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

by Whittington, Shaun

  Although it was early morning, he needed to rest, and he was going to use the pub as a temporary base, especially if there were liquids still left in there. He managed to find some new energy as he got nearer to the pub.

  Injured and with no weapon on him, he went round the back of the establishment once he reached the place, cautious that there could be some of the dead present. John hobbled over the car park to the back door of the pub and tried the door. It opened. The ex-Wrath of Evil gang member smiled and peered inside the place. It was a mess inside. Furniture had been scattered and some windows were broken, but he hobbled over to the dusky bar and smiled once his eyes clocked the bottles of tonic water on a shelf. He went behind the bar and grabbed a couple of bottles, opened them both with an opener and swallowed down the liquids.

  Man, that feels good.

  His eyes then spotted bottles of Fanta. There were only a few left. It appeared that the pub had had many visitors over the months, but not every drink had been consumed.

  A thud then alerted the man, and he suddenly scanned around in the dim place, looking for something that could be used as a weapon. He couldn't see properly, so he went over to one of the chairs in the lounge area, turned it on its side and with his hand he pushed down on one of the legs. One of them eventually came off, causing him to fall to the ground and banging his injured leg. He released a yell of pain and cussed.

  Using a nearby table, he pulled himself up, picked up the wooden leg and had a few practice swings with both hands. A thud could be heard again. He didn't know whether to leave or deal with whatever was inside the establishment. He was sure he could deal with at least one of those things, even with his disability. If he did kill whatever was inside, he could try and secure the place and stay for a while.

  The injured leg was a massive concern.

  In the films, injured individuals would pour alcohol on the wound to stop infections. He thought that once he had dealt with whatever was in the back room, he was going to try and find a bottle of alcohol and pour it onto his thigh. But then he remembered something his wife had told him, many years ago.

  His wife was a nurse and told him that alcohol can actually harm the tissue and delay the healing. Running water would have been better, but running water that was clean was hard to come by nowadays. He knew that pouring alcohol on his wound would be sore, but his options were limited.

  Another sound was heard.

  He knew that if he wanted to stay here until his injury healed, he needed to check out the place before he could relax. He was exhausted because of his short sleep and wanted nothing more than a lie down, providing it was safe upstairs. Ten minutes ago he wanted nothing more than a drink, but his thirst had now been quenched.

  He limped further into the lounge and could hear more noises. It sounded like it was coming from the male toilets.

  Still holding the chair leg, he opened the door to the restroom and could see the urinals to the left and four cubicles on the right. It literally pained him to do it but he went down on one knee, bending the leg that wasn't injured, and looked underneath.

  There was a set of feet in the first cubicle.

  He painfully got back up and decided to leave the beast alone. He was sure that the cubicle was locked from the inside, and if he somehow locked or blocked the main door to the toilets, he thought that he should be okay. It should be enough to make him feel at ease.

  He headed for the exit of the toilet door, trying to drag his feet as quietly as he could. He placed his hand on the handle, ready to pull it open. He took in a deep breath, turned around and had one last look back at the cubicles as he opened the door.

  A groan from behind startled the man and he turned around to see what it was.

  A ghoul stepped forwards, into the toilet area, and the man screamed out, alerting the being that was locked in the cubicle. He dropped the piece of wood once the pair of cold hands went round his throat. He screamed out again once his brain had registered that he was face-to-face with one of the dead that had somehow came from the lounge area of the pub, and couldn't react in time when the beast leaned in and took a large bite out of his cheek.

  The man screeched as the blood poured out from the side of his face, and did nothing but stand in shock as the creature, still chewing from its first bite, moved once more and took a large chunk out of the man's neck.

  “God, help me!” he wailed.

  He grabbed at the wound on his neck in a hopeless way of trying to stop the bleeding. With his shirt already saturated in his own blood, he fell to the floor and could do nothing when the beast grabbed the wounded neck and forced it open further with its dirty fingers, blood pissing out all over the floor.

  By the time the ravenous creature dropped to its knees and buried its head into his bloody neck and began to chew on the man's meaty tongue, he was already dead.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Paul Dickson woke to hear his stomach growling. He wasn't starving as such, but his stomach demanded food. Any kind of food.

  He stood to his feet and, fully dressed, he went over to the bedroom and peered out. Unlike the last few days, it was a beautiful day. The sun was out, hanging in the middle of the sky, and not one white cloud was around to keep it company.

  “It's going to be a scorcher,” Paul muttered to himself.

  He thought it'd be better to go out now and find some food. The longer the day went on, the hotter it was going to become. Paul had made a decision to stay in the house for a while, then move on and try and find something else.

  He was so tired the evening before that he never checked the cupboards in the kitchen to see if there was anything to eat. After nearly three months since the apocalypse began, he doubted that there was anything, but thought to check anyway before he left to go to the woods. There was plenty of water in the bath, so maybe there was food as well if the family had decided to leave their home early.

  He grabbed the thick branch that he had found in the woods and left the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and took a few gulps of water from the bath and went downstairs.

