Vince then looked up to the sky and could see that the evening was drawing in. "Get some sleep, Jack. You're going out on a run tomorrow morning." Vince then looked up to the individuals standing on top of the HGV and pointed at Johnny's body. "Burn him with the rest."
Chapter Forty One
June 28th
Pickle was the first to wake up. He yawned and stretched and had spent another night sleeping under the stars. Karen had opted for the couch this time—blaming Pickle's snoring, and Wolf was in bed as usual on the first floor. He was just starting to get used to sleeping without the tied-up Snatcher that used to be his wife a few weeks ago.
Pickle looked up to the heavens and could see that the dark clouds were threatening to soak the area. He estimated that the time was around seven am and quickly stood to his feet. He could hear the whistling of the wind as it screamed its way around the perimeter, dying to get in. Pickle's heart increased a little once the tall gate began to rattle. He knew that the area was solid, but it wasn't set in stone that those things couldn't get up the hill.
He took his machete out of the ground where he had driven it before going to sleep, and headed for the gate. He thought about telling the other two of his intentions, but decided to leave them be. Even if they did wake up and were suddenly worried where he had got to, especially Karen, that was their problem. He was an adult, not a prisoner anymore, and could go anywhere he wanted. He didn't need permission.
As he left the premises, he prepared himself for the steep climb. The beginning of the steep walk was already putting a little strain on Pickle's knee joints, and he could understand, at the age of sixty-nine, why Wolf was quite happy to stay where he was, because at forty-three, Pickle could also feel the aches and pains of walking up and down the hill over the last couple of days, and he regarded himself as a fit individual.
Once he reached the top, he turned around to take in the view, but before he could sit down, his eyes were attracted to something from afar. Smoke could be seen across the estate since day one when they had arrived, but this time Pickle could see, quite clearly, a house on fire in the first street, the same street they had been gathering supplies from.
He knew that their looting days were over for now, but twinges of guilt were urging the man to go down to see what was happening. He looked over to the cabin, then looked back at the estate and the street where the burning was coming from.
He thought about the families that were down there, the father and two girls that he had met the other day, and Shaz—although he was pretty certain she could handle herself.
He was lost in deliberation; he tapped his fingers on the handle of the machete that was tucked into his belt, and suddenly came to a decision. He shook his head. Sod it!
He knew that he couldn't save the world, and his lack of selfishness could put his own life at risk, but his intrigue was strong and there were children down there. He was certain Karen would give him a lecture about going alone again, but he was pretty sure that he could get to the street, find out what was amiss, and return by the time Karen and Wolf had emerged from their sleep, as it was still early.
Pickle walked down the hill, with his machete already drawn. He then made the trip across the football field before reaching the street. There was no sign of death as such, but he knew that with the house on fire at the end of the street, it wouldn't be long before the Snatchers arrived in their numbers.
He could see a woman on her own with a bucket in her hand. She then poured the bucket down the drain at the side of the street; the metal grid had already been removed. As she poured, what looked like to Pickle, body waste down the drain, Pickle put the machete back into his belt so he didn't look threatening, and walked towards the middle-aged woman.
"How yer doin'?"
Her response was a quick nod of the head. "I've seen you about," she said. "Mainly with that young girl."
"What happened?"
"Someone stuck up for themselves," she quickly nodded over to the burning house, "and paid for it."
She wasn't really making sense to Pickle, and then suddenly he saw something that he hadn't seen in the street before. It was two Ford Focus cars, and it looked like the same vehicles that belonged to the four men, the same men that had blocked the road a few days ago, the same men that killed that poor middle-aged couple that had gave Pickle and co a ride. It was also the same four men that were responsible for Pickle and Karen splitting from Paul and Jade.
His eyes were now sharp and was aware that the men could appear outside from the houses at any time, but the trouble was that he didn't know which house they could be in. Pickle tried to rekindle the conversation with the woman before bolting, because he certainly didn't want to bump into those four men again.
"So where are they now?" he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders stating that she had no idea.
"Did they kill whoever was inside?"
She shook her head. "They raided the house at six this morning, beat the guy up who put up a fight, and then the man ran off with his son." She then turned to Pickle with evil eyes and snarled, "Haven't you lot taken enough from this street? Isn't there any other streets? We're barely surviving as it is."
"I'm sorry. I only took from the vacant houses; I am nothing to do with these people."
The woman seemed to have no fear in her. She seemed to have adapted quickly to the new world herself, but was still trying to act civilised. She walked away from Pickle and said, "I'm done talking to you. To me, you're all the same."
Pickle turned on his heels, ready to quickly make his way back across the football field, but a faint child's scream made him stop in his tracks. The scream was coming from the same house where the father and two girls were living.
He ran to the football field, out of the street, and decided to go the back way, in case the men left through the front door. He was no coward by any means, but Pickle was aware that he was outnumbered and when he first met these men a few days ago, one of them was carrying a shotgun, albeit an unpredictable one, and didn't want to put his life at risk unnecessarily.
