Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3)

by Shaun Whittington

  Was it from his prison?

  Shrugging this off, he turned right and headed for Hazelslade, hoping that his girl would still be there. Now he was out, he was desperate to see her, but was also desperate for a place to stay.

  His mind wandered back to when he escaped the prison, and how quiet the car park was. Maybe he should have slept in the car park and looked for his girlfriend during the daylight. Hindsight was playing with him, but the scenario of sleeping in the car, in the prison car park and being surrounded by those things as he slept, was also a very real incident that could have occurred.

  He was pleased that he hadn't seen any more of the beings since he left Draycott Park, and was hoping that the small village of Hazelslade was almost untouched by the parasites. His thoughts went back to what he witnessed when he drove by the Wolseley Arms pub, where dozens upon dozens of them were heading into the town. He thought that even if Hazelslade was almost untouched, it would only be a matter of time before the hungry, contaminated creatures invaded the place.

  He looked to his left as he progressed slowly down the main road and saw a figure lying on the garage. Was it one of them?

  He pulled the car over in the quiet street. The figure lying on top of the garage appeared to move and Gary, who was sure the street was safe, stepped out of the car and took a step closer to investigate. He could hear murmurings coming from behind the fence that belonged to the house. It unnerved him, as it told him that some of those things were in the back garden; he turned on his heels and jogged back to his car.

  "Wait," he heard a whispery voice pierce the night.

  The figure stood to his feet and jumped onto the floor from the garage roof; his movement had stirred the beings from behind the fence and they were now beginning to slap it furiously, knowing that there was something or someone behind the fence worth devouring.

  The figure jogged towards Gary; he introduced himself as Jack Slade.

  "I've come here to see my girlfriend," Gary said coldly. "She lives at the end of the street, and I don't have time for passengers."

  "It's okay," Jack spoke with assurance. "I'm looking for my ex-girlfriend—my son more than anything else. Kerry Evans? You know her?"

  Gary shook his head. "Nah; never heard of her."

  "You better go; it's not safe round here. The streets are reasonably quiet, but there're loads of those things in the back gardens of these houses, some are trapped."

  Gary was almost about to step into the car, when he turned to Jack. "Need a bed for the night?"

  Jack nodded frantically. He thought he would never ask.

  Gary took one look at the bike and glared back at Jack. "You got a death wish or something?"

  "It's handy, for weaving in and out of alleys and stuff."

  Gary shook his head disapprovingly. "Oh well, it's your funeral. Let's go."

  They both took the short journey to the end of the street, individually. Jack was on the bike with Gary in the damaged, but still driveable, Porsche. They pulled up at the house, and both walked up the drive with fear forcing them to twist their neck left and right, as the darkness had become an excellent way to cover up the evil that could potentially stalk them.

  Jack gently slapped Gary on the shoulder and pointed up the road where three of the creatures appeared to be heading their way. They had either spotted them, or the noise of the vehicles had attracted their attention.

  "I hope you've got a key for this place?" Jack half-joked.

  "Usually under the plant pot," Gary said. "At least, that's where she used to leave it."

  "Really?"

  "It's just a village, no crime. It's one of those places where you can leave your door open."

  Gary peered inside the living room window and saw that there was no one in, and looked like there were no signs of barricading, as the furniture was still immaculately placed. This disappointed him, as it meant that his girlfriend had left. She could be anywhere.

  He looked under the plant pot that sat idly on the concrete doorstep, and grabbed the spare key and let himself and Jack inside. He locked the door behind him and walked through the house. He flicked a light switch at the bottom of the stairs and the landing light on the top of the stairs came on.

  "This is the only light that goes on," he instructed to Jack. "And keep the curtains closed."

  "Fair enough, don't wanna be attracting those fuckers during the night."

  Jack picked up an iPad that was sitting on the fireplace and opened it up; he began pressing a few keys. "Well, the Internet's still working," he announced. "I wonder if you can still get online news?"

