The seventh time she said it, she broke down for a few seconds and cleared her throat, mentally reprimanded herself for being weak, and widened her eyes into the shapes of flying saucers to stop them from crying. She wiped her eyes to clear her cloudy vision, and took a deep breath, as she turned left into her secluded street. She immediately touched the brake and didn't progress anymore.
She could see her street had at least ten of the things roaming around her road. If she went back to her house she was convinced that they would bang on her windows until the glass eventually caved in. She didn't want to spend her time locked in her bedroom while these things roamed in the downstairs of her house. At least with wheels, she could move about, get food, get gas, get water, and go somewhere where it was less populated.
"Cocksuckers," she whispered with disdain. Her plan was up in the air. So what next?
She slipped the car into reverse and drove away from her street, heading towards the countryside. Her area was situated on the outskirts of Rugeley, and once she left the town, she would be greeted by two miles of countryside before reaching another populated area. If she continued to go straight on, she would end up in a smaller town called Hednesford. If she took the next left, she would drive up a steep hill and at the top was a secluded wooded area called Stile Cop, it was the highest point in Rugeley. It was popular with ramblers and dog walkers, and to the left and the right of the main steep road were the woods.
She planted her right foot on the gas pedal and sped out of the area. Suddenly her windscreen cracked. It gave her the fright of her life, and she let out a short shriek and lost control of the steering wheel, which span towards the left as she released it. The jeep veered sharply and smashed into a brick wall of a garden, belonging to one of the residents of Draycott Park. It was one of the last houses before the beginning of the countryside.
She straightened her back to compose herself; her neck felt a little stiff, but was aware that the damage to her would have been more extreme if she had been travelling at a higher speed. Her hand took hold of the key once again, and before she had chance to fire the engine once more, she had received another fright as her driver's door suddenly swung open.
A knife was held to her throat and she was told to get out. A middle-aged man leaned over and unbuckled her seatbelt, she scratched the man's face, and for her troubles received a light punch in her stomach. The wind was taken out of her and she was callously dragged out of the car; she tried to grab the man and ripped his pocket seeing his wallet fall to the floor. She was then plonked onto the warm tarmac, and as she tried to get up, a younger man, no older than twenty, swung his boot into her midriff. She curled up like a frightened hedgehog, her weary eyes saw the individuals get into the jeep and the vehicle shot off and turned left as if it was heading for Stile Cop, but it could have been going anywhere, Hazelslade, Upper Longdon or Lichfield. All these places were only a few miles away.
She coughed and couldn't believe the way she had been dealt with. She would have stopped for the men if they'd flagged her, but they had other ideas. It was literally every man for himself.
Why didn't they have a car themselves? She couldn't fathom where they had come from. Maybe they had ran out or were short on fuel. Or maybe the jeep was more beneficial than their own vehicle, because it had more room. Another reason for her carjacking was probably for the vehicle itself. It had a hard steel bumper on the front, it was higher up than the average car, and as proved at Milford, was capable of creating damage to the things when it was going forwards or backwards, and it was less likely to cause engine damage when hitting the beings full-on.
She dragged herself to her feet, coughed a little and was finally beginning to get her breath back, although her stomach was still smarting.
She was on the outskirts of her town and ran over to the cars that sat on the drives; one by one she started to try the doors. She knew there was a chance that the residents were in, but what were they going to do, call the police? She was certain that a police force of any sort probably didn't exist anymore.
She suddenly stopped what she was doing. Why was she trying the cars? She didn't have keys for them, and she certainly hadn't watched enough American TV shows to know how to hotwire one.
She looked around on the main road, and she could see that every house had their curtains drawn. She ran over to the very end house that was sporting a Vauxhall Corsa on the drive. She began to hammer on the front door of the house with her right fist. The commotion she was making was so rambunctious, it was loud enough to wake the first dozen houses, but she didn't care, like the men before her, she had become desperate. At last, a bedroom window opened above her where an elderly man peered over, he looked frightened to death.
"What do you want?" he whispered in fright, and looked over to his left.
"Let me in," Karen ordered with desperation.
"No chance. Besides, I've blocked up the entrance to the door now."
The man was on his way to closing his window when Karen spoke out. "At least give me your car keys."
"Fuck off," was the final reply from the old man as he shut his window.
Karen peered behind her, and once her eyes reported to her brain what she was seeing, her body furiously pumped with adrenaline. The pain in her stomach had miraculously disappeared, and her body had been given a new lease of energy. Without hesitation, she ran as fast as her legs would go. To her the legs weren't going fast enough as if they were made of lead, but it would have to do.
She could hear the shuffling behind her and could only assume that the noise from the initial carjacking, as well as the strident banging of doors from herself, had attracted these things. She took a quick look behind her, her neck cracking as she twisted it; there was nine of them and there was one particular one who moved quicker than the others. Some of the others were clumsy-looking, like drunks after a Saturday night, but the now solitary figure that was yards ahead of his compatriots, was even gaining on an unfit Karen.
