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

by Whittington, Shaun

  She remained on her back and waited for the long hours to pass, so she could check out the numbers situation later on.

  Her thoughts then went to her family, then Elza and Ophelia, especially Elza, and could feel herself becoming emotional again. It was an awful way to go.

  Was that the way she was going to die, or was she going to be one of the rare lucky ones that would have a reasonable life?

  Just the thought of being bitten by one of those freaks sent a shiver down her back, let alone being eaten by one.

  Stephanie tried to clear her mind and start again. She was trying to think of something different, less macabre, but thoughts of horror polluted her psyche constantly.

  She didn’t want to think about what was happening outside.

  What was happening outside was out of her control.

  She released a moan and closed her eyes. She tried to drown out the slapping and the groaning, and attempted to sing songs in her head to keep her calm.

  It wasn’t working.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pickle’s eyes opened and he released a yawn.

  It was a new day and he guessed that it was around seven or eight in the morning—not that time mattered so much anymore.

  He sat up and rubbed his aching head. He was unsure whether he was having a migraine or his body was telling him that it needed water. He swung his legs to the side and stood up, wearing nothing but his shorts that he had had on for days. He struggled to his bedroom door, ready to make his way downstairs and put some fluid inside him. He reached the landing and could hear strange noises coming from the next bedroom.

  It was coming from Karen’s room.

  He cocked his head to one side and shuffled across the carpet. He placed his fingers on her door that was already ajar, but only opened by inches. He gently pushed it open wider and gasped when he saw the back of a man in front of him. It was one of Drake’s men. He could tell by the attire that he was wearing, and the unmistakeable WOE letters that were stitched on the back of the man’s leather jacket.

  “What the fuck are yer doin’ in here?” Pickle snarled.

  The man turned around.

  Most of his face was covered in hair, and the thick beard on his face was completely grey. His eyes were large and almost black, and in his right hand he held a dripping knife, the fresh blood running off the steel and staining the cream carpet of Karen’s bedroom.

  Pickle gasped when the man moved away to the side and he could see Karen’s face. She had been stabbed in the stomach, the sheets were stained crimson, and she shivered with wide eyes, trying to call out Pickle’s name. She held her hand up, but it soon dropped and her eyes closed. She had taken her last breath, and Pickle almost sobbed, but with the man standing in front of him, the rage took over and ran through his veins.

  Pickle’s blood boiled and his fists were clenched tight as he ran at the man. The intruder made a stance to suggest that he was ready for him, and Pickle took a stab to the arm as he dived for him.

  The intruder had lost his grip and had dropped the knife once he was grabbed by the powerful former inmate, and the two males began to roll around on the floor. With the knife still lying on the floor, Pickle managed to get on top of the trespasser and wrapped his fingers around his throat. Despite the man punching Pickle in the face whilst he was being choked, Branston managed to squeeze his throat long enough for the man to pass out, and he never stopped squeezing until the intruder eventually died.

  Pickle finally released his grip and tried to stand on his shaky legs. Once he did, he looked down at a blood soaked Karen Bradley. She lay on her back, on the blood soaked sheets, and he placed his hand over his mouth as his eyes inspected the wounds to her stomach. He went to touch the face of his good friend with his quivering hand, but before he could touch her, a noise came from behind him.

  Was it another one of Drake’s men?

  He grabbed the knife off of the floor, the same blade that had killed his female friend, and headed for the landing with tears in his eyes. He reached the landing and could see a blurry figure standing near the stairs. He wiped his eyes and looked at the figure. His eyes thinned and shook his head like a cartoon character would after seeing something unbelievable. Pickle gazed at the figure.

  “What the...?”

  He took a step forwards and could see a dark haired man, with a dark goatee beard, and had on the same attire Pickle used to wear when he was in Stafford Prison.

  “It can’t be.” Pickle gasped, “KP?”

  KP smiled and said softly, “Time to wake up, Pickle.”

  “What?”

  *

  Harry Branston sat up, his neck soaked in sweat, and immediately got off his bed. Wearing just his black shorts, he went onto the landing and straight to Karen’s room.

  The door was closed shut.

  Pickle opened the door, and went into her room to see her sleeping peacefully. He walked over to her bed, bent over, kissed her on the head, and decided to head to the ground floor.

  He looked across the landing where KP was in the dream, shook his head and sniggered to himself, then made the slow descent downstairs.

  Pickle had grabbed himself a half bottle of water from the kitchen and went back upstairs to get dressed. He put his clothes on, the same clothes that he had on the day before, and drank the liquid down. He should really have brushed his teeth, but the former inmate needed some air, desperately. He went downstairs and left the house.

  He could see the rare sight of Jim Danson and another recluse, Paul Smith, on guard. Jim was at the front gate and Paul was by the concrete wall, looking bored to tears.

  Pickle walked down the empty street and headed for the gate. He said good morning to Jim, who said it back, and asked the man to open the gate so that he could go for a short stroll.

  Pickle walked across the country road, hearing Jim shutting the gate behind him, and went over to the field where all the bodies had been buried. Some days he liked to go there and pray, get some piece and quiet.

