Three of the men disappeared and went into the house from two doors down, but one hung around. Craig Burns continued to stare out, hoping they wouldn't come to the house that he was in. These houses were large and luxurious. It was obvious why they were trying them.
He waited for a long eight minutes before the men emerged from the house, now carrying bags of food. The men placed the bags under their seats and on the back of their racks and storage at the sides of their bikes.
They went in for one last trip, in the same house, and returned to their bikes with more bags.
They seemed pleased with themselves, and Craig thought that there probably wasn't enough room for much more with the little storage they had on their bikes. He was disappointed when he saw the men go into the next large house, the one next to him on his left. He decided to try and find a hiding place, just in case they decided to try his house next.
He had decided to try a place in the residence he had avoided since his arrival. The attic. He grabbed his hockey stick, went into the back bedroom and stood under the hatch of the attic. A ring on a piece of string hung above him, and once he pulled on it, the hatch opened and stepladders slowly came down. He took the hockey stick with him and once he was up, he pulled up the stepladders, closed the hatch and sat on his backside and waited. He looked around the attic and could see that it was a place used for storage. There were boxes everywhere, as well as a dusty acoustic guitar that only had three strings on it, and there was also an assortment of old books by Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens and James Joyce.
It wasn't long before the men arrived. Craig took in a deep breath and lay down, placing his ear against the hatch.
He heard boots making their way to the first floor and the sound of male voices began to fill it. He heard them talking about the house next door and how it was empty. They then began to talk about the first house they had been in, the house that was two doors down from Craig. They seemed high, and the adrenaline seemed to be pumping through them by the sound of their excited voices.
They entered the bedroom that was below the attic and talked about the people in the house from two doors down. A man, woman and a boy was there. They mentioned the man's name, Dave, his 'stupid' beard, and that his wife was a hell of a fighter. Craig shook his head on hearing their brief conversation. It appeared that this poor surviving family had not only been robbed of their supplies, but the woman had been attacked by these men. From what Craig could make out, the woman was attacked after the father and son had been 'dealt with', whatever that meant.
“What about the attic?” Craig heard one of the men call out.
Craig took in a deep breath and clasped his hockey stick, ready for a battle. There was a long silence before anyone responded to the man's query.
Finally another voice said, “What about it? There was nothing in the other two attics. I'm not gonna bother my arse with this one. Let's just go back. Drake will be wondering where we are.”
After that statement, the men left and Craig could breathe easy. He lay on his back and looked up to the ceiling, sweat running from his forehead, and lay there for a number of minutes before making his way back to the first floor of the house, then finally the ground floor, once he heard the sound of engines fading away. What supplies he had left had been taken, and it was clear that he needed to go out and get more or even find a new place.
He peered out of the living room window and could see it was clear. The stories of the family were bugging the man; he had made a choice to go round to check on them. He needed to go out anyway, eventually, to see if there was anything that could keep him going for a few days. He decided to return once he checked the house, then come back and grab the bowl from the kitchen and pick the berries and mushrooms the woods had to offer. There must be something there, surely.
First, he was going to check on the family. They were no concern of his, but the talk from the men had made him intrigued and eager to find out if the family were okay or not. There was a little boy in there, and what on earth did they do to the mother?
He stepped outside, hockey stick in his left hand, and headed for the house, constantly looking around him.
He walked up the drive of the house and could see that the door was open. Whether it was forced open or they had unwittingly let them in, thinking that they were good guys, Craig wasn't sure.
He stepped inside and had a look around the living room. The place didn't look like it had been ransacked and there was also no sign of life. Maybe the family were upstairs.
He decided to call out. “Hello! I'm not here to harm anyone! I'm here to check if you're okay!”
There was no response. He went upstairs with slow steps and could feel his heart beating out of his chest. Why didn't they answer him? Were they too scared to call out? Or…?
He reached the landing and checked the bathroom first. He went to the bedroom nearest him and popped his head in. He didn't need to check the rest of the rooms. The scene he was witnessing confirmed that there was no need. The family, all three members, were dead.
Craig gulped and saw the boy and father in the right corner of the room, covered in blood. Both were face down; both had been stabbed to death. The boy, looking at the size of him, seemed no older than eight or nine. Craig's eyes then moved to the bed. He released a long breath out and looked at the woman with sadness. Her trousers and pants had been taken off and thrown on the floor. It was obvious she had been raped and then her throat had been cut.
“Bastards,” Craig hissed. “Dirty, filthy bastards.”
There were tears in his eyes as he glared at the horrific scene. Why would people resort to this? What was the point?
This had nothing to do with survival.
He had seen enough. He turned on his heels and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He headed for the outdoors, walking through the living room and then the kitchen.
He changed his mind about going back to his house. He decided to go straight to the woods. He looked through the cupboards in the kitchen that belonged to the deceased family, grabbed a carrier bag and went outside, and began to make the short walk to the woods. He looked up, seeing that there were a few clouds hanging above, trying to block out the sun.
He clasped the carrier bag in anger, thinking about the macabre way the family had died, and began to lengthen his strides now that the woods were near.