  He entered the living room and walked through to the kitchen. He walked through the pool of water that was present on the kitchen floor, and could see that it came from the fridge freezer that must have defrosted once the power was lost. He opened the cupboards that were above the kettle and the toaster, and a wide smile stretched across his face. There were no tins of food like soup, tuna or beans available, but there were other things that could keep Paul in the house for a week or so. It appeared that when the family had left, they took what they could, but didn't take everything. Maybe they thought this was something that would only last a few days or weeks.

  He looked in the cupboard. On the right side of the cupboard he could see a packet of Jacob's cream crackers, digestive biscuits, chocolate and caramel crispy cubes, a chicken and mushroom pot noodle and a couple of packets of dry pasta. On the left side was a box of cream eggs on the second shelf, as well as a tin that was full of Cadbury's chocolates. On the shelf below was a basket. Paul pulled out the basket and could see it had some medical supplies in it. There was a box of laxido, paracetamol, co-codamol, ibuprofen, sodium citrate for cystitis relief, Gaviscon, and a mixture of plasters.

  Paul opened a cupboard below the sink and draining board, and took a carrier bag from a box. He screwed the carrier bag up and put it into his pocket, hoping he was going to return with it full of mushrooms, berries, maybe even apples.

  He left the house, taking his branch with him, and headed for the woods, promising himself that he wouldn't venture far or stay out for more than a few hours. He didn't need to do this, now that he had found some supplies in the kitchen cupboards, but if the woods had edible goodies to offer, he may as well take advantage because by late autumn and winter, there'd be nothing for him.

  He had a spring in his step after finding what he had, and swung the branch and almost skipped like he was a child again. He had been out for nearly fifteen minute
s and his pace began to slow when he reached an old-looking cabin. He stopped walking altogether and scanned all around him before approaching the cabin with caution.

  He walked around the place first to see if there was any kind of danger. There were two dead bodies around the back of the hut, and the smell made Paul gag. As he walked by the maggot-infested corpses, he found that there was nothing that was a danger to him. He could see that the main door to the place was slightly ajar, by a few inches, and pushed it open further with his fingers. He peered inside to see that it was bare. The place wasn't even furnished, unless it had been emptied by the owners or other people.

  He made careful steps inside it and could see a door that was shut at the opposite end of the humble place. It must have been a toilet, Paul thought. There was a living room and a kitchen, so the door at the end must be the entrance to a toilet.

  He walked through the place that had little light, apart from what was coming through the side window, and stopped by the door. He leaned to the side and placed his ear against it and gripped the branch tighter with his right hand, just in case he needed to use it once he opened the door.

  He placed his hand on the doorknob, gave it a twist and gently barged the door with his shoulder. The door never budged, but Paul had stirred something that was behind it.

  He could hear the familiar noise of snarling and growling, and knew right away that there was a dead being in there, but how was the door locked? It must have been locked from the inside, because he couldn't see a bolt or a keyhole on the outside of the door.

  The individual inside the toilet must have been bitten, and locked him or herself in the toilet so that they didn't go out there and harm any humans once he or she had turned. At least, that was Paul's theory, but he didn't know for definite. It was a decent thing to do, if that was what actually happened. Paul was impressed and thought that if he himself had been bitten, he hoped he would do something similar.

  He lowered his head and released a heavy moan. He was going to force the door open and destroy the being. It didn't seem fair to leave it in there. Paul was convinced that the person deserved better, especially if they did such a selfless act by locking him or herself in a toilet.

  Paul took a few steps back, lifted the branch, and ran at the door and front-kicked it. Surprisingly, it opened first time and Paul stood and stared as a large bulky Snatcher shambled towards him, quicker than he had anticipated.

  Paul could see that it used to be a man and was wearing dark clothing. It had short dark hair and a beard. Its eyes were milky and its bloated face was the same colour as the sky.

  “Sorry, buddy.”

  Paul brought down the heavy branch on top of its skull, but had to use three strikes to put the dead guy down. The third strike opened up the head at the top, and a small splat of dark blood hit Paul in the face, missing his left eye by an inch.

  That was a tough kill, Paul thought. I bet he was a tough bastard as a human as well.

  Paul crouched down to inspect the smelly corpse and pulled his T-shirt over his nose to stop himself from breathing in the foul stench.

  “I really want to bury you, pal. I really do,” said Paul. “You deserve it.” He then looked around the cabin and back down at the body. “Maybe this should be your tomb. Better than being put in the ground for the worms, huh?”

  Paul stood up and looked down on the corpse. The three strikes to the head seemed to have done the trick and the head wasn't too disfigured. He had seen a lot messier kills than this.

  He looked at the arms of the deceased and could see a bite on one of them. That was how he became infected, Paul thought.

  He placed the branch on the floor, went over to the body, stood behind the head and took a hold of him under the armpits. It didn't seem right leaving the body slumped in the middle of the cabin. He began to pull the heavy body over to the corner of the room, and tried to sit it up, trying to give the man a bit of dignity.

