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

by Shaun Whittington

  Only a week ago she had walked into somebody's back garden, looking for food, and went into the greenhouse to pick herself tomatoes. A ghoul that was stuck at the back of the greenhouse—she presumed it used to be the owner, came from nowhere and grabbed her as she was munching on a ripe tomato. She fell backwards with the thing on top of her, the bow digging into her back, and had managed to get the rotting beast off of her. She scrambled through her bag as it was trying to get to its feet, and managed to put it out of its misery with the crowbar.

  Her short daydreaming of yesteryear had come to a close once her ears picked up the sound of rustling branches. She knew that it could be anything, but her heart galloped and she feared the worst. She stood still and took off her bow as her eyes clocked a figure walking through the woods from thirty yards away.

  She aimed her arrow and waited patiently. She crept a few steps and tried to follow the noise. She then gazed at an area of the woods that appeared to be open, and could see two men she had seen before. One was skinny and was talking, whilst the other individual appeared to be quite muscular and was silent.

  She squinted her eyes and saw something else that caught her eye, behind the men, something that they hadn't seen yet. She half-laughed at the men. The skinny individual was still moaning about something and both of them noisily dragged their feet. It appeared that stealth wasn't their strong point. Maybe they were just tired.

  She could now see that many yards behind the men the figure was now a ghoul, and there were many others behind them.

  "Shit. There's dozens of them."

  She pulled the string back on her bow and aimed the arrow in the direction of the two men. There were many trees in her way, and she tried to find a sufficient gap.

  *

  "Great." Vince smiled. "It's raining." He opened his mouth and tried to catch the drops of water that fell out of the heavens, but there was little water going in. "Fuck. It's not raining hard enough."

  "Stop yer moaning." Pickle began to laugh. "Yer always fucking moaning."

  "We all have our faults, Pickle We all have our hang-ups," said Vince. "Look at me. I've always been paranoid that one of my balls is bigger than my other two."

  "I don't know what's worse: The dehydration or yer jokes."

  Despite the sleep that they had both managed, both men were still exhausted. And dehydration and hunger was still a problem.

  "I'm really tired, Pickle." Vince was staggering around and his left shoulder banged into a tree trunk, knocking him down. Pickle helped him up.

  "It's okay." Pickle tried to remain positive and could see that Vince was giving up.

  "I'm never looking for anyone again. Even if it's you."

  "I wouldn't want anyone to look for me anyway. I can handle myself."

  "Fucking hell!" Vince bumped into another tree, but managed to remain on his feet this time.

  "Alright." Pickle nervously looked around. "Keep yer voice down. It's so congested here, we don't even know what's ten yards in front of us."

  "I need a drink." Vince looked at Harry Branston. "I'm sorry for whining like a bitch, but I'm not as strong as you."

  "Right," Pickle ordered. "Stop."

  Vince did as he was told and Pickle asked him to turn around. Once Vince did this Pickle began to take the bag off of Vince's shoulders. Pickle rummaged through the bag and took out a sawn-off and some empty tins. He put the sawn-off into his own bag and threw Vince's into the bushes. "Giving you nothing to carry should make things a little easier."

  They veered left onto a dirt path and could hear the sound of disturbed branches behind them. Out of the bushes came a lone ghoul, lunging out. It fell on top of an exhausted Vince, and before Pickle had chance to grab the handle of his machete a whizzing sound went past his left ear and an arrow struck the side of the ghoul's head.

  It collapsed on top of Vince, who quickly pushed the thing off of him, and both men stood around and scanned the area for the mysterious archer.

  "What do yer think?" Pickle asked Vince.

  "Dunno," he murmured, his heart beating out of his chest from his near-death experience. "I suppose you probably think it's a gift from God."

  "Don't mock me, Vince." Pickle then turned away from Vince and said, "Probably somebody who just happened to be in the same vicinity as us. That was some shot, considering the amount of trees that are here."

  "Maybe it was the same guy that we saw the other day."

