Snatchers Box Set, Vol. 4 [Books 10-12]

by Whittington, Shaun

  She had saved his life. Pickle too.

  Paul produced a small smile, still sitting up, and said, “Thanks.” He was in a daze and all could see that he was in shock.

  “Thanks?” Pickle scoffed. “After sacrificing yerself when we, me and yer, were out there?”

  Paul looked at all four individuals. Stephen he didn't know so well. Pickle was one that he always liked. Paul then smiled at Karen. It was good that Karen, Vince and Stephen had returned back from the medical run alive. He then gazed at Vince. Was there any point telling Kindl that he had bumped into his old lover? Would there be any benefit in that? Paul thought not, and decided to keep quiet about the little meeting that eventually turned out disastrous for the poor woman.

  “Let's help him up.” Pickle threw the mace into the back of the pickup and walked over with Stephen. Vince and Karen decided to hang back.

  Stephen and Pickle put their heads under a shoulder each and dragged Paul to the pickup as if he was intoxicated.

  Karen walked alongside them and peered her head to the side. She could see Paul's face quivering and tears filling his eyes, but the emotional breakdown never came. He had somehow managed to keep it together.

  They then went inside and Stephen was told by Pickle to get in the back of the truck.

  “But it stinks in there, chap,” he protested meekly.

  “It's either that or walk,” said Pickle sternly.

  “Fine,” Stephen huffed. He couldn't understand why Vince wasn't told to go in the back. Maybe it was because they had been companions a lot longer. It was probably a biased decision.

  The pickup pulled away and the travel back was made in silence ... almost.

  The vehicle turned left and went by the pub, over the bridge and was beginning to pick up speed once Pickle slipped it into fourth, now doing forty.

  He could see a lone ghoul standing in the middle of the road, staring at the vehicle. He had no idea where it could have come from. It wasn't there on the way to the Stafford Road.

  An exhausted Pickle floored the accelerator and ignored the calls from Vince and Karen to slow down. It appeared that Stephen had also spotted the creature and was now banging the back window as he sat in the back, urging to Pickle to kill his speed.

  “Slow the fuck down, Pickle,” Vince urged him.

  “Pickle?” There was concern in Karen's voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Pickle released a sigh and took his foot off the pedal, the vehicle eventually slowing. He swerved around the dead being whilst doing twenty, and headed back to Colwyn Place at a decent speed, a safer speed.

  *

  It had just turned midday by the time they returned with Paul. The vehicle crawled through the gap once Braithwaite had pulled back the gate, and Pickle could see Terry looking inside the vehicle. Terry rolled his eyes and puffed out his lips once he clocked Paul Dickson. It appeared that he wasn't happy to see his return, and Pickle was pretty sure that Stephen Bonser was going to express the same attitude. Maybe some others as well.

  Pickle parked the vehicle by the others, near the concrete wall, and stepped out. Rowley jumped out of the back, and Vince and Karen also stepped out. Paul was the last to leave the vehicle.

  The exhausted man was helped by Pickle and Karen to his door, whilst he was being watched by half of the residents in the street. He was helped into the house and told Pickle and Karen that he was going upstairs for a lie down.

  “Okay.” Pickle nodded. “Get o'er ma shoulder and I'll carry yer up.”

  “I can manage,” Paul mumbled.

  Paul planted his right foot on the first step, and his two friends behind him could see his legs quivering with fatigue.

  This time he moved up a step and then put his left foot on the next one, but he leaned backwards, as if he was about to fall, and Pickle grabbed the tired man and helped him upstairs. Karen followed behind.

  As soon as he reached his bed, Paul fell on it, onto his back, and kept his boots on.

  “I'll bring some water up,” said Pickle.

  Pickle left, leaving the two alone. Karen could see that Paul was so exhausted that he'd be asleep within minutes. She fussed over him and made sure he was comfortable, then began to take his boots off.

  “It's good to see you,” he mumbled, eyes closed. “Glad you made it back from that medical run.”

  “No thanks to Freddie Johnson,” Karen snickered.

