“Ripping the what?” Stephen twisted his neck and looked confused.
“Ripping the nut.” Vince sighed and added, “You know, badgering the one eyed witness.”
“What, chap?”
“Jackin’ the beanstalk, doing the old hand-to-gland combat.”
The penny finally dropped with Stephen and the rotund man screwed his face and said, “Ew, that’s disgusting.”
“I remember being that age.” Vince began to reminisce, looking up and wearing a daft smirk on his face. “I used to have a tossing sock. I suppose you have to when you’re that age, otherwise your bed sheets would end up looking like a plasterer’s radio.”
“Okay,” Stephen huffed. “I’ve heard enough. I’m off.” Rowley walked away from Vince, shaking his head, and headed over to the concrete wall to have a chat with Paul.
“What?” Vince laughed and held out his arms. “Something I said?”
He never got a response from Rowley and then saw Pickle make an appearance. The former inmate had been out of the street and walked through the gate once Jim Danson had opened it. With his hands on his hips, he peeked around the street.
“Still no RV?” he called over to Vince.
“I think something has happened.” Vince watched as Harry Branston took the short walk over his way.
“We’re not that blessed with gas these days,” Pickle began and pointed over to the Ford Focus, the pickup, the jeep and the Zafira, and said further, “Apart from the pickup, we haven’t used them for ages because we had to siphon them to top up the RV and the jeep. But I know yer worried about Stephanie, and I wouldn’t let yer go out there on foot.”
“It’s just a short journey,” said Vince. “If I’m going to look for her, it’ll have to be in the morning so I have plenty of daylight to play with.”
“So yer want to go now, is tha’ what yer sayin?”
“Yep. Not sure waiting another day is a good idea, especially if the girls have broken down or something. They could have walked back on their own, but I have a feeling that the run has been a success and they’re probably too paranoid to leave the RV alone, especially if it now has food in it.”
“Personally, I would have sent one o’ them on foot to come back here, and left the other two to guard what they had taken.”
“The fact is … we don’t know what the fuck is going on. But they’re not back. I know they’ve done this before when they went to that farm, but this was a simple three miles up a straight road.”
“Yer wanna do this on yer own?”
“I don’t know.” Vince rubbed his face and moaned, “The girls are missing, Craig has just left. I don’t wanna be leaving the street with hardly anyone left, leaving only a handful of people here.”
“Not too sure I’m comfortable with yer being out there on yer own,” Pickle said, and seemed lost in thought, pondering the options. “Yer need someone to watch yer back, even if it’s someone deemed as a liability. It’s better than nothing.”
Young David MacDonald stepped out of his house, and wondered why both Vince and Pickle were near his doorstep.
“I won’t be on my own,” Vince said with a grin.
“Oh?” Pickle watched as Vince stood next to David and threw his arm around his shoulder.
“No,” said Kindl. “Because David’s coming with me.”
David scrunched his face, perplexed, and had no idea what the men were talking about. He turned to Vince. “Um … what?”
Chapter Twenty Two
Craig Burns had two bottles of water in his bag, along with tins of food and an assortment of other things that were deemed as necessary. He had a knife in his right pocket and the hockey stick was in his right hand. He had jumped the wall over five minutes ago, passing the abbey to his right, and his feet were now slapping the tarmac like a clumsy clown, crossing over the small bridge. His destination was Milford, which was two miles away, and he smiled as he crossed the bridge that reminded him of years gone by.
When he was nineteen years old, Craig had been to a pub in Cannock with two friends and were drinking and having a laugh with the local girls. Craig and his pals were out of town and drinking in a pub called The White Hart.
After a while, Craig had noticed that they were being glared at by four guys in their twenties from across the room.
After minutes had passed and more drinks consumed, Craig had excused himself from his friends and the three girls that they were chatting up, and told them that he needed to visit the little boy’s room.
Once Craig Burns had finished and was washing his hands, one of the men, who was glaring at Craig and his friends, had stepped in and threateningly placed his forehead against Craig’s.
Craig was told to leave the pub and that he and his pals should ‘stay away from Cannock girls and shag their own kind’. If the man hadn’t have been four inches taller and wider than Craig, the words that had came out of his mouth would have been laughable, but Craig agreed to do what the man had instructed. It was either that or be beaten to a pulp.
Craig went back to the table and told his friends what had happened. All three men had decided that it would be in their best interests if they left, so they excused themselves from the girls and had left the bar.
Craig and his friends got into the car that they had arrived in, his pal’s dad’s Montego, and drove away.
The four men stepped out of the pub and watched as Craig and his crew pulled out of the car park. Craig could not help himself, probably due to false bravado with the alcohol consumption, and stuck his middle finger up at the four men, calling them names that would be deemed as homophobic to most folk.
This angered the four Cannock based guys; they jumped into their vehicle, a white Renault, and a dangerous car chase at ten in the evening began.
For miles, the two cars dangerously hurtled down the dark country road. They went through Milford and ended up on the windy lanes that had claimed many a victim over the years. Nevertheless, Craig’s pal had his foot on the floor and was doing sixty mph. At this point, Craig wasn’t concerned about the men behind; he was more concerned with the country lanes and his pal’s erratic driving.
