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

by Shaun Whittington

  "What is wrong with you bunch of pussies?" Mangy looked outraged, but Average looked to be bored of this whole episode and started to pick at his nails. He was ready to leave.

  Mangy disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute later, holding a pruning tool used for gardening. He then looked at Specks and said, "Let's see how unconscious this man really is, shall we?"

  He opened the pruning tool and placed the little finger from Pickle's left hand, and took it off with the utensil. Pickle released a yell of pain and began to move in the chair as if he had been given an electric shock. The blood seeped onto the carpet from his wound, and Wiry was feeling queasy at what he had just witnessed.

  "What did you do that for?" Specks looked shocked.

  Mangy began to cackle uncontrollably, picked up the severed little finger off the carpet, and began to tease Specks with it by dangling it in front of his face. Wiry was finding it hard to control their 'guest' who continued to writhe in the chair from the excruciating pain, and was also sickened by the unnecessary and sadistic act of violence.

  Mangy could see that Wiry was struggling to control Pickle, so he picked up the shotgun that was leaning against the wall and rammed the butt of the gun into his stomach. Pickle bent over in agony and it felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs.

  "There was no need for that," Specks said. "Hasn't he suffered enough?"

  "Stop your bellyaching," Average spoke at last. "I've decided that we're gonna kill him anyway before we go." He then turned to Specks and asked, "So is that the cars stacked full?"

  Specks nodded.

  "Right." Average walked through the living room door and began to trot up the stairs, and yelled, "As soon as I've had this piss, we're going."

  Now that Pickle had ceased to struggle, Wiry released his arms and Pickle immediately fell from the chair and slumped onto the carpet in a heap.

  Mangy looked at Wiry and a nervous-looking Specks; he then announced, "As soon as he's down from the toilet, this little puppy," he pointed at Pickle with the butt of the weapon, "is gonna get his comeuppance."

  Chapter Forty Four

  The reluctant Jack Slade made the short journey to the village of Armitage, and was surprised that he hadn't seen a single one of those things during the journey. They had driven in a pick-up truck and he went along with Vince and Claire.

  "Well, here we are," Vince announced.

  All three stepped out onto the main road where there was the occasional detached house, but overall it had little life even before the shit had hit the fan.

  "Hey, Claire," Vince called out from the other side of the van. "What do you say when we've finished up here, you can come back to my trailer and blow me off, release some of that tension I've been feeling."

  Jack looked at Claire in surprise, but she immediately shook her head. She said, "He's joking. He knows I wouldn't lower myself to be with a man like him, and that I'd rather blow a horse."

  "Charming," Vince joked, and then looked at Jack and gave him a wink. "I'm quite easy to get along with once people worship me."

  Jack hung back while Vince and Claire tried the main door of the shop. Unbelievably, it was open.

  Claire was the first to peer inside, and pulled out a large knife from the back of her trousers. She looked back and said to Vince, "I can't believe no one has tried this shop yet."

  Vince looked around the main road and sighed, "Yeah, well, I have a feeling the residents in this area are probably too fucking scared to come out. Some of them are probably fathers; should be fucking ashamed of themselves, but I suppose we're all made from different stuff." He looked at a couple of houses, their windows were still covered with drawn blinds and curtains. "If they want supplies, they need to come get them themselves. First come first served; finders keepers, and all that. I'm not Robin Hood. I'm not gonna help them. I look after number one."

  Claire nodded in agreement.

  Even though Jack didn't know her background, it was clear that Claire looked up to Vince. Maybe he had saved her life a week or so back. He was unsure.

  Said Claire, "All this stuff is practically sitting on their doorstep and they're still too scared to come out."

  "Maybe they're still inside their houses because they've turned," Jack suddenly blurted out.

  Neither one responded and both entered the newsagents, beckoning Jack to follow them. Jack gripped his crowbar and did what he was told.