  Gary shook his head, his body language soaked in negativity. "Check any of the papers online, see what it says about what's been happening recently. What about Facebook? If your Kerry or my Jemma's phones are working, they might have put something on."

  Jack tapped the Facebook app and shook his head. "Not working."

  Jack sat down, placed the iPad on his lap and, for a few minutes, glared at the online news sites. The madness that was occurring where they were, was nothing compared to what the main cities were being subjected to, as he showed Gary some of the articles that somehow had been released. Despite what was happening, there were pockets of journalists out there still trying to do their job.

  They're probably releasing statements online because they're still stuck in their office.

  Jack announced, "So what do we do now?"

  Gary shrugged his shoulders. "Probably be best if I stay here, in case she comes back. Probably the best thing to do is stay inside. Think about it, those clumsy things will suffer, after tripping, walking off of bridges and stumbling around on dark cloudy nights. They'll eventually be limbless, toothless and with every bone in their body broken.

  "Seriously, in the event of this kind of disaster, just stay inside, watch all the episodes of Lost back to back, then walk out on your lawn with your rake and tidy up the afters. That's what we should do."

  "I like your style." Jack smiled. "And I wish it was as simple as that, but I need to find my son."

  Gary picked the landline phone up. "Still working. Wanna give Kerry a ring on her mobile, or try her house?"

  "My phone got smashed back in Glasgow. I don't know her number off the top of my head."

  "Where're they from?"

  "Rugeley. But they came over here to her mother's, but they could be back in Rugeley, as when I went to her mother's I was told they'd left…I don't really know anymore. I just wanna see them."

  Gary was lost in thought and told Jack he'd be back in a minute. Gary left the house and went to his neighbour's. Jack wondered what the hell he was doing and peered out of the window to see Gary talking to someone through their letterbox. A minute later he was back.

  Gary was wearing a wide smile on his face.

  "What?" Jack said,

  "Was talking to Doris, next door. Poor woman's out of her mind. She said that a large group were outside here, a day or so ago, and left with a reasonable sized convoy. Jemma was with them, and she recognised your Kerry and her mother with a little boy."

  "What? Really?"

  "This is a village of about four…five hundred people, most of 'em are old folk. If they're not together now, they certainly left together."

  Jack added, "The old woman down the street said a load of people from here left in groups and some went to a church, while others went to a village hall, or something."

  Gary smiled. "So your Kerry and my Jemma could be together?"

  Jack sat down in one of the armchairs; his body language gave off negative, beaten vibes. "Maybe."

  Gary spoke with confidence. "In the morning, we'll check some of the halls, but we can't venture too far, it's too dangerous. Then I need to pop to Rugeley. It's the nearest place where there's a petrol station and I need to top up before things get real messy."

  Jack thought the idea was desperate, and was. He looked around the living room and shook his head. "Why are you doing this for me?"r />
  Gary shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. We're in the same boat now; we may as well help one another. If you find your son, then there's a good chance Jemma will be there with them."

  Gary stood to his feet and went into the bottom cupboard that sat next to the TV and pulled out a bottle of whisky. "Once you've finished messing on the Internet and we've barricaded ourselves upstairs, what do you say to a wee tipple."

  Jack's weekend had already been an alcohol-fuelled party and a day off for his liver would be welcomed, but he didn't want to offend his gracious host, and replied, "Sounds good to me."

  Chapter Forty Five

  KP felt for Laz, and thought about him as he stood guard near the wooded area of Stile Cop. Although he insisted to Pickle that someone should also stand guard by the edge of the beauty spot where there was a massive decline, Pickle refused and comforted the anxious KP by informing him that the hill was almost humanly impossible to climb, and that meant completely impossible for any one of those clumsy and unstable deadheads as well.

