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

by Shaun Whittington

  Paul smiled as he watched Jack continue to embrace Kerry and Thomas, and turned his attention back to Lee. He looked around and shrugged his shoulders in confusion. "Where's the rest?"

  The sadness on Lee's face suggested that Paul wasn't going to like his answer. "Dunno, some are dead, but most fled. Those things just walked into the hall; don't know what happened to Oliver and Kevin. They were supposed to be keeping guard. They probably saw them and ran off."

  "No, they wouldn't do that," Paul said adamantly. "Where did everyone go?"

  Again, Lee shook his head. "Dunno. We didn’t have time to lock up; they just stumbled through the main door. We just left once the first few were attacked."

  "Who was attacked?"

  "Little Yoler was the first to get it once we got outside. Thankfully, Kerry and Thomas were the first to run. They never saw a thing."

  "Oh God." Paul put his hand over his mouth. He never understood why humans did this, but he automatically did once he was told about little eight-year-old Yoler.

  "Naturally, Ian went to protect his daughter and was overpowered by three of the things. The rest of us ran through the back entrance."

  Paul shook his head. "Jack and I never saw any traces or evidence of anything. But we did see Jemma."

  "Ian picked Yoler up as soon as she was bit and ran with her into the woods. Jemma was caught and pulled to the ground. As soon as she was bit, we knew she was screwed." Lee wiped his eyes with his tremulous hands. "It was horrible; she was screaming. She called out for Gary."

  Paul announced, "Gary's dead."

  "What? How?"

  "Tell you later. What about the others?"

  "They headed that way." Lee pointed to their left. "That's where the main road is; it leads into Rugeley."

  "But that place is supposed to be swarming with the things."

  Lee shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "Everywhere is, isn't it? We haven’t eaten in a day. We're all hungry."

  Lee tried to fight back the tears, and Paul did the decent thing and gave him a shoulder to cry on, as the family five yards away from him continued with their emotional embrace.

  Paul looked around at the cabin and turned to Lee. "What do you reckon our next move should be? Back to the hall?"

  Lee shook his head and pointed behind Paul, who speedily turned his neck in the direction he and Jack had come from. There were at least ten of them in the distance, walking towards the humans.

  Paul's face screwed with anger. He grinded his teeth and blew out his cheeks to reduce his blood pressure. "Where the fuck did they come from?" he snapped. "There was nothing behind me and Jack two minutes ago."

  "They're everywhere." There was now anger in Lee's voice as well, and the frustration made him spit as he started his sentence. "They're like ghosts. One minute, nothing; the next, they're behind you."

  Paul rubbed his face in exasperation knowing that the food from the supermarket was back at the hall; he placed his hand on Lee's shoulder and called over to Jack who was now finally breaking away from his embrace with Thomas and Kerry. Paul looked up to the dreary heavens and knew if they ran, they would eventually be swallowed up by the darkness, making their journey even more perilous. The best they could hope for was to stay in the cabin for the night, hope that the things would pass the shack without being too interested in the wooden contraption—they were still unsure whether human flesh could be smelt by the ghouls—and wait for the next light.

  Paul clapped his hands together. "Time to go inside."

  Nobody protested.

  Chapter Thirty

  It had been two days since he felt ill with the unknown virus, but Harry Branston was starting to feel better. He was sure that the illness was pretty much over; the only thing that was keeping him from getting out of his bed and galloping down the stairs was the fact that he felt so weak. His body was re-hydrated, as Karen saw to that, but it needed to replenish its energy levels with a hearty meal, or whatever was left in the van or the downstairs cupboard. It had been a weird couple of days, as he had never felt so ill before and all he had done was sleep, mainly.

  Somebody once said to him: you know when you've really got a bad virus when you can't get out of bed even if it is raining fifty pound notes outside. He knew what they meant by that now. He had never felt so bad, and because of the predicament the UK was in, he feared the worst, and maybe thought this virus had somehow become airborne and he might have contracted it. Those fears had now disappeared and he couldn't wait to be up on his feet and back to his normal self.

