventually turned right, and drove up the steep Stile Cop Road, staring into the cemetery that was on their left. As soon as they reached the top, she turned the vehicle around, near the entrance of the beauty spot, and drove back down the hill. "Happy now?"

  "What is wrong with you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Something's up."

  She looked to her right as the vehicle neared the cemetery again and sighed, "Give me a minute, will you?"

  She slowed the vehicle and eventually brought it to a stop. Lee never questioned why she was doing this, and neither did Bentley as she got out of the truck. Both men remained silent.

  She approached the cemetery's gates. She climbed over and, with her back to the men, she stepped forwards a few yards and stared at a headstone from the first row.

  Inside the cemetery Sheryl Smith glared at the headstone and then lowered her head. No tears were spilled and no breakdown occurred.

  Sheryl stayed silent for a minute, then lifted her head up, ready to leave the place. Was she praying?

  "I didn't realise," a voice came from behind her. It was Lee.

  She gasped in fright, turned around and snarled, "Don't go creeping up on me like that!"

  Lee was behind the large gates and hadn't attempted to climb over, but he could still see the headstone that Sheryl was standing by.

  "I'm sorry," said Lee, referring to her
loss. "I had no idea."

  "It doesn't matter now." She approached the gates and before climbing over, she said, "It's done."

  "How did it happen?" he asked her.

  She shrugged her shoulders. "Does it matter?"

  "You don't have to be so cold," Lee said sympathetically. "You can talk to me, if you want. I have lost my family, remember? I have a cry on a daily basis. There is no shame in it."

  "Good for you." Sheryl had climbed over and was now standing yards from Lee.

  "You sure you don't wanna talk?" Lee gazed at the woman and added, "You're not on your own. A lot of us have lost people, and Vince lost his son, Brian, also in the old world."

  "Let's just go," Sheryl said, ignoring his irritating question.

  "Jesus, you're worse than a man."

  "Let's get back to the truck. I need a shit." Sheryl hurriedly went back to the truck.

  "Okay." Lee had given up talking to Sheryl and took one last look at the headstone before going back to the truck. It read, in gold engraving on the black marble:

  Buddy Smith

  To my darling husband, Buddy

  You are the most precious thing in my life

  Love you and will always miss you

  Sheryl

  Underneath the gold engraving, it was established in white lettering that Buddy Smith had died four years ago.

  He was thirty-three years old.

  Chapter Fifty Two

  The fourteen-year-old girl had rested and was now traipsing through the greenery, the bracken stroking her thighs. The hood of the black waterproof poncho was down to enhance her vision through the woods. The day was going to be another murky affair. The dark clouds hung above and the rain finally came. It appeared to be just a drizzle, but the greenery protected her from most of the saltwater that fell, and she knew that out in the open she'd be soaked.

  She was holding her crowbar in her right hand, now that the plantation had become more congested and suffocating, and was preparing herself for the worst case scenario. She had to learn from her mistakes.