"I have no weapons, I—"
"Yes, yer have," Pickle growled. "Do you have a set of knives downstairs?"
The man nodded.
"Then yer have weapons. Yer got a hammer?"
The man nodded.
"Then yer got weapons. Yer got a wooden handled brush or mop?"
The man nodded.
"Right," Pickle sniffed. "Tape a screwdriver or a steak knife to the handle o' one o' them, and yer have a spear that could gouge out one of their eyes from five yards away. Think!" Pickle placed his forefinger to his temple and began tapping it.
The man cried, "I was just scared. My wife was killed in the first week—"
"Well, I'm sorry about yer wife, but there're two other girls that need yer now. You've got a bath full o' water in yer bathroom, that's a brilliant start, because I think that the running water is ceasing up now. So whatever yer do, don't drain it."
"Okay." The tears ran down the man's cheeks, and he shivered in fright. Like most people, he wasn't adapting to this new world. Even though he had two little girls that were relying on him, he was falling apart.
Pickle added, "I'm gonna leave now, and I'm gonna shut the door behind me. I expect yer to block off yer doors and downstairs' windows. Then yer can take yer daughters out o' that stuffy bedroom and give 'em a different change o' scenery before they lose their fucking mind." Pickle pointed his finger into the man's chest and added, "This is yer house; keep it that way."
The man wiped his tears away and accepted his reprimand. "You're right."
"Right," Pickle sighed. "I'm gonna go for a piss in yer downstairs toilet, and then I'll be on ma way."
"Don't flush," the man pleaded. "Apart from number twos, we've been avoiding flushing in case it attracts those things."
"Well, with the lack o' water, I'm not sure that's gonna be possible anymore." Pickle turned and winked at the man. "I hope yer got plenty o' buckets."
Harry Branston then walked down the stairs and began whistling.
"Will I see you again?" the man called out.
The back of Pickle's head nodded and he responded, "I might be back later, just to check on another house or two. You and yer daughters, stay safe, my friend."
"You too."
Chapter Thirty Six
Thirty-year-old Sharon Bailey awoke from her nap; she could feel a draught as if a window had been left open or had been broken. She could then hear them downstairs. Fuck!
She had no idea how they managed to get in, but they were in! She had only killed eight of them since the outbreak, but was certain she'd feel no hesitation in destroying more if that was the only option she had.
For the last two days she had stayed in the house, fed off the scraps of food that were left, and lived on the two-litre diet coke bottles to put some kind of fluid in her body. It was now time to move on.
Even with those things loitering on the ground floor, she had a couple of options to explore. She could either jump out of the bedroom window to escape, or climb down the drainpipe of the house to reach the clear back garden. The problem with these options were that there was a high risk of injury.
If she damaged her leg, foot, ankle, or anything else, it could result in her spending her days walking through the streets with an injury—a handicap that could be detrimental to her survival.
The other option would be to peer down the stairs, wait until the front door area was ghoul-free and make a run for it, out into the street. The trouble with this option was that it was also a risky one. She had no idea why and how many of those things had crashed through the living room window. There could be just the one, but there could be many more.
She couldn't see from looking down the stairs from the landing, and being spotted was something she was trying to avoid. She had noticed that climbing wasn't their strong point, but if she was spotted and they began to group together at the bottom of the stairs, she'd have to forget about the option of running out of the front door.
She was hungry and thirsty, and didn't want to wait another day longer.
She then paused for breath and crept halfway down the stairs; she could see the curtains blowing out and shattered glass on the carpet, sitting underneath the window, and it appeared that one, or some, had forced their way through the window and had fallen in. Two other creatures were outside trying to get in, but were struggling.
She had been waiting there for long enough now, and knew that her hesitancy could be her downfall. She checked to make sure she was still carrying her cleaver; it was still there.
Seeing there was just the one ghoul in the living room, she galloped down the stairs and made a run for the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it hard. But it wasn't moving. This had alerted the lone ghoul from the living room and the female could see that the thing stumbling towards her was reaching out, and was now only yards away.
She drew her cleaver and smashed the weapon into the front of its cranium. It fell forwards, with the cleaver still embedded, and fell on top of her. She released a shriek as the they both fell together, and her consternation was doubled when she saw another two emerging from the kitchen area that she hadn't seen before.
She had very little time to get the thing off her, as well as remove the weapon from its head. The two things walked towards the panic-stricken woman and she had finally managed to get the fiend off her. As she got to her feet, she was grabbed by the first creature and she swiped at its legs, making it fall and giving her valuable seconds. She went back over to the defunct body and pulled the cleaver out with both hands. She then kicked the second one that was making its way over, and it fell as her sidekick smashed into its knees.
She went back over to the door and realised she had the lock on, which was the reason why she couldn't open it in the first place. She gave the lock a twist and shut the door behind her as she fled the house. The two ghouls in the house began to smack their hands against the door, unhappy that their 'meal' had escaped.
There was another two on the front garden, and they quickly went for her. She knew that a house in the next street was vacant, as she saw the family flee in their car, but she knew that if she didn't remove these two problems, they'd follow her and probably could potentially cause problems for other people in the area.