  Today was one of those days.

  Pickle sat down, yards from the patted earth where many bodies, including John Lincoln’s, were at peace. He crossed his legs, straightened his back, and lowered his head. For minutes he sat like this, and then he began to mumble The Lord’s Prayer.

  Once he had finished, he began to scratch the inside of his ears. Karen had given him cream for the mild eczema for his flaky skin in his ears, particularly his right ear, but the steroid cream had been finished and there wasn’t any more left.

  He knew there was a chance the falling dead skin could eventually fall and block his ears, affecting his hearing, and had to make do with filling them full of water whenever he washed. It wasn’t the same, but it was the only thing he could think of now that the cream was no more. He tried some of Karen’s face cream the other day, putting it in and around his ears, but it didn’t do anything to stop the peeling.

  The middle aged man rubbed his face and tears arrived in his eyes, thinking back to the dream. It was only a dream, but it made him think what it would be like to lose Karen.

  He liked Vince a lot. He was a good friend. But he loved Karen like a sister, a daughter even.

  She was the only person he had left in the world, and the thought of her dying upset the man and tightened his throat.

  He lowered his head and began to mumble a second prayer.

  “In your hands, O Lord, we humbly entrust our brothers and sisters. In this life you embraced them with your tender love; deliver them now from every evil and bid them eternal rest. The old order has passed away: welcome them into paradise, where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain, but fullness of peace and joy with your Son and the Holy Spirit forever and ever. Amen.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Vince had spent the night on his sofa. He had been awake for ten minutes and had just stepped out of his home, stretching, and looking around the area. Jim Danson and Paul Smith were at either end of the street.
/>   In Vince’s eyes the two men were hardly fighting material. Vince told Rowley that the two of them couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag, which was the reason why they never did the night stint, but they could at least raise the alarm. With the numbers depleted they had to do their bit, whether they liked it or not, and like the guards on the night, the men now wore a whistle around their neck in case they needed to raise the alarm to warn the street of any intruders.

  Vince stepped out onto the front garden path and into the sun soaked street of Colwyn Place, scratching his balls. He wore nothing but an old dressing gown he had found in the attic of the house, and scanned the street and could see the vehicles lined up on the other side.

  Vince could see David MacDonald out of the house that he shared with Stephen Rowley.

  He gave Vince a wave, and Vince acknowledged David with a cheeky salute, pleased that he was wearing different clothes after his little accident the day before. Vince sat down on the doorstep and covered up his legs with the bottom part of the dressing gown.

  Vince yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked up, still rubbing his crusty eyes, and could see that David MacDonald was heading over his way.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Vince moaned under his breath. “Give me some peace.”

  “Hi.” David held his hand up, and stopped two yards from where Vince was.

  Vince rubbed his face and sighed, “Hello.”

  “Can I sit down?” David pointed at the spare bit of step that Vince’s arse wasn’t covering.

  “No, you fucking can’t.”

  David took a step back, not expecting a negative answer from Kindl. “Um …Why not?”

  “Because I have nothing on underneath this dressing gown, my pocket rocket and his two amigos are hanging loose, and I find it a bit weird sitting next to a fourteen-year-old boy when I’m dressed like this. Remain standing and say what you have to say.”

  David stood awkwardly, looking down on Vince, and was struggling to find the words.

  “I see Stephanie’s not back yet,” David MacDonald said. “You worried?”

  “Not really,” sighed Vince. “She’s a tough cookie, and she’s with two women that would give Pickle a run for his money if ever a fight broke out. She’ll be fine. Probably had to stay the night in the RV, for whatever reason. They’ve stayed out for the night before.”

  “Me and Stephanie have been talking a lot over the last week or so.”

  “Good for you,” Vince yawned.

  “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  Vince rubbed his face and groaned, “Where is this going? I mean … what is the purpose of you coming over here?”

  David hunched his shoulders and struggled for a response.

  “You like Stephanie, don’t you?” Vince shielded his eyes and turned away from the sun, looking up to David, waiting for an answer.

  David blushed and nodded. “She’s cool.”

  Vince smiled. “She sure is.”

  David clasped his hands together, and began to gently swing from side to side. His behaviour reminded Vince of a shy child and he wondered what else he had to say.

  “So, is that it?” Vince gazed at David and added, “Or is there something else you want to tell me?”

  David unclasped his hands and nodded. “Actually ... I wanted to ask you something … about Stephanie.”

  “I have no idea what you’re babbling on about D Mac. You’re gonna have to spit it out before I go in for my traditional morning shite.”

  “Stephanie looks up to you, almost like a father,” David blurted out. The sentence took Vince by surprise and his throat began to swell when David told him this.

  Vince tried to play it down. “Well, she doesn’t really have any male role models anymore, does she?”

  “I wanted to ask your permission,” said David, and flushed crimson as soon as he finished his sentence.

  “Permission? Permission for what?”

  “Since we’ve been getting on … I … I was going to ask her out.”