She cursed out loud, and told herself not to turn around and to concentrate on running as hurriedly and as hard as she could, but she possessed an abhorrence image that played in her mind. She was scared that, as she was running, a hand would eventually reach out and pull her to the ground. If she were going to be attacked, she would preferably be face-to-face to give herself a fighting chance.
She turned left, and now was heading up the long, steep hill that led to a well-known beauty spot called Stile Cop, as well as the woods itself. She cried out in frustration, as even though her life depended on this, she knew she wasn't going to make it. She took another glance behind her, the hill didn't seem to be a problem for these creatures; they may as well have been moving on a flat surface. She was exhausted and could see the Stile Cop cemetery up ahead before where the incline started; she veered left to find the gates shut and locked. She placed her foot onto the railing and used every last bit of her strength to pull herself up and swing herself over the six-foot gates, and landed on her back onto the grass with a painful thud. She looked to her right as she lay on her back, her lungs burning with pain, aching for oxygen.
She could see the hideous beings all crowding around the gate, their arms reaching in, desperate to touch her, to grab her, to bite her. She was confident that the steel gates were strong enough to hold them, and she remained on her back for a further minute trying to get her breath back, before getting to her feet.
Her heart skipped once she saw a dozen hands grabbing the gate and trying to shake it open, but it wasn't budging. She looked at the poor souls and saw that amongst them was a little boy called Harry—he lived in her street. Although recognisable, his face was pale; his mouth was bloody as if he had already fed on some poor individual. It was a strange predicament to be in.
Karen was in the local cemetery, and the boy who she had taught to whistle was desperate to rip her to pieces. She thought about if the worst came to the worst. There were nine of them, and she wouldn't stand a fighting chance,
as she would be eaten in minutes; devoured before her very eyes until she passed out before her death. It was a death she wouldn't wish on her enemies—not that she had many.
She ran across to the other side of the cemetery, to the disgust of her admirers as they let out disgruntled-like groans as she moved further away. She climbed the fence and jumped onto the other side of the cemetery, and she was now in the woods.
If she ran through the woods to her left, she would be led out to another town called Brereton, but her plan was to avoid populated areas, as she thought the more populated, the more danger there was. She decided to head upwards through the woods; this would eventually lead to the Stile Cop beauty spot that was half a mile away. She could achieve this quicker by running along up the steep hill, but Stile Cop wasn't her intention, staying in the woods and being hidden was. She thought that there was a small chance that those things would eventually work out that if they walked around the perimeter of the cemetery fence, they could get into the woods and be on her trail, but it was a risk she was willing to take.
She decided on the woods for two reasons: one, she didn't really have much of a choice, and two; there were more obstacles for the things to get around. They didn't seem the brightest beings on the planet, but what they did have was a desire, their only goal—like hers—was to feed and survive, and they were determined in achieving that goal. They seemed devoid of much emotion, which told Karen that they had no sense of danger and feared nothing, which also made them extremely dangerous, and she guessed that they probably didn't sleep either, if they were classed as dead.
She had already tested out the theory of outrunning them on a flat road, and it was a battle she had nearly lost because of her already heavy and tired legs from working nightshift. The woods would provide a different scenario for them—or so she hoped. They walked and even ran awkwardly, and Karen was hoping that the woods would slow down their progress if they tried to follow her in.
She remembered playing in there as a kid, and if the place was similar to her memory she had of it as a child, then there was numerous obstacles that should slow them down like chopped down trunks from wood poachers, ditches, and a lot of rocks to climb, as well as the incline itself. Despite their persistence, balance didn't seem to be their strong point, even on a flat surface.
She waved her hands in front of her, brushing away the branches as she strolled through the condensed woods. She took one last look behind her before she progressed deeper, until the trees began to cover the sight of the cemetery. They were still at the gate, although one began to wander away back onto the road and headed back towards Rugeley. She could just about see this through the gaps in the trees, and it made her think that maybe the rest would follow the solitary figure back to the town.
She was convinced, however, that it was only a matter of time before they began stumbling their way up, following her trail. She still didn't understand too much about them; the only information she had was what she briefly saw on the television. She wasn't aware if they followed movement, or if they could actually pick up a scent the way animals did. She didn't have the answer, but she was aware there was a brook up ahead and that the first thing she was going to do was walk in it.
The two reasons she wanted to do this was to cool her body down—she was perspiring heavily and had no water on her. The other reason was to throw off a possible scent in case their instincts told them to enter further into the woods. Of course, she was unsure whether this would do any good and if it would slow down their progression, but she thought it couldn't do any harm. She had seen it many times in the movies before, where the bloodhounds were chasing the escaped prisoner, so she thought that it was worth a shot.
Chapter Eighteen
As they finally left Glasgow City Centre over the bridge, Jack Slade turned the car right and drove through a small place called Tradeston. The traffic lights were still working, but obviously he wasn't adhering to their command.