  As soon as they entered the murky shop, Vince pulled out a torch and began searching through the establishment. A lot of the items in the shop appeared to be missing and Jack guessed that the owners of the shop were upstairs, and had been since day one of the outbreak. There was plenty of alcohol and cigarettes in the place, but essential food like fruit was missing, although a few tins still remained on the shelf.

  Vince pointed at the shelves and said to Jack, "Get all the tins in your bag."

  Jack did what he was advised and went down the aisles and grabbed what he thought would be beneficial. He put tins of fruit, beans, tuna and soup in the bag he was carrying, filling it within minutes. He looked down the aisles and was baffled that Vince appeared to be behind the counter and was emptying the cigarette area. Claire was near a glass cabinet full of medicines and bandages, and was emptying the stuff into her own bag.

  Vince turned around and saw Jack staring at him as he was putting the last packets of Benson and Hedges into his bag. He explained, "These are for the residents. We have a few smokers; it's the only pleasure they get these days."

  "Seems a bit pointless, that's all," Jack spoke out. "You could've filled your bag full of tins, but you've got cigarettes instead?"

  "It keeps 'em sweet. I'm not a smoker myself; I only smoke in bed, ain't that right, Claire?"

  "I wouldn't know." Claire was still filling her bag, and as usual, she wasn't reacting to Vince's humour. "On your own, maybe."

  Jack threw the heavy bag over his shoulder and was told by Vince to dump the bag in the back of the truck, grab another empty bag from the back, and return to the shop to steal more tins. Jack had managed to dump the heavy bag, and he quickly returned with an empty one in his right hand. As soon as he entered the shop, Vince told Jack to take the other two bags away that he and Claire had filled. Claire's was heavy, but Vince's was a lot lighter.

  Again, Jack went outside to dump the bags and his eyes clocked two creatures shambling in the middle of the street, heading towards the vehicle. He put the bags in the back and looked to the left, down the road where the creatures were. He guessed that another two minutes, and they'd be near, but his consternation of their presence was very low. There was three of them, armed with weapons, so just two of these things didn't pose too much of a threat, but he thought it would be in Vince's best interests that he was still informed that danger, albeit diminutive, wasn't too far away on the outside.

  As soon as Jack walked back into the shop, a voice bellowed out from behind a door, near the counter, "Leave my shop, and nobody will get hurt."

  Vince and Claire immediately stopped what they were doing, and Vince burst into hysterics. Claire remained still, her face was deficient of emotion.

  An Asian man walked from behind the door, holding a sword, and looked very nervous holding the thing. It was obvious it was a weapon he had never used before, and Jack was guessing that it was probably an ornament a minute ago, before the man had heard the noises in his shop.

  "We're just going," Vince said casually.

  "No!" the shopkeeper yelled; he walked in front of the counter and was now near Claire who refused to move. She was now in striking distance. "I saw you from outside; I want you to bring those bags back in, and leave my shop alone."

  Vince nodded his head, and began rubbing his chin in thought. "You know what? You're right. What we're doing is terrible." He then pointed at the man who was shaking with the sword, and told him, "I'll be back in a minute."

  Jack hadn't known Vince for long, but already knew that his nicene
ss was fake and had gone out to the truck because he had something up his sleeve. That something was a shotgun.

  Vince re-entered the shop and the shopkeeper cried in fright when Vince returned with the gun in his right hand.

  The man dropped his sword as a sign of submission and, in tears, tried to explain, "Look; my family are relying on the shop for survival. We haven't had any trouble until you lot showed up. Please, I have a wife and three sons upstairs, all under the age of ten."

  Vince laughed, "You have a wife under the age of ten?"

  "What?" The shopkeeper was now baffled and didn't understand Vince's dark sense of humour.

  "Well," said Vince. "I'm very touched by your story, but—"

  "It's okay," Jack interrupted, and could feel Vince's cold glare. "We've got what we wanted. Haven't we?" He looked at Claire, then his eyes went onto Vince, but he wasn't getting a reaction. "We're taking the stuff that's in our bags, but there's still plenty left. As soon as we leave, you better barricade this shop. Your door wasn't even locked."

