“Jez!” Craig called out, now sitting on the moped. “Ready when you are, son.”
Jez came rushing out of the side, panic scrawled over his face, and jumped on the back.
The biker that had come off had now disappeared, and Craig was aware that it was only a matter of time before the other two realised that something was up. As soon as they realised that they were a biker down and found their companion on foot, who would inform them what had happened, they'd be back. Back for revenge.
Craig told Jez to hold onto his waist as he pulled the right handle bar back, making the bike move. He turned around and sped off with Jez holding onto Craig with both hands.
“Hold on!” cried Craig.
“Don't worry. I will.”
The moped reached forty and Jez took a peek behind him, clocking the two riders that were now following them. He couldn't see for sure, but he assumed that the man that Craig had knocked off was on the back of one of them.
Jez started slapping Craig's shoulder to let him know what was going on. Craig took a quick peep behind him, realised what was happening, then managed to get the bike up to sixty, now entering Rugeley and riding alongside the clear road that was below Etching Hill.
The bike slowed down as it approached a junction and turned left. Jez thought that they were going to head deeper into Rugeley, but Craig had opted to hit Rugeley Road and head to Wolseley. Another half an hour, Jez thought, and they'd be in Stafford.
Oh shit. Please not Stafford. Not where the gang is based.
The bike roared along the road and Jez took another peek behind. The bikers could not be seen, but he knew they were following.
To Jez's displeasure, Craig went by Wolseley and on the Stafford Road, now six miles from Stafford. Craig took a look behind and could see it was clear for now. He turned the bike left at the next side road and went over an archaic hump bridge that went over the River Trent.
It looked like they were heading to Little Haywood, but the bike would have to be ditched. It was in the red and struggling.
Chapter Forty Five
Tired and weary, Paul Dickson smiled as he saw the Wolseley Arms pub in the distance. He was getting near. Another mile or so and he'd been back at Colwyn Place. He was dying to lie down and put his feet up. A few gulps of water would also be nice.
He thought about the farm and told himself that what he had done was justified. People like this were only making survival harder for the normal folk.
He yawned and heard the snapping of a branch coming from the trees.
He puffed out his chest. What now?
Forty-one-year-old Dickson tried to ignore it and kept his machete in his belt. He then saw two mopeds a few yards into the woodland. They had been parked up, but there was no sign of the owners. These fuckers seemed to be everywhere these days.
Paul continued to walk by, looking forwards and focusing on the pub in the distance. His feet were so tired that they dragged along the tarmac occasionally, creating an unnecessary noise. His walk continued for another twenty six seconds until two men appeared from the woods. Paul stopped still when a voice called out behind him.
Paul remained still and stared out, not even worried what was approaching from behind. He waited.
He could hear the footsteps on the road, from behind him, and heard a man say, “Why don't you turn around and we can take a look at you?”
Paul had a smile to himself.
The same man yelled, “Arms in the air, so I can see them!”
Paul kept his arms by his side, frustrating the man from behind and making him yell the same instruction, but Paul had managed to turn one-eighty without any harm coming to him.
Dickson could now see there were two men standing in front, around ten paces from him.
One of them was bald; he was covered in tribal tattoos, apart from his face, and was dressed in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Baldy was middle-aged and had a scar on his cheek, possibly from a knife. The man by his side had a skinhead, and was a lot younger, around mid-twenties.
Skinhead spoke up, “My partner told you to put your arms in the air when turning round, didn't he?”
Paul never responded. He stared at the men with a glazed look.
“Looks like we have a wacko here,” Baldy laughed, and brought his wooden bat up and rested it on his shoulder.
Paul could now see that both men were carrying bats, but was unbothered by this. He had no idea why. A month ago this sight would have made him a nervous wreck, but he didn't seem to care.
Baldy noticed that Paul was carrying a large blade that was tucked in his belt and said, “We need you to put the machete on the floor.”