  Vince cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. His face remained a picture of confusion for a number of seconds and the only word to tumble out of his mouth was, “Really?”

  David hunched his shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Um…” Vince used the nails on his fingers to scratch the side of his head, just above his ear, and took another look at David to make sure he wasn’t kidding. “Well, for a start she’s more mature than you are.”

  “We’re the same age,” the boy protested.

  Ignoring his remark. Vince continued, “And second of all, we’re living in an apocalyptic situation, in case you haven’t noticed. Take her out,” Kindl cackled. “Where do you plan to take her, exactly?”

  David thought for a moment. “There’s no reason why we couldn’t go for a walk by the river.”

  Vince rubbed his forehead and began to shake it. “You know,” Kindl began, “Sometimes it’s better to keep your mouth shut and give the impression that you’re stupid than open it and remove all doubt.”

  “I don’t get what you mean.”

  “Forget about asking Steph out. It’s not going to happen.”

  “But I really want to go out with her, Vince.”

  “Yeah? And I want to levitate, son, but life can be a cunt sometimes.” Vince’s face became serious and said to David, “The only three things you should be thinking about is getting up, surviving, and going back to bed. That’s it.”

  “I don’t need your permission. I just thought it’d be polite to ask, that’s all.”

  “Fine. But the last thing this street needs is you two groping one another and the place ending up with a teenage pregnancy.”

  “Look, Vince, I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you are. To be old and wise, you need to be young and stupid first. Right,” Vince stood up and said, “I’m going to evacuate the chocolate hostages and then get dressed, so bugger off.”

  Vince watched as a dejected David MacDonald walked back over to the place he shared with Stephen Rowley, and could see the door of number four opening. Joanne Hammett stepped out and lit up a cigarette. She noticed Vince standing and gave him a wave; he waved back.

  “Looks like the hostages are gonna have to wait.”

  Vince misinterpreted Joanne’s niceness as an invitation to walk over and have a chat, and the young woman cussed when she looked up and could see him walking over.

  “Did you get those cigarettes?” he asked her, and clapped his hands together nervously. The usually super-confident Vince Kindl was nervous in Joanne’s company and didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like him.

  “Yes, thanks.” She looked up at the man and said, “Was there anything else you wanted?”

  “Sorry,” Vince chuckled and nodded at the smouldering cigarette. “I suppose you’d like to smoke that bad boy in peace, eh?”

  Joanne smiled. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

  “Okay,” Vince gulped and flushed a little. He turned around and saw Stephen Rowley sitting on his doorstep and decided to make his excuses to leave before things became even more awkward.

  “Excuse me.” Vince stepped away from Joanne, tightening his dressing gown. “I need to speak to Stephen about something.”

  “Okay.”

  Vince scratched the back of his head as he strolled over to Rowley, still trying to tighten the dressing gown. Rowley was grinning like a Cheshire cat and said, “Alright, chap? How’re you getting on with Joanne over there.”

  “Getting nowhere,” Vince sighed.

  “So you get her cigarettes and you think she should be your sex slave? Is that it, huh?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Vince shook his head. “Although it would be nice.”

  “Anyway, chap,” Stephen began and cleared his throat, making Vince screw his face in disgust. “Any news on the girls?”

  Vince sighed and shook his head.

  Elza and Ophelia were tough women, and if it were just them that
was missing, Vince wouldn’t have been so concerned. But it was Stephanie he was worried about, despite what he said to young David, and he was trying his best to hide it. Surely the run was a simple one, out for a few hours at least.

  They must have run into trouble, Vince thought.

  He had mentioned his concerns to Pickle the evening before and Pickle told Vince to wait until the morning. If the girls weren’t back, then Pickle would allow him to go and look for them. They knew the place where the girls were going and it was simple to get there, so getting lost was an impossibility.

  Both Vince and Stephen could see Craig Burns leaving his house, with a bag over his back and his hockey stick in his hand. He gave the guys a wave and headed for the concrete wall.

  Stephen asked Vince, “Where’s he going, chap?”

  “He’s off to do some recruiting, or whatever they call it, to see if he can bring any survivors back here. We can’t manage with the people we’ve got.”

  Craig gave the two men a wave and Vince called over to him, “You leaving us?”

  “Somebody has to do it,” Craig laughed and gave Vince the thumbs up. “I might be a few days.”

  “Going on foot?”

  Craig nodded. “It’s the best way.”

  “Good luck,” said Vince and joked, “And try and bring back some decent talent.”

  “Will do.”

  Stephen and Vince watched as Craig climbed the concrete wall, shook hands with Paul Smith before going over, and then began to saunter down the old Colwyn Place that was in a mess.

  “What did you say to the young boy earlier on?” Stephen asked.

  “Who? David?”

  Stephen nodded. “He looked to be in a foul mood when he came back.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. It wasn’t anything important.”

  “He spends most of his time in bed.” Stephen shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t really see much of him, to be honest, chap. I think he goes to bed because he’s bored.”

  “Probably ripping the nut off of it,” Vince said with a smile. “Dirty little bugger.”