  "Really?" The shopkeeper placed his hands on his forehead, and strangely began hitting himself. He then looked back up at the gang of three and added, "I must have forgot during all the panic. This door's locked anyway, so even if they got into the shop..." He pointed at the door behind the counter that led upstairs to his home.

  "Just make sure the shop's locked as well, once we're gone." Jack then pointed around the shop at the remaining food, "And get all of this shit upstairs, into your house, before someone else takes it."

  The shopkeeper nodded like an obedient child. "Yes. You're right. Thank you."

  Without saying a word, Vince left the shop, clearly agitated by Jack taking over the 'gig', and Claire quickly followed behind.

  Jack smiled at the nervous man and raised his hand to say farewell. The man returned the gesture with a grateful nod of his head, and then Jack walked outside to be greeted by a clearly-upset Vince.

  "Well, you exceeded my expectations in there, Jackie boy." Vince's words were drenched in sarcasm.

  Jack tried to explain, "The man was desperate, and you said yourself, we have plenty back at the camp."

  Vince said, "Why don't you put a pair of knickers on my head, because you've just made me look a right cunt."

  Claire wasn't getting involved in the bickering and silently went into the passenger side of the truck. Jack looked to his left and saw that the two beings were only ten yards away from the truck. Vince sighed and pointed at them, and said to Jack, "Make yourself useful and get rid of them. They'll only follow the direction of the pick-up truck and end up at the blockade by the end of the day."

  "Okay." Jack nodded in agreement and went to the back of the truck to grab his crowbar. He walked up to the two ghouls and noticed one was much quicker than the other as Jack took a step forward. He put it down with a solitary strike and walked towards the second one, which was no older than fifteen when it was in human form and dressed in football attire, a Liverpool FC kit. Jack hit the thing and it stumbled back. He shook his head and took another swipe, the hook-end of the crowbar embedding itself into the top of the cranium, and the ghoul dropped like a stone, its cranium spewing out liquid from its damaged head.

  It frightened Jack how little it affected him putting these things down, but was convinced that this kind of cold attitude was keeping him alive. He knew these things couldn't be bargained with or felt pity for its victims. It was kill or be killed.

  "As much as I would love to stay and admire the view," Vince was in the driver's seat and had his head leaning out of the opened window, "I need to get back to camp to see people, and more importantly, knock one out."

  Jack never responded with words, but with the one quick nod. He walked over to the truck and jumped in the back, his crowbar still dripping with blood.

  Chapter Forty Five

  Karen had finally entered the street, and as soon as she saw the burning house up close, as well as the two Ford Focus cars, she took out her machete. She looked down a street to the left of her and could see seven Snatchers stumbling up the road, making their way to the lane she was now in. Were they attracted to the burning house? She wasn't sure, but they were only a hundred yards away.

  She progressed closer to the cars and saw a small gas canister and a camping stove on the pavement. Perfect for the cabin, she thought. She looked around and then ogled inside the well-stocked car, then grabbed the canister and stove and put them behind the wall of a garden so nobody else could claim them.

  Her eyes widened as the sight of the two cars had suddenly brought back memories from days ago. It was the four men! But where was Pickle? With them? Had he been caught?

  She knew they were somewhere, but wasn't entirely sure which house they were in.

  She guessed that they were on the right hand side of the street, and crept over the other side of the road. She sneaked into a back garden and peered through a living room to find no one in there. She hopped over a fence to get to the next house, and heard a voice above her. It was a woman, and her bedroom window was opened.

  "If you're lookin' for ya mate," she whispered, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, "he's at number eight. Those men 'ave got 'im. I saw everything."

  Karen gave the woman a nod of thanks which she hadn't seen, because the window was immediately closed. It was obvious that the remaining residents were concerned by the presence of these men, and the woman was brave in the first instance for talking to Karen.