Paul smiled. “It's fine where it is.”
Both men looked unhappy that Paul wasn't 'playing along' and pondered their next move. They weren't used to backchat from other survivors. This was new to them.
“We need to ask you a few questions before we let you leave.” Skinhead walked forwards, his young frame moving with a swagger and wore a cocky smile. “So don't be nervous.”
Paul gazed at the young man with cold eyes and began caressing the top of the handle of his machete. “I'm not. It's you that should be nervous.”
Skinhead stopped walking, lost his smile and brought up the bat, now snarling, but Baldy told him not to attack the strange loner.
“We can't get answers out of him if he's unconscious,” Baldy laughed, then flashed Paul a glare. “Or dead.”
“True.” Skinhead nodded.
“Right.” Baldy stood up straight, the bat still resting on his shoulder. “Where are you from and do you have a place to stay?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.”
“You don't know what?” Skinhead was beginning to lose patience. “You don't know where you're from, or if you have a place to stay?”
Paul stood in quiet, forcing Baldy to yell, “You're not making things easy for yourself, mister! Are you?”
Paul never answered and continued to gaze into nothingness.
“We're looking for a guy called Jez. Blonde guy. He was with our group for a short time, but ... turned his back on us.”
Paul sighed, “I don't care.”
Skinhead snarled, “Have you seen him?”
“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't.”
“I'm sick of this.” Skinhead marched towards Paul, forcing Paul to pull out the blade, holding it in his right hand with confidence. This man had used this thing before, both Skinhead and Baldy could see this, and their reluctance to apprehend Paul was clear on their faces.
“I think we can take him.” Skinhead began to laugh and looked at his friend.
Baldy nodded and sighed, “Sorry, friend. If you don't comply, then we're gonna have to fuck you up.”
“Are you the police now?” Paul began to snicker.
“Looks like we're gonna have to hurt you,” said Baldy.
Skinhead ran at Paul with his bat, but Paul stepped to the side and took the young man out with a side kick to his knee. Skinhead yelped and fell to the floor, lying on his back, but before Baldy could react, Paul Dickson had the tip of his blade on Skinhead's cheek. Paul told both men not to move a muscle.
“Don't kill me, man!” Skinhead cried.
Paul shushed the sobbing man that was on the floor and then stared at Baldy. “You said you was going to hurt me before.” Paul spoke with calm. “May I ask how you was going to do that?”
“What?” Baldy was confused and was more concerned for his friend rather than answering daft questions.
Paul repeated his question. “How was you going to hurt me?”
“I don't know. I suppose...” Baldy thought for a minute. “I don't know.”
“I lost my wife and daughter to this sickness. I then lost my only son, my Kyle, my big chap, and watched helplessly as a member of the dead was devouring his little body. So I will ask you again...” Paul's eyes widened and saliva ran down his mouth when he growled, “How the fuck are you going
to hurt me, cunts? I'm already fucking dead!”
Baldy lowered his bat and gulped. “Look, man. We were all normal once, but I'm just trying to survive. I used to be a waiter in Pizza Hut for fuck's sake, and Winston,” he pointed at Skinhead, “he used to work as a porter at Stafford Hospital.”
“You also said earlier that you was going to fuck me up.” Paul smiled and shook his head. “I'm already fucked up. Losing a family does that to some men. You know ... I only killed my first person last week. Well, that's not strictly true.” Paul remembered killing Lance Murphy with the hammer. “And about an hour ago I killed a teenager and his mum on a farm. And you want to fuck me up?”
“We meant physically, not mentally.”
“You guys seem to be around a lot these days.” Paul noticed the WOE stitching on their jackets.
“We're doing what we're told.”
“By..?”
Baldy seemed reluctant to answer, so Paul grabbed the handle with both hands, suggesting that he was going to ram it into Skinhead's—or Winston's—face, but Baldy spoke up in time.
“Drake,” Baldy said, shaking his head at himself for telling. “The name's Drake.”