Would his trip to the woods be beneficial? Would there be adequate supplies to keep him going until he found something more nutritious? He was on his way to find out.
Chapter Twenty Three
A knock on the door of 13 Colwyn Place made Paul Dickson jump. He was sitting on his couch, thinking about yesteryear, when the knock appeared. He stood slowly up and walked with unhurried feet towards the main door. When he saw the blurred shape of Stephen Bonser through the frosted panes, he released a sigh and opened the door.
“What the hell are you playing at?” Bonser queried.
“He told you?” Paul wasn't surprised in the least.
“James told me in confidence.” Stephen Bonser looked around the street, making sure there were no prying eyes watching them, then continued, “And what's this sneaking into our rooms story?”
Paul began to snicker. “He told you that as well?”
“Look,” Bonser looked exasperated and looked around once more, “Lincoln won't hear of this, but if this happens again...”
Paul looked over Bonser's shoulder and saw Pickle emerge from 9 Colwyn Place, Freddie Johnson's place. Almost as if he could sense that there was trouble, Harry Branston walked over to Paul Dickson and Stephen Bonser and asked if they were okay.
Both nodded unconvincingly and Pickle decided to make some small talk, telling them that he had given Freddie a telling off for leaving Karen, Vince and Stephen in the lurch.
“What?” Paul looked dumbfounded. “Karen's left back at that industrial estate?”
“Relax.” Pickle smiled. “She'll be fine. She'
s a veteran in this kind o' stuff. Vince and Stephen we'll need her there to calm them down.”
“I had no idea.”
“I did come round earlier,” Pickle tried to explain, “But there was no answer.”
“I wonder why,” Stephen remarked sarcastically.
“But you think she'll be okay?” Paul queried Pickle, ignoring Stephen's remark.
“If she's not here by morning...” Pickle didn't need to finish off his sentence.
Paul nodded. “And I'm coming with you.”
“You seem to like leaving this place, don't you?” Stephen smirked, sticking his tongue in his cheek.
“What's going on?” Pickle could sense that there was tension between the two men.
Stephen Bonser was the first to comment. “Doesn't matter. It's done now.”
“Was there anything else that you wanted?” Paul gazed at Stephen.
Stephen shook his head.
“Good.” Paul folded his arms. “You can fuck off now. Let me speak to my friend in private.”
Stephen's face turned red and took an angry step forward, but Pickle placed his hand on his chest and shook his head. “Come on, kids.” Pickle said with a smirk, “Let's play nice.”
Stephen stormed off, leaving Pickle and Paul alone.
“What the fuck was that all about?” asked Pickle.
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
Sensing that he didn't want to talk about the incident further, Pickle decided to change the subject, but before he could do that he heard footsteps coming from behind him. He looked behind and saw Joanne Hammett approaching the two men. Knowing that she wanted a word with Paul, Pickle made an excuse about having a word with John about something and left the pair of them.
“I'll see you later, Pickle.” Paul waved.
The former inmate turned and saluted Paul, then headed for 3 Colwyn Place, John Lincoln's digs.
“Sorry to interrupt you and Pickle's chat,” Joanne said.
“That's okay. Just idle chat really.”
“Everything alright?” Paul asked the woman sheepishly.
“Thought I'd come over. I'm a bit bored.”
“Charming,” Paul laughed. He then noticed she was gazing at him for a little too long and he asked her if there was anything wrong.
“Nothing wrong.” She bit her lip and looked up at him seductively, but Paul wasn't reading the signs at all well. “I've been hearing stories about you.”
“Oh?” he said with a straight face. “What kind of stories?”
“People don't know how to work you out.”
Paul sighed, “Nothing to work out.” He opened his front door wider, inviting Joanne in, turned on his heels and headed for his front room.
She shut the door, followed behind him and giggled, “You're a bit of a mystery, aren't you, Paul Dickson?”
Paul shook his head in disagreement and stood by the fireplace that was opposite the couch. He put his hands in his pockets and said, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Joanne walked her five-three frame over to Paul, standing just a yard from him. “I know nothing about you, mystery man, not really.”
Paul was perplexed by her comment. He used to be a normal, run-of-the-mill family man before the apocalypse. He was hardly a mystery. Just a normal guy.
Paul said, “Just because I haven't told people my life story, doesn't make me some kind of mysterious stranger. I've told you some things about me. Anyway, I hardly know you.”
“What do you want to know?” Joanne smiled.
Paul shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face. In truth, he couldn't care less about Joanne's background. He liked her. She was one of the few that had made him feel welcome since his arrival. Karen, Pickle and Vince had all been made to feel welcome, but Paul felt like he was treated differently by most of the Colwyn Place residents. He had no idea why. Maybe it was his cold manner or his dour face. A couple of days ago, one female resident, by the name of Sandra Roberts who lived at 19 Colwyn Place with her friend Lynne, had told him to smile and cheer up.