Over the last few weeks he had fought his way through Stile Cop, through villages and the sports centre. He didn't want his life to end by the hands of a bunch of scumbags who he could put down quite easily if it was hand-to-hand fighting.
He was now round the back of the street and on the edge of the football field. He peered over the back garden's wall to the house, but couldn't see anything. He then decided to jump over the wall to get a closer look at what was happening. Once he did this, he passed the greenhouse and sneaked over to the back window. The blinds were closed, but he could hear voices. Another scream could be heard, then the pleading words of the father followed; then a voice of a man could be heard, telling the father to shut the fuck up.
Pickle continued to listen in, but it had suddenly gone all quiet.
Maybe they've left.
Pickle then looked behind him and wondered that if they had left, why hadn't they raided the greenhouse and the vegetables that were in there, as well as the cabbages and leeks that were in the garden?
He crept to the corner of the place and suddenly saw one of the gang members walking away from him as if he had just left the house. Pickle didn't know their names but he had labelled them as Specks, Wiry, Average and Mangy. It was Wiry that seemed to be heading back to one of the cars, with a black bag full of something.
He then saw Wiry open the boot of the car. He could see that there was a gas canister in the boot, along with other equipment. Then the penny dropped. There was a caravan at the end of the street that belonged to the man that had fled, which was where they probably had stolen the canister from. Wiry walked back into the house and this time Pickle realised another member was now outside, and saw Specks walking from the other side of the street with another canister—a lot smaller—in one hand, and a camping stove in the other. Pickle breathed out a sigh; he must have missed these guys by seconds when he was talking to tha
t woman. Specks then placed the items by the side of the car and lit up a cigarette.
The canister and stove would have been perfect for the cabin, Pickle thought. But he never bothered with the caravan on his visits because he knew at the time that the house was occupied. Because of their ruthlessness, he was convinced that these men would probably survive for a long time, and it didn't seem fair that these bastards were living a life of luxury, while good people were now living hand to mouth.
"Heads up!"
Pickle was startled and quickly turned around to see the butt of a shotgun hit him straight in the nose. He fell to the ground, blood pouring out, and his eyes blurred with tears of pain.
"I take it you didn't see me hiding in the greenhouse?" Mangy laughed, and spat in Pickle's face. "We saw you talking to that woman in the street, and I said to my pal: That's that motherfucker who tried to make us look foolish the other day. Where's the other three?" He ran his fingers through his black, greasy hair and began fixing his ponytail. "Ah, don't say you lot got lost."
"Go fuck yerself."
Mangy snickered, showing the huge gap where his two front teeth should have been, and brought the shotgun up, ready to strike again, making Pickle cower.
"Hey," a voice could be heard from above, from the bedroom window. It was Average. "Bring that piece of shit inside."
Chapter Forty Two
"How did you sleep?"
"Horizontally," was the answer from Jack to Vince's question.
Vince released a chortle and said, "Please don't tell me you're still thinking about that friend of yours."
"Er, well it did cross my mind once or twice last night when I was trying to sleep."
"Look, we've been through this before—"
"I know, I know." Jack held his hands up to stop Vince from repeating himself. "You'd think he'd be nothing but a hindrance anyway, even before he was bit."
"You saw how he handled himself with just the one of those fuckjobs."
"I also saw his head exploding in front of me, which was a trifle worrying."
"You're a sarcastic fucker, aren't you?" Vince laughed.
"What's the punishment for sarcasm in this mental camp of yours? Castration?"
Vince had initially knocked the door and walked straight in, before engaging in conversation with his new guest. He now made himself comfortable in the caravan and sat next to Jack who was half-naked, lying under a sheet on the couch. Jack sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was still tired from the disturbed sleep he had had. It hadn't been a sleep of the normal kind; it was more like three power naps. He never slept for longer than a two-hour period, and every time he woke up, he thought of Johnny.
Asked Vince, "So are you ready?"
Jack got out of bed and glared at the man. He still had no idea how Vince had all those scratches across his face, but didn't have the energy to ask, and certainly didn't want to listen to another banal story from the forty-five-year-old.
Jack put his screwed up T-shirt over his head and asked, "So where're we going with this...run of yours."
"Just up the road," Vince began, and started to scratch his hair. "You'll come with me and Claire. We've raided a couple of the pubs up the road, but there's a newsagents that hasn't been touched yet, so we're gonna try that today."
"And what if this newsagents is being occupied?"
Vince laughed, "And what're they gonna do? Beat us with sweets and cigarettes?"
Jack sat down and placed his elbows on his knees; he then rubbed his eyes with the right palm of his hands and released an exasperated sigh.
"What is it now?" Vince was growing impatient, and waited for an answer off of his ungrateful guest. "Every time I look at you, you've got a face like a smacked arse, as if someone has pissed in your porridge."
Jack finally answered, "I'm not harming people, simple as that."
"I don't give a cunt's hair. You play by my rules. It's all about survival of the fittest, Jackie boy. You're either with us or not. Most of the places we've been to have been empty, so stop panicking."