She pushed one of them over, which gave her time to concentrate on killing them separately. While the fallen creature was now slowly crawling along the floor, she took out a knife from her back pocket and rammed it into the right temple of the other ghoul. It fell to its knees and went face down onto the concrete drive.
The other creature continued crawling towards her, as if getting to its feet was an action too hard for it to perform, and this made it easier for her to kill it. She went around it, grab its hair and pulled its head back with her left hand. She hacked at it with the cleaver until it stopped moving.
She wiped the few specks of its blood from her face and wiped both sides of the cleaver on the lawn. She then tucked it into the belt, that was holding up her green combats, and Sharon Bailey walked out of the front garden and headed for the abandoned house she had her sights set on. She constantly twisted her head from side-to-side and was pleased, and surprised, that no more dangers lurked around, for now.
She then looked down at the bracelet hanging off her wrist, and released a smile. But there was pain behind that smile.
*
Once the black jeep passed a place called The Ash Tree pub, Jack and Johnny reached an incline in the country road. Jack dropped a gear and was now a matter of minutes of reaching the tiny village of Armitage. The blockade could be seen up ahead, half a mile from Armitage, and Jack began to slow down.
At the left hand side of the road was The Plum Pudding pub, with the canal behind it as well as a few barges. To the right hand side was The Spode Cottage, a pub/restaurant, and further on, behind the area, was the caravan/trailer park.
The road into Armitage was blocked off by a HGV parked across the road, twenty yards in front of the tw
o pubs, and another three cars were parked lengthways in front of the HGV. Standing on top of the HGV, all holding shotguns, were three men, and the same set-up applied fifty yards away so there was a two-way block in case they were attacked on either side.
Once Jack stopped the vehicle and turned the engine off, he slowly got out of his means of transport, but Johnny remained inside. Jack raised his hands and was impressed, but more surprised, that neither men pointed their weapons at this strange man who had appeared from nowhere.
"Hello." Jack's welcome was greeted by silence by all three men. Jack continued, "We were told that this place is pretty much the only safe haven around here. Could I ask you gentleman if you are you taking in more folk, or are you full?"
Still ignoring Jack, one of the men on the left turned to the middle man and told him, in a voice that Jack could hear, to go and get Vince.
Jack lowered his arms, realising the men had no intention of pointing their weapons at him and put his arms behind his back, patiently waiting for this Vince guy to turn up. Jack remained silent, knowing that the men on top of the HGV were not in a talkative mood—unless they were ordered not to talk to outsiders—and fortunately he didn't have to wait long for Vince to show up.
The tall man, known as Vince, stood on the HGV inbetween his three 'soldiers', and flashed Jack a welcoming smile. "Alright, mate?" was the greeting. "How's it going?"
The welcome seemed genuine and warm, and Jack was relaxed immediately. "Not too bad. I was wondering—"
"One of my guys tells me you'd like to stay here, is that correct?" Vince was straight to the point.
"Yes."
"How many of those things have you killed?"
Without pausing, Jack answered, "Too many to count."
"And what about him?" Vince pointed at Johnny who was still sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep.
Jack sighed, "Well, I'll be honest with you. I don't think he's cut out for this kind of world."
"Who is?" Vince began to laugh and then nodded towards the jeep that was covered in many bodies worth of blood and other debris. "Ran into a bit of trouble, I see."
Jack nodded. "It just this minute happened, back in the town centre."
Vince's eyes narrowed with suspicion at Jack's small story. "So are you really here because you want to stay, or are you just running from someone or something, and we happened to be in your way with this road being blocked and all?"
Jack looked over his left shoulder at Johnny, and then looked back up to Vince. "We're sick of running, that's all. We want to live."
Vince climbed down the HGV with protests from one of his men. Vince told him to shut up, and swaggered over to Jack once his feet touched the floor. He stood five yards away from him and began to look him up and down.
Jack also checked out Vince. He was tall, but he had no muscle mass around his body that would worry the average guy. Vince was definitely a few years older than Jack, mid-forties, maybe. His face was also in a bit of a mess, and appeared to be covered in old scars or scratches.
"You don't look much to me." Vince grinned, and looked Jack up and down once more. "You look like you could lose a fight with a three-legged dog."
Jack cackled, "I look meaner when I'm holding a crowbar. Especially the one sitting in the back of that jeep that I've used many times."
Vince liked Jack's response, but he was unsure of taking in outsiders. They had nearly forty people on the caravan site, and the more people they had, the more food and water they needed to keep the large group alive.
Said Vince, "We've turned six people away in the last few days; we don't really need any more, my friend. Some people come here to get to Armitage, realise the road's blocked and then turn back. Others come here because it's a lot quieter than that other shambles of a blockade at Sandy Lane."
"So what's your story?" asked Jack.
"Most of the people in here, like me, were living here in the first place, in the park."
"So you've accepted no outsiders?"
Vince nodded. "Some. Mainly relatives of the people that live here."
"And how'd you get those guns?"