  Karen stuck her head out from behind the house and could see number eight, as it was the house opposite to the one where she was, on the other side of the road. She then saw a tall, skinny guy walking over to one of the Fords and opening the boot. The boot was well-stocked and there was a large gas canister sitting in the back.

  The man turned his back on Karen, and she thought that this was the perfect opportunity to take care of one of them. Her mind was now certain that Pickle was inside with the rest of the men who had tried to kill them only a few days earlier.

  She was hesitant in what to do. Her hesitancy enraged her and she cursed herself for being a coward, but this move she was planning could also put her friend's life in danger if it went pear-shaped.

  Here goes!

  She ran over towards the car, only twenty yards away from the man, and tried to make as little noise as possible. As she crossed the street, ready to bring down the machete's handle down on the man's head to knock him out, a shot rang out, and Karen and the tall man both ducked. It appeared that her little run had been spotted from the living room window of number eight, by the shotgun-wielding, Mangy.

  He stepped out of the front garden, into the street, and with Karen knowing that there was one cartridge left, she dived to the floor once he unleashed another shot.

  Her ears were assaulted by an incredible noise as the car exploded, and an incredible heat burned the back of her neck. She rolled onto her back and looked up to see a huge fireball, only fifteen yards away, touch the sky. She covered her face as light debris fell from the skies that had been catapulted up by the explosion, and she had finally managed to find some energy to move further away from the fire. Her mind was beleaguered by bewilderment and had no idea what was going on.

  She looked back up to the murky sky and saw the smoke from the defunct car, almost the same colour as the threatening clouds, billow its way into the atmosphere.

  Her ears were ringing and it felt like everything had turned into slow motion, as if she was in a dream. She could see that Mangy was struggling to reload the shotgun with another two cartridges, and it finally dawned on Karen that the second blast from the shotgun had penetrated the gas canister in the opened boot of the car when she dived out of the way.

  Not having any time to allow this to sink in, she ran over to Mangy and drew the machete back. He dropped the shotgun in fright and Karen took a swipe at him, slicing the left side of his cheek. He fell to the floor, screaming, and before she could take another swi
pe, she felt hands on her shoulders. She was thrown to the floor, dropping the machete, and could see that Specks and Wiry had somehow crept up behind her. She put it down to her loss of hearing for their surprise attack, and both started kicking her.

  She curled herself into a ball while the kicks continued, and she somehow managed to grab the machete and took a few blind swings as her back was taking the unnecessary blows. Both sets of kicks stopped immediately once she heard a high-pitched scream. Her ears had been temporarily damaged from the blast, but there was no escape from hearing such awful cries.

  She opened her eyes and could see an unharmed Specks jumping into the remaining Ford and driving away from the street, whereas Wiry was now on the floor, in the middle of the road, with his left arm, three inches from the elbow, hanging off and releasing more blood than Karen thought was possible. It appeared that her blind swiping had created at least one casualty.

  She got to her feet and tried to shake off the high-pitched noise in her ears. She looked at Wiry and felt absolutely nothing. She then walked by him, as his screaming continued from the machete wound, and she was now standing next to Mangy who was still clutching his face, blinded by the blood that covered it. She stuck the bloodied machete into her belt and picked up the abandoned shotgun and the two cartridges off of the floor that Mangy had tried to use to reload the gun. She reloaded successfully, and knew that this weapon of choice was the correct one for the remaining assailant inside, as there was no way on earth that the screaming and the explosion hadn't been heard from him.

  Karen was aware that three possible scenarios greeted her once she got inside: Pickle could be dead. The remaining assailant could have Pickle as some kind of hostage. Or, the man had already fled.

  She opened the door, walked into the house, and pointed the gun in all directions as if she was a member of a SWAT team, albeit with an unreliable and old-style shotgun. She kept her eyes sharp, especially now that the ringing in her ears was still loud enough to drown out any faint noises, and walked into the living room to see a slumped man on the floor.