Jack took to his feet again and took a swig from the bottle of water that was sitting on the side of the sink. He stared into nothingness and was testing Vince's patience who was waiting for some kind of response from the new guy.
Jack looked over at Vince. "Give me five minutes."
Chapter Forty Three
"For fuck's sake, Harry!" Karen cussed.
As soon as she woke up, she made her way outside and could see that Pickle was no longer in the garden. His sleeping bag was rolled up, and it looked like there wasn't anywhere else to look, so she knew he wasn't on the grounds. She hoped that he had gone to the side of the hill to relieve himself.
She took her machete and slipped it under her belt. She could then hear the creak of the cabin door opening and saw a dishevelled-looking Wolf, standing and rubbing his hair, confused. "What's going on? Where's Harry?"
"Fuck knows," Karen said.
"Maybe he's just gone out for a pee, or..."
"I'm gonna check."
Wolf never protested and went back inside his cabin, picked his hat from the kitchen sink, went back outside and placed it on his head. He looked to the heavens and a smile broke out onto his face. "It's gonna rain. I better get the buckets ready and place them outside on the grass. Should collect a fair bit today, judging by those clouds."
"Just drink from the tap, you paranoid old fool," Karen muttered under her breath as she walked away.
Wolf continued to prattle on, but Karen wasn't really listening to him; she was more concerned about where her friend had got to. She opened the tall gate and left the premises.
She was now standing in the grass, underneath the threatening clouds that hung above her. It looked like the area was seconds away from torrential rain. She then unexpectedly threw up on the grass, a situation that lasted a minute. Shit; not again. Where did that come from?
As soon as she began walking around the hill, she could already feel a few specks of saltwater hitting her face. She looked to the top of the hillside, but couldn't see him. She decided to quickly walk to the peak and see if he was on the other side. She knew he wouldn't have gone back into the woods, as that would be pointless. As soon as she reached the top, she looked down and scanned all around the hill, but there was no sign of him, or any other life for that matter.
"Where the fuck are you, Pickle?"
She looked at the area of Flaxley and knew he wouldn't go in there, as it was a place he didn't know and had no importance. She then turned around and looked at the back of the Pear Tree Estate, and the street that they had acquired supplies from. It looked a little different from the back; there was now a house smouldering and it made Karen gasp.
She shook her head.
He's down there.
*
Another punch was thrown into Pickle's stomach as he remained sitting on the wooden chair in the middle of the living room, and this time he nearly fell off. He was being held by Wiry who stood behind him, holding his arms. Mangy glared at the ex-inmate and rammed his elbow into the side of Pickle's face.
"That's enough," Average snarled, and walked over to a battered and bruised Pickle. "What happened to the rest? There were four of you, and you split into two."
"Yeah," Mangy added, stroking the thick, dark beard that covered half of his face, "what happened to that dark-haired chick you were knocking about with? Give me ten minutes with her and I'd be up to my nuts in guts." He grabbed his crotch and then cleared his throat and spat on the living room carpet.
There was no response, and it appeared that their prisoner had been beaten too much to answer their questions.
Average then looked at Wiry and asked him about the family upstairs.
"It's okay," Wiry responded. "I just went up to see him. The guy promised he wouldn't cause any trouble, and told me that we could take what we want. He just didn't want us to touch his girls."
Specks was outside, filling the boot of both cars. H
e walked into the living room where a beaten Pickle sat and his other three companions stood, and announced, "I left the smaller gas tank and the stove on the side of the road. There ain't much room for anything else, so one of you lot will have to—"
"Just leave it there," Average snapped. "We have enough anyway. Let the residents have the tank and stove. I don't want them to think that we're complete bastards," he chuckled, and Mangy joined him.
Wiry asked, "So are we ready to go?"
Average nodded.
Mangy's laughing had begun to subside and then looked at Average with a more serious tone. "So what about him?" He nodded towards Pickle.
"I don't know." Average was lost in thought and looked over to Specks. "This man kicked you in the balls," he pointed at Pickle, "and then side-kicked you in the knee, so do you want some fun before we go?"
Specks was unsure and hummed and harred.
"Go on," Mangy teased. "Be a fucking man for a change."
Specks gawped at the man in the chair. His face was bruised; his nose looked broken, and his head was lowered as if he was almost unconscious.
Mangy laughed at Specks' hesitation and shook his head and said to Average, "We're gonna have to dump this one if he doesn't get his act together soon. I've seen bigger balls on a gnat."
Specks tried to defend himself, albeit timidly. "The guy's a mess." Specks pointed at Harry Branston, whose head remained drooping as if he had fallen asleep. "I just don't see the point. The guy's unconscious anyway."
Added Mangy, "This man and his friends made us look like idiots."
"Er...well, we did try and rob them," came the voice of Wiry who was still holding Pickle's arms back, stopping him from slumping to the floor. "I suppose they were just defending themselves."
Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) Page 77