  When the illness took a hold of him, he slept more during the day, and whenever he was awake he stared at the ceiling. It was painted brilliant white, and a circular stipple-design that he used to have in his old house before his arrest, regularly hypnotized him back to sleep when he was ill. His mind wandered, as it often did whenever he was awake.

  He thought about the incident after Stile Cop and KP's leaving. He nearly crumbled that night and it was Karen's strength and advice that made him pull through. She was some woman, he thought. A twenty-three-year-old nurse a week ago—now, one of the strongest people he knew. She was carrying a Browning pistol and not afraid to use it on anybody, or anything, as if she had owned it for years, rather than a week. He loved her like a sister, and hadn't told her yet, but he had a feeling that she already knew.

  He released a chesty cough, and it became so violent his back was arched as he lay on the bed; he could then hear the concerned footsteps of Karen trotting up the stairs. The door opened once his coughing stopped, and as predicted, Karen walked in with a look of concern on her face.

  She asked, "You okay?"

  He scolded, "Just a cough. Calm down, woman."

  "Sorry," she sniffed. "It sounded bad from downstairs."

  Pickle smiled, touched by her concern. He gazed at her face and it was apparent that her hair needed another wash—not that he had any intention of stating this to her. He might not have been an expert in women, but he knew that such a comment would not be appreciated. "So how's Roy Rogers downstairs?"

  Karen sighed and the look on her face suggested that their guest was becoming a problem. Her face never cracked at Pickle's attempt at humour and she looked like she was in a hopeless quandary. Her charitable action was looking like to be a massive error of judgement.

  "He's gotta go." She lowered her head. "I messed up."

  "Nah, yer didn't," Pickle spoke soothingly. "He's a loose cannon; at first yer were doing the charitable thing."

  "I'm gonna ask him to leave the village in the morning." She looked at her watch; it was nearly seven.

  "And do yer think he'll go?"

  Karen shrugged her shoulders, and revealed the pistol tucked into her jeans. "This might persuade him. I don't want it to come to that, though. I'm not a thug. I'd rather just ask him politely."

  Pickle asked, "Do yer trust him?"

  She shook her head and replied, "He seems quite interested in the gun, and I never leave the keys around."

  "So that's a no then. Good." Pickle wagged his finger at his young female colleague, and explained, "All it takes is for him to pick up the keys, and he's off with an armoured vehicle, with a decent supply o' fuel and food in the back. Keep the keys on yer at all times."

  "He's definitely going tomorrow, even if I have to shoot the fucker," she joked.

  Pickle laughed and loved that side to Karen; she was a real-life Calamity Jane. He slurred, "We'll tell 'im to leave tomorrow morning. We'll do it together. I'll be fine by the morning once ma body has digested yer fine cuisine. What are we 'aving tonight?"

  Karen half-screwed her face, as if she was waiting for a negative response, despite the fact that she hadn't told him the details of his meal yet. "Beans on toast."

  "Sounds wonderful." This time Karen's face did crack with Pickle's sarcastic humour, and she flicked him the V sign and left the bedroom. "It'll be ready in twenty," she yelled as she progressed downstairs. "Don't mock. Once the electricity goes it
could be cold beans next week. I'm using the last of the bread."

  "I can't wait," Pickle yelled back, his voice still coated in sarcasm. "Don't forget to bring the bucket up."

  "I'll try not to spit in them," Karen joked back. She was halfway down the stairs.

  "You know what they say about the best way to a man's heart!"

  Karen was now at the bottom of the stairs and shouted back, "Through the ribcage."

  Pickle laughed and a wide smile emerged on his face. Karen was a lifesaver in more ways than one, and Pickle grinned at her cheekiness.

  He really did love her.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Paul Parker remained standing by the cabin's door. There was no light in the place, and despite it being early evening the group were forced to remain in the darkness while waiting for the morning to arrive.