Skinhead cried from underneath, “Let me go, man!”
“I don't want any trouble,” Paul announced. “I just want to go and lie down on a proper bed.”
Baldy asked, “What happens now?”
“What happens?” Paul flashed Baldy a smile. “I'm going to let you two live.”
Paul released the tip of the blade and placed it into his belt. He told Baldy to help his friend up. Paul took two steps back and watched as Baldy helped up Skinhead, or Winston, and both men staggered away from Paul, slowly heading to the side of the woods where they had left their bikes.
“One more question before you leave,” Paul called out.
Baldy stopped and turned around. Skinhead did the same. Both men looked tired of this and just wanted to get back home, wherever that was.
“What is it?” Baldy asked with impatience in his tone.
“Have you two ever lost somebody you love?”
Baldy and Skinhead gaped at one another for a second, then looked back at Paul.
“What?” Skinhead looked confused.
“You heard me,” Dickson said. “Have you two ever lost somebody you love?”
“Of course we have,” Baldy snapped. “What kind of question is that? I lost my wife and kid in the second week.”
“I lost my mum and brother.” Skinhead lowered his head.
“You see,” Paul said softly. “We're all in the same boat. So why are we trying to hurt one another? It doesn't make sense.”
Skinhead began, “What's done is done. It's history. You have to be strong and try and forget your dead. It's the only way to survive.”
“That's right.” Baldy nodded the once. “Forget the dead. Dwelling on the past makes you weak, and weak people die. We need to stay strong to survive.”
“What a load of shit,” Paul laughed. “Is that you two talking, or is that what this Drake's been telling you?”
“Look,” Baldy pointed over at Paul and took a threatening step forward, forcing Paul to place his hand back on the machete handle, “you don't even know what you're fucking talking about.”
“Leave it.” Skinhead grabbed Baldy's shoulder and pulled him back. “The guy's obviously not all there.”
“Just remember this.” Baldy now had his arms folded, his face seething with anger. “There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, and people we don't want to lose but have to let go. My family can't come back, so what's the point remembering them and living in the past?”
“And you remember this, my friend,” said Paul, wiping his nose on his forearm. “When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure. Don't forget what you were before all of this happened. I'm sure you two were good guys, once upon a time. Maybe, months or even years ago, we even passed one another when we were out shopping with our wives in the town. Maybe we stood next to one another at a bar one of the nights, waiting to be served.”
“So, what's your point?” asked Baldy.
“We're the same back then. And we're the same now. I'm just trying to survive.”
“So are we?”
“You told me earlier that you were looking for someone, some guy called Jez.” Paul smiled. “That's not surviving, that sounds like some kind of revenge mission.”
“You're nuts, you know that?”
“Life is a shipwreck, gentleman. Try and remember to sing in the lifeboats.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Paul smiled, turned around and began to walk away. “Have a good day now.”
Chapter Forty Six
Pickle took a quick stroll over the road of Colwyn Place, said hello to Kathryn Roberts who had just come out of Lincoln's house, and went over to the place where Joanne Hammett stayed. He knocked the door and waited for it to open. It seemed to take forever, but the door opened and Joanne stood in her dressing gown.
Pickle looked her up and down and laughed, “At this time o' day?”
“I know.” She gave off her wonderful smile. “I need to get ready soon. John wants me doing a stock check, now that the medical stuff has been sorted.”
“Under guard o' course.”
“Oh, I'll be watched like a hawk by James Thomson.” Joanne mocked, “Don't want to be taking any bandages without permission now, do I?”
“I suppose if people began helping themselves...”
“True. I'm just joking.” Joanne had stopped talking and knew that Pickle had come over for a reason. She guessed it was about Paul. She guessed right.
“Wanna come inside?” Joanne opened her door wider and walked into the living room. “Drink?”
“A green tea would be nice.” Pickle smirked and stepped inside.