  “Karen?” he groaned, eyes still closed and drifting away.

  Karen shushed him and started to rub his head. “Don't speak. Just sleep.”

  Only a minute had passed and he began to lightly snore, bringing a smile to Karen's face. “Poor Paul.” She leaned over and gently kissed him on his clammy forehead. “You've been through so much.”

  She took a hold of his left hand, kissed it and slowly dropped to her knees. She rested the side of her head on his arm and closed her eyes, waiting for Pickle to come back with the water. She felt for Paul. She even thought she loved him ... as a brother.

  He had been through a lot.

  He reminded her of Jack Slade.

  Jack was also a tragic figure. He, like Paul, had lost his son and was an individual struggling to cope with what was happening. Unfortunately, it had ended badly for Jack when he saved Sharon Bailey, but Karen hoped that Paul would be luckier than Jack Slade.

  She kissed him on the forehead again and said, “Enjoy your afternoon nap, Paul.”

  *

  With his machete tucked into his belt, Harry Branston went downstairs to see if Paul had any water in his kitchen, leaving Karen and Paul in the bedroom. He was running short. He only had two half litre bottles sitting on the windowsill, but Pickle thought that one of the bottles would do for Paul in case he woke up later on, feeling dry.

  He grabbed the bottle and left for the stairs, but he saw, through the living room window, Stephen Bonser walking by outside and going into his house. Pickle ran upstairs with the water and placed it in Karen's hand, telling her he'd be back soon.

  Pickle decided that it was time for a chat with Bonser, to try and sort out the hostility that existed between him and Paul. Pickle reached the ground floor, left the house and walked to 20 Colwyn Place. He knocked the door and it was quickly opened by Stephen.

  He smiled and said, “Pickle? What's up?”

  “Can I come in?” Pickle smiled and then noticed Stephen staring at his machete.

  “I see Lincoln is changing his mind about people not carrying weapons.” Bonser stroked his chin and added, “Nothing's been said to me about it.”

  “I feel safer with it.”

  Stephen slowly lost his smile and told Pickle to come inside.

  Pickle followed Stephen into the living room and declined the offer of tea. “This won't take long,” he said. He cleared his throat and was about to speak further, but James Thomson appeared from out of the kitchen.

  “I'm glad yer here as well,” said Pickle, smiling at the figure of James. “I'm only going to say a few words, and then I'll leave.”

  “What is it?” James sniffed. “I reckon it's about that weirdo, Paul?”

  Pickle ignored the comment and said, “First of all, I'd like to thank yer for what yer did at the wall.”

  “It's our place,” James Thomson spoke up. “If those new fuckers hadn't opened that door to the abbey...”

  “The new guys are okay,” Pickle reassured them. “What happened was gonna happen, sooner or later. If anything, it was ma fault for opening the door without thinkin', when we were looking for Danny. We told John about it, but thought sharing information like that wasn't good for the residents.” Pickle puffed out a sigh and said, “Yer know what? It doesn't matter now. That's not what I've come here to talk about.”

  “So what is it?” James Thomson queried.

  “It's about Paul Dickson.”

  “I fucking knew it,” laughed Bonser. “We both saw him returning in the pickup. What about him? He's been out there, had a rough time an
d you want us to massage his balls? Is that it?”

  Pickle puffed out his chest and swallowed his anger. “I want yer to leave this guy alone. He's lost everyone. He lost his son only a couple o' weeks back and since then he has contemplated suicide.”

  “So you want us to feel sorry for him?” Bonser was unsure what Pickle wanted.

  “No.” Pickle shook his head. “I want you to treat him like a person. With what he's been through, I think he could be close...” He paused for a second, then finished off the sentence. “I think he could be close to breaking point.”

  “So are you saying he can be dangerous?” Thomson took a step forward and was standing next to the smaller and thinner Bonser. “More the reason we should kick him out.”

  “Yer know what?” Pickle hunched his shoulders. “I don't really know for sure if he could be dangerous. I know he has made some threats to yer guys, but... Just give him a break. That's all I'm saying.”