  The door was bolted shut from the inside. It was going to be a mundane, long, yet, frightening night for all involved, but safety was the priority. There were no windows in the cabin and it seemed to be built professionally as there appeared to be little cracks within the walls of the wooden building.

  Sure that it wouldn't create such a problem, Paul told Jack that he could put one candle on and place it in the corner of the room, as young Thomas was beginning to grow scared the more the day dimmed outside. Jack thanked Paul for his understanding, and lit the red, stumpy candle that lit up the cabin reasonably well, but not too well.

  They would have to flee first thing in the morning, as they had no water, food or toilet facilities. Paul suggested going back to the village hall if it was safe enough, and the rest agreed as they had no idea where else to go, as at least back at the hall—over the main road—sat their vehicles if ever they needed them to escape. Also, if the area ended up becoming awash with the non-human entities for a second time, there was the option of locking themselves in the hall if the vehicle theory wasn't attractive.

  Jack sat at the back, in the left corner of the unfurnished hut with Thomas in his arms, almost sleeping. Kerry sat next to them, rubbing the child's head, lovingly. Paul was standing next to the bolted door; he didn't know why, but he did. Lee Hayward sat in the middle of the floor with his knees brought up to his chest and his forehead resting on his kneecaps. The fifty-six-year-old looked worn out and his belly hung over his trousers as he remained in the curled position. The flame from the candle was highlighting that he hardly had a single hair on his head. As he gently began to snore, the rest of the group who were in no mood for conversation, looked to be going the same way.

  Paul eventually sat down on the hard floor, and was amazed that the drizzle from before hadn't crept through the roof and soaked them. He looked around the small cabin that appeared to be roughly twelve feet by twelve, in a perfect square shape, and came to the conclusion that sleep was his friend if he wanted to function properly the next day.

  He forced himself to get some shuteye, although he didn't know if a full night's sleep was going to be realistically achievable. He closed his eyes while Kerry began to sing so delicately, that her voice became a broken whisper as she sang the lyrics to the Scottish nursery rhyme, Ali Bali, to her son.

  Thirty-three minutes had passed and the group were all wide-eyed with alarm, apart from young Thomas, who remained sleeping against his father's chest. In the little light that the red candle provided, all four adult members—Jack, Paul, Lee and Kerry—stared at one another and realised that they had all been spooked by the same noise.

  Jack didn't wake Thomas; he didn't want to wake his son if it was something trivial like a stray deer, as the youngster needed his sleep. Paul desperately tried to find a crack in the wall to see what was out there, but it was so well built and so dark, his effort was fruitless.

  "Anything?" Lee whispered his query.

  Paul shook his head. "I can't really see."

  Although the door was bolted, the thirty-one-year-old moved positions and sat with his back against the door, and turned his head to place his left ear against it.

  "D'ya think it's animals?" Jack remained sitting in the corner; he hadn't budged yet, in fear of waking up his son.

  Paul turned to Jack; his widened eyes and the concern etched on his face answered Jack's question, but Paul decided to answer in words anyhow. "It's definitely not animals." He turned his head back round to listen out for anything else. The shuffling became more audible and almost multiplied in sound. Lee Hayward shook with trepidation and wondered how strong the cabin really was, but hoped that this night it wouldn't be tested.

  The shuffling appeared to be reaching the sides of the hut and all adult members of the group produced tiny smiles as it appeared that whatever was outside, was now walking around the cabin and venturing further into the woods, away from their presence. At the right side of the cabin, a huge bang appeared, which made Kerry yelp gently, and the others, apart from Paul, jumped with fright. Paul guessed that one of the individuals probably had fallen over into the side of the hut.

  It was silent again and as ten minutes passed, Paul held up three of his fingers to the group, which confused them. Jack responded with a lazy shrug, as he didn't know what Paul meant. Paul held up his fingers again and pointed to the door.