  Pickle never responded and gasped, "What's that sound?"

  Both men's ears pricked up and they both began to jog away from the sound. They couldn't see anything, but it was obvious, by the moaning and the clumsy steps, that there were many of the dead heading towards them.

  They came across the stream and Vince immediately went over to it and began scooping up the water in his hands and drinking. He didn't care if the water was polluted, or if a corpse had been sitting in it for weeks. He was desperate for any kind of fluid.

  "Shit." Pickle took a look around where they were.

  "What is it?" Vince asked inbetween drinking scoops of water, slurping noisily. "What's the matter?"

  "Where do we go?"

  Vince stood up and could see that their options of escape was limited. Without having time to reflect, they began to run away as the sound of the dead grew louder. They both stopped and could see a hill to the right of them, and the River Trent two hundred yards to the left.

  The first six beasts came out of the woods and into the open.

  Asked Vince, "Shall we run?"

  "We might be able to take them."

  Pickle pulled out his machete, but Vince sighed, "Do we have to?"

  Pickle took a step forward and planted his blade in the side of the first ghoul's head. He quickly stepped aside and, as his first victim began to drop, the second ghoul was speared through its forehead.

  Vince had managed to ram his blade through the third, but Pickle could see that it took a lot of effort for Vince to take just the one out, when usually he hacked at them like a maniac.

  Pickle took one more out, thinking that there was only going to be two left, and was about to dip into his bag to take them out with the sawn-off, but many more Snatchers slowly came out through the trees in their many numbers. The scene reminded Pickle of how they were attacked back at Stile Cop in the first week. The dead were of a mixed variety: men, women, young and old, and children were amongst the gang of the thirty-strong horde.

  "We can't take them," panted Vince, stating the obvious. "Where now?"

  "The hill." Pickle pointed at the river to their left. "That's the River Trent, so the Hednesford Road must be over that hill."

  "I'll never make it."

  "Yes yer will."

  Both men took a run at the steep hill. Pickle still had the bag on his back and was making better progress with the climb than the exhausted Vince Kindl. There were a few rocks and small trees to grab a hold of to make the climb easier, but Vince just didn't have the energy and had only managed to go ten feet up.

  "I'm not gonna make it." Vince looked over his shoulder and could see a few of the dead were now at the bottom of the hill and unable to get up, the rest were behind.

  "Yes yer will," Pickle urged Vince. "We're halfway there already."

  "It's too steep." Vince was almost in tears and was yards behind Pickle. Harry Branston stopped climbing and waited for Vince to catch up. He looked at the last part of the hill. The last five feet was practically vertical and Pickle knew that that was going to be the hardest part of the climb.

  Pickle looked down at Vince and said, "Yer doing well."

  Vince grabbed a hold of a small tree that was sticking out of the hill and pulled himself up further.

  "That's the spirit," Pickle laughed, and began climbing again. "Another two minutes and we'll be there. That last bit looks a bit o' a bitch, but I bet—"

  "Fuck!"

  Pickle was helpless as he saw Vince fall. The small tree had come out by the root and Vince tum
bled down the hill, still clutching onto the plant. Pickle gazed, feeling hopeless, and yelled, "Vince! Try and grab something! Anything!"

  Pickle's desperate words fell on deaf ears and he hopelessly watched Vincent Kindl tumble towards the bottom of the hill where some of them were waiting for him.

  "Oh shit, shit, shit." Pickle's heart was in his mouth and breathed a small sigh once Vince had reached out and managed to grab a rock. The dead were yards from him, reaching out, trying to grab at him, some almost stroking the soles of his boots with their outstretched fingers.

  Vince looked up at the hill, and then saw Pickle and shook his head with a sad smile. He wasn't going to make it. He knew he wasn't going to make it. Not even the thought of being ripped to pieces gave him the energy to try and make the climb again.

  He put his left hand up at Pickle, and this moved the forty-three-year-old Harry Branston. Was Vince saying goodbye?