  “If the guy's dangerous and starts anything,” Thomson had his fists clenched and snarled, “I'll be holding you responsible.”

  “Just leave the guy alone, will yer?” Pickle released a quick and thin smile and headed for the front door.

  “If he starts his shit,” Thomson growled, stopping Pickle in his tracks, “then me, Stephen and Terry will put him down.”

  Pickle turned around and looked at James Thomson and shook his head. He used to have guys like this for breakfast. Wannabe hard men. Bullies.

  “Yer know,” Pickle began, “I've always thought it was dangerous to have all the houses unlocked in the street, especially when people couldn't take a weapon o' some sort to bed with them. Having to hand them in was never a good idea.”

  “Most of the keys to the houses have been lost, so we have no choice but to leave the doors unlocked, but most use a light barricade for peace of mind. Anyway, what's your fucking point?” Thomson was beginning to get annoyed.

  “I'm just saying, with the houses unlocked, what's stopping someone from inside or outside the camp sneaking in and butchering us, or at least some o' us, while we sleep in our beds? I suppose it doesn't matter if they're locked; if people wanted to get in, they'd get in, but do yer understand what I mean?”

  “Is there some kind of threat hidden in this statement of yours?” asked Stephen, confused by Harry Branston's remark.

  Pickle shook his head. “Just making conversation. Let's not get paranoid now, shall we?”

  Bonser gulped and was nervous by Pickle's comment. “Look, Pickle. That's fine. We'll start afresh tomorrow. If Paul's nice to us, we'll be nice to him.”

  “Wait a minute!” Thomson walked over and grabbed Pickle by the shirt. “Don't come in here and tell us what to do. If Lincoln hears about this...”

  “Let go of my shirt,” Pickle snapped.

  Thomson stared into Pickle's eyes, released his grip and took a step back.

  “I'll let yer off with that one,” said Pickle. “But yer touch me again, and I'll crush yer.”

  “I can have you.” James Thomson began to laugh. “Why don't we go outside, in front of the whole street, and see what you're made of. Yes, I've heard stories, but stories can be exaggerated and grow into something they never were in the first place.”

  “James.” Bonser placed his hand on James Thomson's shoulder and told him, “Leave it, will you?”

  “I'm not having this twat coming in here, mouthing off.” Thomson shrugged off Stephen's hand and snarled at Pickle. “Come on, Pickle. You and me, outside. What do you say?”

  “Yer don't wanna go down that road, sonny. Trust me.” Pickle turned around and headed for the main door.

  Thomson lunged at Pickle and both men fell to the floor. Bonser screamed at the men to cut it out, and could see that the two big men were wrestling on the floor, like a couple of school boys.

  Thomson then released a scream. He fell off of Pickle and was now on his back, clutching his left hand with his right.

  “What is it?” Bonser was panicking. “What happened?”

  Pickle casually stood to his feet and brushed himself down, smiling at Stephen. “I'll be off.”

  “He broke my fucking fingers!” Thomson wailed.

  Pickle screwed his face up and said, “It was just the two. Yer little and yer ring finger.” He then turned to Stephen and patted his shoulder. “I'll get Karen round to bandage him up.”

  “O-kay.” Bonser looked stunned and didn't know what else to say.

  “Enjoy the rest of yer day, gentlemen. Play nice now.”

  Pickle left the house and shut the door behind him, drowning out James' screams.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  “So what do you reckon to the house?” Stephanie Perkins asked.

  The teenager sat down on the couch and could see that Ophelia White was now oddly sitting in the corner of the living room, on the floor, and picking at her nails. She was clearly bored, but Stephanie was happy that she was in a place where there were other people.

  “I like it.” Elza Crowe smiled. She was sitting at the other end of the couch, leaning her head back. Elza looked done-in after the wall incident and the digging, and wasn't far away from forty winks.

  Stephanie was aware that the Sandy Lane Camp only lasted a couple of days for her, but even if this place was only for a week, it was a welcomed break from the woods and the church, and also a lot safer.