Joanne turned and looked confused. “I don't think I have—”
“I'm joking.”
She sat down on her couch and, for fear of making the woman feel uncomfortable, Pickle decided to sit in the armchair that was opposite her.
“So what's the problem?” Joanne had a feeling what Pickle was going to talk about, but questioned the man anyway.
“About Paul,” Pickle began.
“Is he back?” Joanne shifted in her seat. She looked uncomfortable.
“No.” Pickle shook his head. “But he will be, and when he does I don't want people knowing about what happened between the pair o' yer.”
She widened her eyes in surprise. “He told you?”
“Aye, he did.” Pickle smiled thinly at Joanne and tucked in his bottom lip. “And he felt ... he feels terrible about it.”
Joanne straightened her back and gulped. “He frightened me.”
“I know he did. I'm sorry he did what he did, and so is he.” Pickle stared at Joanne. She was a lovely thing, beautiful, and felt for the woman. She looked lonely. “I'd just appreciate it if...”
“I didn't tell anyone?”
“Yes.” Pickle nodded. “Outside o' our group, yer was one o' his few allies in this place. He's not exactly Mr Popular, and I don't want to give Lincoln any ideas about throwing him out.”
“You didn't see the rage in his eyes.” Joanne began to shake and added, “It was as if he was possessed.”
“I understand.” Pickle straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I'm not excusing what he did, but he has lost his wife and daughter to this infection, then a couple of weeks ago he saw his own son being devoured before his eyes.”
“So what are you saying? He has issues?”
Pickle laughed gently, “I suppose we all have. I don't know what Paul was like in the old world, but we knew him from four weeks ago or so and he was a gentle, grieving man that lived for his son, and Kyle was all he had left. Now he has nothing. He's surrounded by all these people, yet he's still alone.”
“I tried to be his friend,” said Joanne.
Joanne lowered her head and was lost in thought. “I never thought.”
“Yer a gorgeous woman, and any man in normal circumstances must be insane, or gay, to knock yer back. Paul did.”
“Are you trying to say he's insane?”
“No,” Pickle snickered, then lost his smile and thought for a second. “At least ... I don't think so, but he is in a strange place at the moment, mentally. It'll be good for him if yer continued to be his friend, if that's possible. But I suppose if yer frightened o' him—”
“No, I can do that.”
“Thank you.” Pickle stood up and said softly, “Can we keep this ... misdemeanour by Paul to ourselves?”
Joanne took in a deep breath and nodded.
“Thanks.”
“He might not come back,” she blurted out.
“He will. I might take a vehicle and have a look for him later.” Pickle smiled, checked the time on his Omega Speedmaster watch and added, “I'll let myself out, Joanne.”
*
Harry Branston left Joanne's house and walked across the road, heading for 2 Colwyn Place. He rubbed his stubbly chin and smiled as he had a quick scan around at the modest area. Yes, it was tiny. But it was another safe sanctuary for the ex-inmate.
Over the months, he had to experience the death of his lover as well as many other people he had got to know, like Jack Slade, Sharon Bailey and Wolfgang Kindl, but he had also been lucky.
After Stile Cop, the house at Heath Hayes and the sports centre, they were taken in by Wolf and stayed at his cabin for a while. Then it was Vince's place at the Spode Cottage and Sandy Lane.
Sure, they had moved a lot, but they always landed on their feet. In the early weeks they had to flee Stile Cop, the house at Heath Hayes and the sports centre. All because of the dead.
Some of their later moves had been on their terms. Leaving Wolf's cabin was a decision they made because Vince had given them a better offer. Vince's camp was abandoned after the dead invasion that resulted in ten deaths, which deflated Vince and questioned his role as a leader. Vince's old friend, Lee James, had asked Vince if the rest of his crew from the Spode Cottage wanted to join him at Sandy Lane, and he said yes.
Snatchers Box Set, Vol. 4 [Books 10-12] Page 20