  Vince let go of the rock and fell to the bottom. He pulled out his machete and tried to stand on his feet as they encircled him. He was aware that there was only ten, but the other twenty or so weren't far away and if he didn't move soon, he was finished.

  Pickle shook his head. "I'm coming!"

  Pickle slowly climbed back down and knew that the only way out of this mess together was to unload the shotguns at the crowd, try and shoot their way through, then head back into the woods. It was an impossible idea. Even more so that they were both exhausted, especially Vince.

  Pickle slipped a few yards as his hand slipped off a rock that he had a hold of, and looked over his shoulder once he had managed to gain his composure and looked down.

  Vince was hacking like a maniac with the large blade whilst trying to progress through them, and kicked out at others that neared him. He had somehow got through them without being hurt, and the four defunct bodies suggested he had at least some energy left in his reserves. He was now struggling away from the crowd, away from the woods where more came out and he was now heading for the river. Pickle watched in horror as Vince held his machete up as he stood at the edge of the river bank, waiting for them to come.

  Pickle had no idea what Vince had in mind. Maybe Vince didn't know. Maybe he was trying to entice them into the river; but now there seemed to be too many as they continued to pour out of the woods. The nearest few had now reached him and he took a few lazy swipes. He was spent.

  "Oh Vince." Pickle couldn't keep his eyes away from what was happening, and gasped when Vince took one more swipe at the nearest ghoul. He was then grabbed by two of them, and all three fell backwards and into the river.

  Pickle watched in horror as Vince was being swept away, with more of the ghouls stupidly falling in after him. All Pickle could see was arms in the air and Vince's head coming up once in a while, desperate for breath, while the river's current kept on pulling him further away.

  As soon as Vince disappeared from view, Pickle lowered his head sadly. "Please God. Let him live. Let him live."

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Harry Branston had struggled for ten minutes to get to the top of the hill. Once he had made it he remained on his front, out of breath, and stayed there until his heart slowed to a normal rate. The climb had been made a little tougher with the bag on his back, and the thoughts of Vince Kindl being swept down that river didn't help either.

  He got to his feet, very slowly, and had a check around where he was. It was a grassy hill that stretched for hundreds of yards. On the other side of the hill was a descent, and Pickle knew that Hednesford Road shouldn't be far from here. He had always been told by Lee James that this stretch of road was never too far from the river and was always to the left of it. He was true to his word.

  It seemed that his short walk across the hill wasn't going to pose any threat, It was a flat hill, there was no sign of Snatchers anywhere, and he could see where his feet were going.

  Because of the lack of danger this area posed, Pickle allowed his mind to wander and began to think about Vince. He hoped he was okay, but it didn't look good. Vince was exhausted and dehydrated before he fell into the river, and having some of the dead falling into the river after him only increased the danger to his life. If he hadn't drowned, he could have been attacked by one of those freaks.

  The omens weren't good.

  As his tired feet dragged through the grass, Pickle's melancholy mood was making him upset and he decided to snap out of it. He was now getting near the other side of the hill. Once he was near the edge he stood and stared. A smile refused to stretch across his face as he could see the Hednesford Road in the distance. It was cruel that they had been in the woods for a couple of days and Vince had been swept away when they were so close to the road. It wasn't fair.

  He looked down and shook his head at the steepness of the hill. It didn't seem to be as bad as the other side, but it was still going to be tough getting down without twisting an ankle or two.

  "Shit." Pickle shook his head. "This is steeper than Cardboard Hill."

  With the bag still on his back, Pickle sat on his backside. He then slid slowly down and kept his eyes on the main road that wasn't far away. Once he had managed to get to the bottom, there was a two-minute walk across a farmer's field before he could reach it.

  He stood up once his feet reached the bottom of the hill, and brushed his backside with the palms off his hands. He looked at the field he had to cross and then took his bag off and rummaged through it. Even though he had a machete tucked into his belt, he pulled out the two loaded sawn-offs out of the bag and walked across the field with one in each hand.