As he passed the Springfield Quay, alongside the River Clyde, he saw another car in the distance and it flashed its headlights, and the driver gave Jack the thumbs up as he speedily passed his Vauxhall Meriva. Another two cars could be seen speeding out from a junction and waved at him as they went by. The two cars looked like they had children in them, and Jack hoped that wherever their destination, hopefully they would get there in one piece.
He zoomed through the lights still naturally looking to the side to see if there were pedestrians waiting to cross, even though Paisley Road West was deserted. He looked to his left to the passenger seat; Robbie was still in an uncomfortable position. His head was back and he continued to grab his injured shoulder from the car park incident. Jack had promised Robbie that when they got to his home, he would strap him up and try and call Robbie's family to see if they were okay. He looked to be having a fever, the blood looked drained from his face, and cold sweat emerged in pearly drops on his forehead. He then closed his eyes.
"Don't fall asleep on me now," Jack warned.
Robbie responded immediately by opening his eyes, and looked over to his driver and said, "I nearly dropped off there. Don't forget I've just done a twelve-hour nightshift."
"You can get some sleep when you get to my house," Jack said sternly.
As he began passing Bellahouston Park, he saw to the right of him, the large police station. "Wait a minute."
He pulled over, and got out of his car and ran over the empty road to the entrance of the police station. His feet stopped once he saw seven bodies lying on the tarmac of the police station's entrance. The bodies looked fresh and had been shot, and the concrete around them was covered in blood.
He attempted to shake the image off and then tried the large double glass doors that led to where the public would walk in for enquiries, but the doors were firmly shut, in fact, there were a few obstacles put in front of the door—a filing cabinet and a couple of tables.
He looked up to the first floor and saw the twitch of a set of blinds.
A police station would be perfect, he thought; they had guns, protected vans, and a secure building.
He shouted up at the first floor window, but there was zero response. The blinds twitched once more; he saw briefly two people gazing at the cause of the commotion.
He half-laughed at what was happening. He looked up at the sign over the reception area where a banner hung, it said: Strathclyde Police: To protect your community. He shook his head with dismay, and was certain that there was probably dozens upon dozens of uniformed officers in there. He really was on his own.
Jack lost all control and banged on the glass of the doors and began to sob. No words came out of his mouth; it was noises, noises of frustration and faintheartedness. He didn't really blame the police; if he was in their position he may have done the same, they were only human after all. He obliterated his tears and saliva with his uncovered forearm, and tried to compose himself.
Jack took another look up to the window, and lowered his head in defeat. He looked around to see no sign of life, no people and none of those beings either, just the seven bodies that lay on the tarmac behind him. The closer he looked, the more it appeared that they had been shot more than once. They had been massacred.
He then looked back at the police station and thought, surely not. Did our own police force shoot these people? Why? Because they wanted to get in? Because they were scared and demanded why their police force had abandoned them? Were they shot because of the noise they were making?
As he began to walk away he heard the window of the first floor open; in the background he could hear a few voices protesting about the opening of the window. Then he heard a voice say to a colleague, "It's just a man on his own."
The face of a middle-aged man peered out. The policeman above Jack finally spoke. "We have an armed unit inside, waiting for those…things. We can't help you; we're under strict instructions. I'm sorry; don't come back here. Good luck, wee guy."
Jack looked behind him and glared at t
he dead bodies, their blood covered the concrete steps. "And what happened to these people?"
The policeman then began to sob, and cried, "God, forgive us." He was then pulled away from view by a pair of hands and the window was shut firmly.
Jack stared at the bodies again in disbelief. After a thirty-second misbelieving gaze, he jogged over to the car to see Robbie had fallen asleep. He got into the car and drove away.
Five minutes later he was in Pollok. He was home.
He lived in a large and long street called Broomlaw Road, and although he had passed a dozen of the infected, the reasonably populated street was bare of human or other kind of life.
He pulled up on his drive and tried to wake Robbie up, he wasn't budging. He tried slapping his face but the big man was in too much of a deep sleep. Unless Jack opened the passenger side of his door and kicked him out onto the floor, there didn't seem to be any way of waking him up, even then, he wasn't convinced that this would stir him.
He decided to leave the man inside the car; he wasn't bleeding heavily and providing the car was locked up, he was sure he would be safe, besides, Jack Slade wasn't preparing to hang around for too long. The sooner he dropped Robbie off at his home—wherever that was, the better. At least then the only thing he could concentrate on was driving south to see his son.
He had already made his mind up.
If he was going to die within the next week or month, he wanted his last days to be spent with his boy.
Jack got into his house and locked himself in; he needed caffeine and the first thing he did was fill the kettle. He got a teaspoon from his drawer and took two spoons of coffee and placed them in his mug. He then went into the cupboard and pulled out his bag; he walked back into the kitchen and began to fill his bag with whatever he thought was edible and drinkable, also some toiletries were placed inside.
Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) Page 10