The two cars had roared down the Stafford Road and instead of going into Rugeley, Craig’s pal decided to go for a different route and try and shake off their pursuers.
They turned left, went over the small bridge that led into Little Haywood, but had lost control of the vehicle and crashed the car into a hedge. The white Renault stopped behind them and the four men got out of the vehicle. Because it was Craig that had given the middle finger and had angered the men, he was the main target.
The passenger door was opened and Craig tried to fight off the men, but with four of them he was easily pulled out of the vehicle and thrown onto the floor. He was then kicked like a football for just under a minute, before the men left and returned to their vehicle, laughing and patting each other on the back on a job well done.
A bleeding Craig sat up and glared at the four thugs as they went back. He recognised one of them. He didn’t know the other three, but one of them was a man by the name of Kyle Horan, who was quite an infamous thug at the time.
Snapping out of his daydreaming about events that had happened in the past, Craig continued to walk along the Stafford road, clasping his hockey stick, and remembered a conversation he had with Pickle when both men were talking about the old days.
The two of them were talking about stupid things that they had done in the past. Of course, if it was a competition then Pickle would have won, hands down. Pickle had mentioned some of the stories of his colourful past, and Craig had told Pickle of the story he had just been thinking about.
Pickle laughed when he heard the name Kyle Horan, and told Craig that Kyle was an inmate when the apocalypse began and was on the same houseblock as himself.
Pickle informed Craig that Kyle hung around with a nasty piece of work called Jason Bonser, who was the brother of Colwyn Place’s very own Stephen Bonser,
and that Jason was now dead. He didn’t go into detail about how he died. Pickle never told Craig the story of Jason being picked up by Karen and staying in the house at Heath Hayes whilst Pickle was ill with a fever. He never told Craig that he had shot Jason in the leg, and Karen drove and dumped him miles away, only for the injured and determined man to come back and bring a shit load of the dead with him, and then being ripped to pieces.
Craig released a sigh and tried to switch his mind off, which was easier said than done, and tried to enjoy what was around him: the fields to either side, the birds tweeting above his head, and the wind tickling his clammy features. He liked being at Colwyn Place, but it was also good to be free and outdoors.
His face then took on a more sombre look when he began to think about Jez.
Poor Jez.
Chapter Twenty Three
“Hello, stranger,” Pickle called over to Danny Gosling. “Where have yer been hiding?”
It had been a laborious day and Pickle was standing by the wall, talking to Paul Smith. He was a man who rarely made an appearance, including his wife Gail, and had enjoyed the shy man’s company for the last couple of minutes. Paul was a nice fellow, nervous, and had a dry sense of humour like Pickle’s.
Pickle had noticed a peaky-looking Gosling stumbling out into the street. The young man had been suffering from a sickness and diarrhoea bug for the last forty-eight hours. He was told to stay in bed and keep away from everyone else, and Karen visited him once in a while to keep him hydrated and made sure he had plenty of toilet roll.
Danny squinted from the sun, and put his hand over his eyes so he could get a better look at Pickle who was making his way over.
Danny looked unsteady on his feet and sat down on the cut lawn of 5 Colwyn Place. All the lawns had been cut by Rowley and Kindl days ago, and this had been done from hand-mowers that they had taken from the nearby garden centre.
Pickle sat on the lawn next to Danny and asked him how he was doing.
“Not bad now. But felt like I was dying yesterday,” Danny tried to joke. “Hardly eaten anything in two days, and whatever I’ve eaten I’ve brought back up.”
Pickle said, “Give yerself another day to get yerself together.”
“I’m fit enough now,” Danny began, stroking his dark beard. “I would like to go out on a run. Maybe get a bit more practice killing those cocksuckers before I go out.”
“Cocksuckers?” Pickle gently laughed. “Yer ‘ave been listening to too much o’ Karen.”
“So what do you reckon?”
Pickle inspected his teeth with his tongue and could feel some of the dry oats that he had for his breakfast that hadn’t managed to find their way down into his stomach. “About more practice?”
Danny nodded.
“Fine, maybe later,” said Branston. “The good thing ‘bout this street is that some people are eager to put in a shift. Yerself, young David, even Joanne have expressed an interest in gettin’ their hands dirty, so to speak.”
“I think some people realise that we don’t have a choice now. We don’t have the people anymore.”
“No, we don’t, but hopefully Craig will change that when he returns.”
Danny looked over at Jim by the gate and Paul by the wall, then made a comment that it was about time they started doing something, and that John Lincoln used to let them get away with murder whilst Stephen Rowley, Nick Gregory and James Thomson did most of the runs, with Terry and the usual suspects taking guard.
Pickle told young Danny to get back inside and get some rest. Danny agreed, but couldn’t help a small chuckle before going inside.
“What are yer laughing at?” Pickle said with a confused smile. “Something I said?”
“No.” Danny stroked his dark beard and added, “I was thinking about the first time you took me out.”
“I remember.” Pickle nodded and said, “Yer were about as much use as an ejector seat on a helicopter.”
“To be fair,” Danny held both hands up, “I did think you were getting attacked.”