Cheer up? Yes, he was alive, but he had lost his family. Only weeks ago he and Karen had walked into the changing rooms on Sandy Lane to see that Kyle had been ripped apart by a lone beast. This was a story that most of the residents knew about, and one of them still told him to cheer up! Cheeky bitch.
Joanne took a step closer to Paul, making him nervous, and repeated her question. “What do you want to know about me?” She placed her hands on his thigh and added, “Come on. Don't be shy.”
Paul could feel her hands moving up towards his groin area and gulped. She was gorgeous. He always thought that Joanne was a stunning woman, but this wasn't what he wanted. Any normal man ... any single man in his position would be turned on by now, but Paul felt nothing.
“Stop it, please,” he said.
Joanne was unconvinced by his plea and her hands continued to wander. “We all get lonely, Paul.” She unzipped his jeans and put her right hand inside to feel that the area was soft. “Oh,” she said in surprise. This wasn't the response she was used to in her years of experience.
“Please ... don't.” Paul put his head back and began to sweat, fists now clenched.
“I think you need warming up.” She fondled his genitals and began to crouch down.
“Please, stop it.”
“You don't mean that.”
“Yes I do.”
She pulled his pants down, fell to her knees and began to kiss his exposed penis. She smiled as it pulsated and was beginning to come to life. Before she could take it in her mouth, a pair of hands grabbed at her hair, forcing her to shriek out, and she was thrown across the room.
Paul stormed over towards Joanne, fists clenched and some long hairs hanging from his hands, confirming that it was he who caused the assault.
“Get away from me!” Joanne screamed.
Paul snarled, pulling his jeans up, “You think I'm some kind of meat that you can play with, do you?”
She cried, “I just wanted...”
“What?” Saliva left the corner of his lips, his eyes were bulging.
“I thought you liked me.” Joanne remained on the floor as Paul towered over her, too frightened to get up.
“I lost my family only weeks ago, you silly bitch. What's wrong with you?”
“But...” Joanne was struggling. “I'm lonely, you're lonely ... I thought...”
“You thought wrong.”
Once she could see his anger subsiding and his face relaxing, she began to pull herself up and brushed herself down once she was on her feet.
Paul put his hands on his head. “Look, I'm sorry.” He looked up and went to touch Joanne's shoulder, but she slapped him away.
“You frightened me!” she yelled.
“I didn't mean to ... I ... just lost it.”
“From now on, you stay away from me, got it?” She headed for the front door, Paul remained where he was. He thought that following her would make her even more nervous.
She opened the door, turned and looked at him before leaving. “Got it?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I'm sorry.”
“Fuck off.”
Chapter Twenty Four
Their tired feet continued to walk along the main road and had all kept quiet for the last three minutes. Karen, Vince and Stephen were all stunned by what had happened, and Vince's anger had managed to diminish with every minute that passed by.
“How long before we get back?” Vince had finally broken the silence, but had to wait a while for an answer. It came from Stephen Rowley.
“Hard to tell, chap.” Stephen grunted and added, “We're just passing that bed and breakfast place.” He pointed at an archaic-looking house. “So I'm guessing another four miles, there or thereabouts.”
Vince gazed at the house, ran his fingers over his scarred face in thought and said to Karen, “Wanna check it out? Might be something in there to keep us going.”
“Use your head, Vince.�
�� Karen spoke with a giggle.
“What?”
Karen pointed at the sign that was in the front garden of the establishment. It stated that there were no vacancies.
“No vacancies.” She pointed at the sign. “Which means...”
She allowed her sentence to trail, giving Vince the opportunity to finish it off. He decided not to. He knew why she was reluctant to go inside, but kept his mouth shut. He felt like he was back at school and felt a little patronised by the twenty-three-year-old former grade D staff nurse.
Stephen Rowley had also worked out what Karen meant. No vacancies meant that there was a strong chance that the house was full. Probably now full of Snatchers.
They went by the full car park, and this confirmed that the people hadn't left.
“We could break in and try and steal the keys to one of the cars,” Vince suggested.
“I'd rather not take the risk, chap,” Stephen Rowley spoke up.
“Agreed,” said Karen.
They continued with their walk and could see that the woodland to their left and right was beginning to thin out. Up ahead, they could see that on either side of the road were fields.
“What's that?” Rowley stopped walking and cocked his head to one side as if he had heard something.
“I can't hear anything.” Vince also stopped and Karen followed suit.
“Neither can I.” Karen shook her head.
“I can hear a buzzing sound,” announced Rowley.
“You must have ears like a bat,” Vince scoffed, unconvinced that Stephen Rowley could hear anything, “because I can't hear fuck all.”
“I can hear it now.” Karen remained still, nose in the air.
Vince stuck his forefinger in his right ear and wiggled it from side to side. He could hear something now. He looked behind him, where the noise was coming from, and nodded to his right, towards the cluster of trees.
Karen, Stephen and Vince went over to the trees, walked in a few feet and crouched down. Their machetes remained in their belts and the plan was simply to wait for the vehicle or vehicles to pass, then continue on their way to Little Haywood.
Snatchers Box Set, Vol. 4 [Books 10-12] Page 9