  Jack frowned. Crazy bastard's gonna go out there.

  Another three minutes had passed, Paul knew, because he timed it, and his hand reached for the bolt of the door.

  The cabin was suddenly filled with strident, concerned whispers.

  "What are you doing?" Lee looked aghast.

  "Just gonna make sure it's safe. I need a shit anyway."

  "Just shit in the corner of the hut," Jack hissed.

  Paul took one look at Kerry. "No chance. Besides, it seems to be clear. Trust me, I'll be one minute."

  Lee stood up and stretched, poking his large belly out. "I'm not keeping that door open if you go out."

  "Fine. Once I'm finished, I'll knock it when I'm ready to come in."

  Paul slowly slid the bolt to the side, and took the spear with him as he peered out of the door. He then left the cabin with Lee closing it immediately after he disappeared into the dusky area.

  Paul looked around and couldn't see much in the area. He never ventured far, and walked only twenty yards in front of the cabin, slipped his trousers down and squatted. It wasn't the greatest of timings, but he was desperate, and the area seemed to be clear. Wiping his backside afterwards would have to be dealt with at a later date, but it wasn't concerning him at that moment as Paul swivelled his head left and right constantly, searching for any signs of unwanted beings.

  He was nearly finished and was fearful of insects going up his anus, but he knew that that shouldn’t be his top worry.

  He pulled his briefs up and fixed his trousers and saw immediately a silhouette of one of them stumbling in front of him. It appeared lost, as the others were hundreds of yards ahead of it. It was male—or used to be—and moaned almost in delight as its eyes caught a glimpse of Parker. Paul was aware that any kind of noisy confrontation might alert the rest of the things that had progressed further ahead, and might also cause derision from his group with their I told you so looks.

  I can handle this one, he thought.

  He searched around in the darkness for his homemade spear and grabbed it tightly once he finally remembered where he had left it. He held the weapon with both hands, with his legs slightly bent. He awaited the attack from the creature that was no less than ten yards away from him. It lunged forward, which took him by surprise; he drove the stick into its face resulting in only superficial damage, as the spear wasn't strong enough to penetrate the head, and the eyes were completely missed. The weapon snapped, causing a deep laceration on its head, but not enough to kill it, only enough to send it crashing to the floor.

  He could hardly see the thing as he stepped back once it fell. The creature's arms flapped as it released a single shriek, and it tried to get up off of its belly. Paul threw his broken weapon into the darkness behind him, and put his b
ody weight onto the ghoul's back while it was trying to get back up. Paul used his knees to keep it down.

  He didn't know what the hell he was doing; it was something he had seen in a B movie once. He grabbed the hair of the being with both hands, and he pulled the head back as hard as he could as if he was performing a rowing motion. He could then hear the awful sound of splitting, which was followed by a gushing noise as the head came almost free, forcing Paul to fall backward on top of the corpse. The head hadn't severed completely, but it had been damaged enough to rip it away from its neck, emptying the black bloody contents all over the grass.

  He stood up carefully and looked down to see the almost severed head still in working order, still gnashing away, still wanting to bite at him. He felt for his broken spear in the darkness and carefully drove the thing into its eye socket until it stopped moving. Paul then began wiping his shoes on the grass; he couldn't see for sure but he was hoping that his shoes were not standing in any of the liquid that had spilled out of its massive wound.

  He headed for the cabin, his heart smacking him from inside and his brow in need of a gentle mop. He took one last look in the dusky area; it was impossible to see anything, but he was sure the coast was now clear. He then gently knocked on the door of the cabin and announced, "It's me."

  Although he was clearly shaking with the adrenaline coursing through his body, he decided to keep this little story to himself, as he didn't want to share the tale with the rest of them. He didn't want to frighten the group, because if he did, then the next morning he would be involved with a group of people walking through the woods, suffering from sleep deprivation and paranoia.

  And he didn't want that. They needed to be sharp to stay alive. They needed to sleep.