  It was sat in the corner, head lowered, and Paul crouched down and went to pull down the sleeves of the man's T-shirt.

  “What the...?”

  Paul clocked a purple and black nautical star tattoo on the man's right shoulder, and he scrunched his eyes in thought. He looked at the bite on the forearm, followed by the features of the man: dark hair, beard. Then looked back at the tattoo.

  For a minute, Paul gazed at the body of the man. He had heard stories about this individual. Was it really him? It must be. The description was the same.

  Paul Dickson remembered the stories Karen and Pickle had told him over the weeks, especially the terrifying one when they were on Stile Cop beauty spot in the first week. People had died, and the remaining ones had to flee. The remaining ones were Karen, Pickle and KP, Pickle's lover.

  Pickle and KP had to flee to the prison van, whilst Karen distracted the horde, but KP had been bitten. He had been bitten on the forearm and asked Pickle to stop the van and then asked Karen for a bullet for his empty Browning.

  KP then left the van, intending to shoot himself, but nobody knew for sure if he did at the time. Pickle had thrashed the van after he pulled away because he didn't want to hear the gunshot.

  Weeks later, Karen was being shown around the Lea Hall building at Sandy Lane by her old school friend Daniel Badcock. He revealed the Browning. Daniel said he had found it near Stile Cop. Karen took the gun and demonstrated to a shocked Daniel that there was still a round in the chamber. It was KP's gun. He never shot himself after all, and the round in the chamber was the bullet that Karen had given him to end his life. Karen was concerned if this information would mess Pickle up, so she hid the gun down a drain on Burnthill Lane in case Harry Branston came across it.

  “Well, well, well.” Paul smiled, ran the fingers from his right hand over his thin beard and said, “So we finally meet, KP.”

  He walked away from the cabin, shutting the door behind him and left KP to finally rest in peace. He continued through the wooded area.

  Minutes had passed and Paul saw a black bag full of clothes that had been dumped, and a black circle near the bag. It looked like someone had set up camp here and had a campfire on the go.

  Paul bent down and carefully went through the bag; it was all female clothes and there was nothing in it that was beneficial for him. There was also a toolbox to his side. Inside the box were tools like spanners, wrenches and a claw hammer that had seen better days. Paul guessed that people, possibly a family, were here in the first week and probably left in a hurry.

  The toolbox was probably taken from their house as well as supplies. Maybe some of the tools were used as weapons. According to the small chart inside the box, screwdrivers were missing as well as a few box-cutters.

  There was nothing in the box that Paul could use. It looked like most of the tools that could be used for protection were missing and were probably taken, either by the owner or some random stranger that passed by here.

  Paul gazed at the claw hammer and flashes of the recent past went through his mind.

  He sat down, with his back against a tree, and lowered his head.

  What had he become?

  He thought of all the people he had killed since this thing had kicked off.

  Lance Murphy wasn't supposed to die. Paul was protecting his son, as well as Daisy and Lisa, his neighbours, and saw it more as manslaughter than murder. He had killed Lance, but it wasn't his intention. It was a few weeks after that incident before he had killed again.

  His second one was when he was making his way back to Little Haywood. He sat and talked with a man and was attacked from behind. It appeared the man wanted to eat him, so Paul stabbed him.

  Then there was the mother and son from last week, the cannibals from the farm, and he also thought that he was responsible for gunning down the man of the farm. What Dickson didn’t know was that the man he had shot was Ollie Goldwin and not the man of the farm, Arthur Grassington. But after discovering his family had been killed, Arthur did turn the gun on himself and
ended his life.

  This week alone he had killed six.

  On his way back from the Woolpack Inn he killed a man that had been recently bitten, the driver of the pickup, three WOE guys that were attacking the street, and a hostage that was refusing to cooperate.

  Was there any more? He couldn't think.

  "Jesus." Paul shook his head and released a sad breath out. He had killed eleven people. He was a serial killer, wasn't he? Weren't most survivors?

  He knew that Pickle, Karen and Vince had killed people, especially in the early weeks. Karen had told Paul a story about an incident when they stayed at Vince’s camp.

  A man by the name of Lee Johnson had been bitten and Karen shot the man in the back of the head, with his permission, to put him out of his misery. That was one of many stories, but that was a mercy killing.

  Paul slowly got to his feet and the crestfallen man looked behind him and continued to walk. He was going back to the house.

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Pickle left the street and took a walk over to the field to get some time to himself. He sat by the graves of the dead and crossed his legs. He placed his arms behind his back, the palms of his hands flat on the ground, leaned back and raised his head. It was a beautiful day and Pickle closed his eyes, feeling the glorious heat from the great ball of fire in the sky.

  He felt like lying down, with his hands behind his head and drifting away, but he knew that that would be a dangerous and ridiculous thing to do. If he wanted to do something like that, then he'd have to go back to Colwyn Place, but Pickle didn't want to go back there, not yet. He was growing tired of looking at the same surroundings, and understood why Paul was so eager to go for the occasional walk when he stayed there.