  Comforted by Pickle's confidence, he finally agreed with his fellow ex-inmate and stood in his area without verbally challenging him. KP occasionally looked to his left to make sure there was nothing unusual clambering out of the woods, and then to his right as he watched the shocked group, David Pointer, Pickle, Jamie, Janine and Karen sitting around the dying fire. Davina was sleeping in the car with her daughter. KP could see that Janine was somehow fast asleep on Jamie's shoulder, which was probably a wise move, as she was up next on guard duty.

  He swapped the pistol from one hand to the next every few seconds, almost as if he was playing catch with himself. It was his way of stopping himself from losing his grip. His clammy hands were annoying him, and every time he swapped the gun, the free hand was wiped on his trousers and vice versa. The safety catch on his Browning was on and the gun was cocked, he was taking nothing for granted.

  As the fire burned humbly, the group passed between them a two-litre bottle of diet cherry cola around the campfire. Pickle had asked the group if they were thirsty, and it was the first thing he took out the van. The group never protested, as they were sick of the sights of water, despite deep down knowing that this vital liquid was the best thing for their dehydration.

  Karen was the last to take a generous swig and screwed the lid back on and placed it beside her feet. Janine was sleeping on Jamie's shoulder, Jamie's eyes were half-closed, David Pointer's head was lowered, staring at the shoes on his feet, and Pickle and Karen, who sat next to one another, sat in quiet.

  The pair of them had spent an hour in each other's company, and Pickle showed Karen how to load and reload the Browning pistol in case she had to fire one. He also showed her where the safety catch was and informed her that target practice was not advisable, as it may attract unwanted attention, which she agreed.

  He told her that later he would teach her how to dismantle the gun, and piece it back together as, in order for it to work consistently, it regularly needed cleaning. Pickle told Karen that the SAS used to carry the Browning cocked with the safety catch on, to allow for a quicker draw and fire. He also used this method in case anything threatening took them by surprise.

  The group were ready for sleep, if that at all was possible after the death of Laz. The Pointers had their car, and there was a cell each inside the prison van for the rest of them, whilst one of them stood guard during the night. The tiny cells were not designed for sleeping, they were designed for inmates to stand up in, but curled up in a ball on the floor was achievable.

  Karen finally broke the silence and turned her attention to Pickle, who was sitting to her left. "Shame about Laz."

  Pickle shifted awkwardly, and took a while to reply to her comment. "It is. He was a decent enough bloke. I didn't have a shovel, so it had to be a shallow grave. I had to use the heel of ma boots mainly. Still, I couldn't just leave him there, it would be disrespectful to leave him there to rot away."

  "Not only that," Karen added softly. "He'd stink the place out; attract all kinds of wildlife."

  Pickle turned to his right to look at the attractive twenty-three-year-old, and shook his head at her strange response. "Are yer always this cold?" he asked with a half-smile.

  "I never used to be, but a few days ago I was working in a hospital, trying to pay the mortgage. Now, in the space of a couple of days, I've had to toughen up after losing my boyfriend, my family may be dead, and everything I took for granted like television, food, even my car, has changed. My way of life has changed, which means my priorities have changed."

  "Everybody's in the same boat." This time it was Pickle's turn to be cold, but Karen knew there was a touch of realism in what he had said.

  "Yeah, I know. I'm not feeling sorry for myself." Karen's response was defensive, and decided to change the subject before the conversation turned into a blazing row. She said, "How's your nose?"

  He touched it gently with his left hand and winced. "Still sore."

  "Sorry about that."

  Another gulf of quietude threatened to surround them, and Karen was ready to turn in. Her backside from sitting on the hard sand was becoming sore, as if she had been punched, and her eyes were becoming heavy.

  Pickle had prevented her leaving, temporarily, as he returned to their original talk. "Yer say yer priorities have changed. So what are yer priorities, now?"

  Karen thought long and hard about Pickle's question and released a long, and fabricated moan. She felt his eyes gazing at her during her deliberation, and it didn't feel like any normal gaze, it was something she felt uncomfortable with, the way Oliver had stared at her during their latter hours in the woods.