  She was glad she was away from the church. She didn't want to mention this to the girls, however, especially Elza. She had kindly taken Stephanie under her wing. Although Stephanie had possibly saved Elza's life when she and Ophelia were attacked in the woods, Elza didn't have to invite Stephanie to join her. She and Ophelia could have just walked away. But they didn't. And Stephanie had a lot of respect for Elza for this.

  The church was a good place. It was better than any of the houses on the Pear Tree, because the church didn't have the smell of death in them and dozens of flies that seemed to appear from nowhere. The only trouble with the church was that when it came to looking for supplies, it was left abandoned and could be taken over by desperate survivors or even looters. Elza told Stephanie that she didn't want to leave anyone behind to 'guard' the building, in case the person behind was outnumbered and beaten, or worse.

  So, when they went out, they all went out together.

  It was the three of them that would go out, and it was the three of them that would stay indoors. No one ventured out on their own. Not out of the church grounds.

  Fortunately, when the church was overrun in their absence, it just so happened that they were with Pickle and Karen when it happened.

  There was a lot of bad luck when it came to the apocalypse, but these kind of lucky breaks were very welcome.

  If Pickle had simply dropped the girls off and left, then Elza, Ophelia and Stephanie would now be staying in a smelly house on the Pear Tree or Sandy Lane, or, if they could he bothered, they would make the three to four mile walk back to Little Haywood. After all, John Lincoln did clearly express that he wanted the girls to stay.

  The church had been taken over by other people, and the girls were now staying in a small place where the houses were reasonably clean, solar power was available, and it also looked like these people could survive the winter. A lot of supplies such as food and medical stuff was available in 17 Colwyn Place, and there were also vegetable patches set up in numerous back gardens.

  There was something bothering Stephanie; something that Elza had said when they were travelling back to Little Haywood from Rugeley.

  She asked, “Elza?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Remember what you said yesterday, in the back of the Range Rover, when you mentioned killing the strong characters at Colwyn Place?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” Elza still had her head back, sitting on the other end of the couch.

  “Did you mean it?”

  “We could never do it with just the three of us.”

  “Two of us,” Stephanie spoke up. “I wouldn
't get involved with something so ... cold.”

  “If trouble begins to brew,” Elza continued, “and Pickle and the rest are threatened to be kicked out...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, with Pickle's blessing, all those guys, the strong characters he mentioned, would be butchered. Then we start again.”

  Stephanie Perkins gulped and for the first time she felt uncomfortable in Elza's company. “Just like that?”

  “Yep.” Elza looked over at Stephanie coldly. “Just like that.”

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Hours had passed and Vince Kindl stepped outside, straightened his arms above his head, reaching for the sky. He rubbed his hands over his scarred face and decided to stretch his legs. He had managed a short nap on his couch; it was just for ten minutes, but felt better and refreshed.

  He nodded at two females that were sitting on their lawn. He tried to remember their names. Lynne Smithers and Sandra Roberts. Both females had dark features and were both twenty-six years old. He briefly wondered what it'd be like if they ever had a threesome. Vince laughed. As if that would ever happen.

  He then lost his smile and began to think about Rosemary. And Lisa.

  He went over to the two girls to have a chat. He didn't know every single resident, a lot of them were very private, but he used this opportunity to get to know at least two of them better. He had only made a few steps when the two girls decided to take themselves back inside. Lynne Smithers was the last to go in, turned around and gave Vince a strange look before shutting the door behind her.

  “Charming.” Vince snickered, “Still got it, Kindl.”

  With his scars that he had, thanks to his father, Vince had always had to rely on his mouth to charm the ladies. Making them laugh was his strongest weapon. Laugh them into bed, but don't laugh them out of it, he always used to say to his workmate and occasional drinking buddy, Lee James.

  Vince sat down on the kerb, alone, and looked up to the murky sky. He took in a deep breath and began to think about his sister in Ireland. How was she getting on? Some of his thoughts then went back to his childhood, but his daydreaming was short-lived when a voice brought him out of it.