  It was clear, but he was taking nothing for granted. He was taking no chances.

  He trudged through the field with his mind being plagued with the image of Vince once more, and climbed over the small fence that surrounded the field. There was a sense of relief once his feet were touching the tarmac of the main road that had been talked about for days, but with Vince being cruelly taken away only twenty minutes ago he couldn't help feeling down.

  He guessed that he had three miles to walk. He wasn't familiar with this area, but was certain that the entrance to the Hednesford Industrial Estate was further up.

  Dressed in his black sweaty T-shirt, his dirty black bottoms and boots, and carrying a sawn-off shotgun in each hand, Pickle knew that if a vehicle was to appear, there was a huge chance that they'd drive by. He wasn't quite in the same mess that he was in when he turned up at Vince's camp all those weeks ago, when the guards thought he was one of the dead, but he was still in a mess.

  He thought back to that incident. Shit, he thought. There had been so much going on that he had forgot about it. He had met a man called Tommy Burns. He stayed at a house with Tommy for the night, and told him about the camp of Vince's. Tommy decided to tag along with Pickle but was taken down. Pickle then made his way on his own and was attacked and had to kill one with his bare hands, getting covered in its blood. When he finally turned up at Vince's he was a mess, but he was alive.

  Pickle gazed down the road and could see that it was clear. To either side of him was flat fields and no sign of possible danger. However, as he progressed further and the landscape changed, he knew that this feeling of being safe could be short-lived. Despite the area being free from danger he kept each shotgun in his hand. It was nice to have the weight in each hand, rather than having the weapons in his bag and putting further strain on his back, and now that he was out in the open he could feel more spells of breezes cooling down his sweaty frame.

  A peaceful twenty minutes had passed and Pickle was now past the entrance to the industrial estate where Luke John, Bentley Drummle, Lee James and Sheryl Smith had gone to—the reason why Pickle was in this mess in the first place, and he sighed once he saw a wooded area on either side of the road that seemed to stretch for a good mile. He was going to have to be on his guard.

  Looking from side-to-side Pickle clasped his clammy hands tighter on the shotguns and looked at each cluster of trees, hoping that no surprises we
re going to turn up. It would be a cruel twist for Harry Branston to get so close to the camp, only to be attacked or be forced to move in another direction. The way it had gone for Vince, he wouldn't be surprised if it did happen.

  The muscles in his thighs felt like they had been replaced with steel. He was finding it so hard to move properly, and considering the lack of food and water as well as the exercise he had to endure, it was a wonder he was still standing at all.

  He widened his teary eyes in an effort to sharpen his concentration, and tried to pass the wooded area as quietly as he could. An occasional drag of the foot would occur, but it turned out better that he thought. He had passed the wooded area and was now back with a view of flat fields to either side of him.

  Before he could feel relief he heard some rustling behind him, but refused to stop walking. He feared that if he stopped, his heavy legs wouldn't be able to move once placed in the stationary position.

  He turned his head over his shoulder but couldn't see anything. The legs were still moving, but he hadn't been able to feel them for a while. Pickle tried to pick up his speed, but he felt like he was in a realistic dream. No matter how hard he tried to run, the same slow speed was the only outcome.

  Another rustle could be heard, and as he looked behind he could see one creature stumble out of the congested wooded area. Pickle shook his head, fatigue slowly crippling his body, and barely had the strength to raise the shotgun in his right hand. Once the being got close enough, he squeezed the trigger and watched as it fell backwards to the floor. Its head blew out diseased brain and blood from the blast, and sprayed out onto the tarmac.

  Pickle dragged his feet along the road and tried to pick up his pace, which was proving difficult, and heard more noises coming from behind him. He didn't want to look behind, but he did, and saw more coming out of the trees on the same side of the road. He looked at the shotgun in his right hand and had assumed that the Snatchers had been attracted to the noise of the weapon. Rookie mistake!