"Inquisitive little monkey, aren't you?" laughed Vince. "Some of us used to go clay shooting before the shit hit the fan, as our American cousins say."
"Look, even if it's just for one night, can we stay?" There was pleading in Jack's voice.
Vince was lost in thought for a minute and threw his head back and began to breathe heavily. Jack thought that this was bizarre behaviour, but chose not to say anything. Vince lowered his head back down so that he was making eye contact with Jack once again. "If you wanna stay for a while, you need to prove your worth."
"How?"
"You can go on a trip tomorrow morning." Vince looked up to the sky and could see that the evening wasn't far away. "We grab supplies from places and stock them up in the Spode Cottage."
"You can't rely on looting forever."
"Don't you fucking worry, boy," Vince cussed. "We have a well; we have animals round the back, and a massive chicken-pen. But if there's food out there, we may as well take it before some other twat does."
"It seems a bit soon to already be having this kind of set-up after just three weeks, don't you think?"
"Not really. The caravan park was already here. All we did was block the roads off. It's hardly rocket science." Vince then began to titter and shook his head. "Three weeks. It feels like three months, don't you agree?"
Jack did agree. Especially the few days when he spent time in the woods, alone. They were the longest days of his life. Months? It felt like years!
"Stay in one of the caravans for the night. We're going on a run, to get more supplies. And you two look like you need some rest. They'll be a guard outside your door. No offence, but we hardly know you, and you look like the type of men that would steal old ladies' knickers and shag goats," Vince began to cackle loudly, "so I think the guard will be necessary."
"Thank you." Jack reached out to shake Vince's hand.
Vince shook Jack's hand and said, "Some caravans are empty because some folk decided to leave; one family had actually killed themselves. There are eight empty caravans out of the twenty that are here." Vince then pointed at Johnny, and beckoned him out of the jeep; he then turned to Jack. "We'll get your vehicle on the premises later. Right, let's get a drink; my mouth is drier than a nun's crutch."
Chapter Thirty Seven
June 27th
Karen wasn't feeling very well, so Pickle decided to travel on his own. Karen had been sick through the night and had put her sickness down to the water she drank before she went to bed, but she wasn't entirely sure. Pickle thought that it had something to do with the full bottle of wine she had consumed, but decided to keep his mouth shut to avoid an unnecessary argument with the twenty-three-year-old woman.
Pickle told the two worried folk that he was a 'big boy' and that he could handle whatever was thrown at him. There was a lack of medication inside the cabin, and Pickle had convinced Wolf that with cupboards of medication just sitting in abandoned houses, it'd be ridiculous not to make just one more trip.
In a last, stubborn attempt, Karen left with the forty-three-year-old to go back to the street for medical supplies. It didn't work out, as she only managed a few hundred yards before she threw up on the grass while they were heading for the gap in the hedge. Pickle frogmarched her back to the cabin and told her jokingly to get some rest or next time she was going to get 'bitch slapped'.
Wolf had managed to get a reluctant Karen to settle down, and the exhausted female had fallen asleep in the bedroom of the cabin.
Pickle had now gone through the hedge and was on the football field. He could see, near the edge of the field, a lone Snatcher, probably making its way to the bottom of the hill to spend the rest of its days crawling to a cabin it could never get to.
Pickle drew the machete from his belt as the thing had spotted him, and the ghoul was now picking up its pace towards the survivor
. It was a pointless attempt by the beast; with one swing of Pickle's arm, the creature's head was sliced in half. The cranium from just above its eyebrows was removed and fell to the ground with most of the black, diseased brain going with it. Pickle looked at the bloody machete with a little surprise. He had taken Wolf's advice and had sharpened it on a stone that sat in the corner of the garden, but he never realised it was that sharp. The effort it took to remove its head was minimal.
Unruffled by what had just occurred, he entered the same street and knew for a while that this could be the last time he visited. The cabin was well stocked, and it didn't seem fair to strip more supplies from the street, considering there were other families dwelling there. He also didn't want to get too attached to the people. He knew that the more he conversed with the survivors, the more guilt would eat away at him once he left there while he went to his secure cabin, with its huge supply of food and water. So this was another positive of not having to go back.
He knew he couldn't save the world, but it wouldn't stop his mind being plagued with shame if he got to know some of the folk, and then had to leave them and make his way back to the comfort of the cabin. But his small group needed medication of some sort for the future, just in case, so this particular trip was vital.
He walked into a house that had its door left ajar and looked around, taking extra care round every corner he approached. This was the second house he had checked. The first house seemed to have no medical supplies at all. Pickle assumed that maybe the family took medical stuff with them before they left—if they had left.
The empty houses confused him slightly. He wasn't sure that families that were missing had fled in their cars to go elsewhere, or had fled on foot at the height of the disaster, when the street was more-than-likely crawling with the ghouls. The lack of human blood on the roads and pavements in this particular street suggested that very little slaughter had took place during the start of the outbreak. People had either hidden, were killed in their homes, or moved elsewhere, either on wheels or on foot.
Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) Page 74