  She thought the worst of Pickle for a minute. Here was a man who had been incarcerated for God knows how long, and had been locked way from women. He was now out in a lawless land, and anything could happen. If he raped her by gunpoint, who was going to convict him if the law had ceased to exist?

  "My priorities?" Karen was finally getting around to answer Pickle's question. "My main priority is to stay alive."

  "Is that it?"

  She nodded without eyeing him. "That's it. So long as I'm breathing, there's always hope."

  "So if we ever get surrounded by those things, and it's just me and you carryin' guns, what would yer do?"

  "Honestly?" Karen smiled. "I'd put a bullet in your leg, and make a run for it as those cocksuckers tore you to pieces. At least then it would give me a chance to escape."

  Pickle giggled and slapped his right knee, he pointed at Karen. "I knew yer were going to say that." He then cleared his throat and spat onto the floor beside him.

  "Oh, I'm not joking."

  His tittering began to subside, and his smile very slowly disappeared from his face. He cleared his throat, and although originally affronted by Karen's comment, he simultaneously began to respect her for her honesty and her toughness.

  Pickle was a tough nut, but here was a twenty-three-year-old nurse who seemed mentally tougher than him. Instead of crippling her like it had for David Pointer, this new terrifying event had made her stronger, and he admired that. She had mental strength that she probably thought she never had.

  "In that case," Pickle indicated with a grin. "Maybe I shouldn't give yer this."

  Pickle handed Karen his nine-millimetre Browning.

  She glared at him with mischievousness. Was he joking?

  He then tossed two magazines onto her lap, and including the magazine in the pistol she was now the proud owner of a pistol and thirty-nine bullets.

  "What about you?"

  Pickle chuckled softly and stood up his B725 shotgun that was resting by the side of his legs. "I have this baby."

  "How...?"

  Pickle elevated his eyebrows, waiting for Karen to finish her question. She didn't, so he completed it for her. "How did I get a hold of the guns?"

  Karen nodded with a suspicious scowl. She knew he was a prisoner, but didn't think he was a hardcore criminal. He didn't look
the type. Pickle was very muscular, but she felt there was a gentle side to the man. Maybe she was wrong.

  "Let's just say I used to be a bad boy, and we'll leave it at that." A hush came over the two weary individuals and Pickle decided to keep the chat going. "Yer a nurse, Karen. How do yer think something like this could happen—medically, I mean?"

  Karen gently shook her head. "I'm a nurse, not a scientist. But, if I'm guessing…a virulent rabies-influenza viral hybrid, could lead to masses of infected victims turning into violent creatures. I had this discussion with KP earlier. The radio I listened to reckons it could be rabies related or some kind of malfunction of a cure vaccine."

  "I suppose it depends on yer beliefs." Pickle grinned. "I believe it's God's doing, but if yer a Darwinist or heavily into science, ma theory would be laughed at."

  Karen spoke, "I don't know. I don't think we'll ever get to find out, although it may be related to the incident that happened in Newcastle. Jamie mentioned terrorists before, and everyone laughed at him, but why not? The world has amazing scientists who can clone people, so a mixture of the rabies and flu virus wouldn't take much to create in a laboratory."

  "Yet, they can't find a cure for the cold."

  "Well, that's true." Karen began to sit up, straightening her back and leaned over to Pickle. "In order to make someone become one of those Snatchers in the first place, the virus would have to destroy all of the brain except for the amygdala, which is responsible for the flight or fight instinct and the medulla oblongata, which is responsible for processing neurological signals from the brain and spinal cord, movements such as walking and grabbing. The virus would have to rip the brain down to its most basic components known as ataxic neurodegenerative satiety deficiency syndrome, or ANSD."

  "That's what I was thinking," Pickle mocked gently.

  Added Karen, "After creating a virus capable of destroying all parts of the brain necessary for reasoning and awareness, then they would next determine its method of transmission. The virus doesn't have to be airborne to cause a crisis. The biting is a slower process than an airborne virus, but it can still be effective if we don't get on top of the catastrophe.