“And what did yer do?”
“I ran away.” Danny hunched his shoulders and said, “I suppose if you were being attacked for real, me going in wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. I mean, once you’re bitten, you’re fucked, right?”
“That’s a nice way o’ lookin’ at it.” Pickle began to laugh and added, “So what are yer saying? If a resident from Colwyn is bitten by a Snatcher, yer wouldn’t go and help because they’re fucked anyway? Yer would stand back and leave them to have an agonising death?”
Danny gulped and lowered his head. “I suppose not.”
Pickle created a thin smile and said to Danny, “Go back and get some rest. Maybe later we’ll go back out there.”
“Great.”
“You’ve just given me an idea,” Pickle said, rubbing his chin.
“Oh?” Danny looked tired and took one step into the house, now dying for his bed.
Pickle lowered his head, rubbing his eyes, and said, “I think we’ll take another trip to the cafe where that man and his family were. Maybe they’ll come back with us this time. What do yer reckon?” Pickle lifted his head and turned to look at the main door of Danny’s place. The door wasn’t shut, but Danny had disappeared. Back to bed, Pickle thought.
Harry Branston released a small chuckle; he closed the door shut before walking away and over to have a word with Jim Danson at the main gate, but then changed his mind and decided not to. His chuckling had stopped when he thought about that dream again. Then he thought of Celia.
Chapter Twenty Four
An hour had passed and Karen Bradley was feeling the day catching up with her after a below average night’s sleep. She yawned and could hear Pickle clearing out the cupboard under the stairs.
A lot of things that were now deemed as useless were stored there, including decorating equipment like paint pots, brushes and rollers. Most of the pots were almost empty anyway, and the last thing on his mind was to give the walls a lick of paint.
Karen sat in the armchair, thinking about the Dansons, and called out to Pickle. He turned up at the living room and asked what was the matter.
“I was going to say something before, but I’m not sure if I’m exaggerating or not.”
“O-kay.” Pickle looked bemused, unsure where she was going with this. “I’m listening.”
“Well...”
“If this is about Rowley helping himself to medical gear,” Pickle said, “then I’ve already had a word with him. Everybody goes through you if they need something.”
“It’s not that,” she huffed out with impatience. Pickle didn’t interrupt Karen as such, but he had unsettled her momentum.
“Well, what is it?”
“I’m worried about some of the people here.”
“Yer mean the recluses like Paul and Gail Smith, Brenda Hatchet?”
“It’s the Dansons I’m actually worried about.” Karen looked up and both sets of eyes looked at one another. This time Pickle chose to keep his mouth shut and allowed Karen to continue in her own time. She cleared her throat and added, “I think Jim is losing it. I know he goes out and does guard duty every now and again, but he seems restless … and … and the rest of them...”
“Go on,” Pickle urged.
“I think I’ve only seen his wife half a dozen times, and the kids ... being stuck indoors all day ... it’s not right.”
“What’re yer saying?” Pickle folded his arms and was unsure what Karen’s main concern was. “Do yer think he’s controlling? Or do yer think he’s goin’ overboard, protecting his family, not allowin’ them to go out? Or are they simply just scared?”
Karen licked her top lip and struggled to give her male friend an answer.
“What is it, Karen?”
“I’ve just got a bad feeling.”
Pickle scratched the back of his head and sighed, “Yer have got a bad feeling. So yer want me to segregate Jim from the rest o’ his family, for no pa
rticular reason apart from that yer have a bad feelin’?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Karen huffed, looking exasperated. “Just have a word with him, please.”
Pickle looked out of the living room window and over at Jim who was standing at the gate, and said, “I’ll go o’er and have a chat. Happy now?”
“I’m worried about his kids,” said Karen. “I’ve just ... got...”
“Yer have got a bad feeling,” Pickle sighed. “I get it. I’ll go now.”
“Thank you.”
Pickle walked away from Karen, exited the house, and out into the fresh air and glorious sunshine. He looked over at a clearly bored Jim Danson and walked over to him. He waved at the man once the guard flashed Pickle a look. Jim never responded back and rudely turned his back on Pickle as Branston approached him.
“Everything okay, Jim?” Pickle called over and continued to head for the gate where Jim stood. “Yer seem a little withdrawn, subdued.”
Jim grunted and gazed out through the wiry fence that was attached on either side of the gate.
“Yer not speaking to me?” Pickle chuckled, trying not to let Jim’s rudeness bother him.
“I’m okay,” Jim said in almost a whisper. “I just want to get this shift over with and get back to my family.”
“Don’t yer worry about yer family,” said Pickle. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“I need to be with them,” Jim huffed and seemed agitated, angry. “I should be with them instead of being made to do this pointless guarding.”
“Probably good to spend some time away from yer family, out in the fresh air.” Pickle turned his head and spat on the floor. “Must be quite stifling, the four o’ yer in that house, hardly ever goin’ out.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“And how is guard duty pointless?”
“There’s hardly any of us left, and even if some thugs came to the gate and started climbing over, what the fuck could I do? I’ve never been a fighter.”
Snatchers Box Set, Vol. 4 [Books 10-12] Page 62
