Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

by Shaun Whittington

  SNATCHERS 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

  By

  Shaun Whittington

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author uses UK spelling.

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  Other books available

  The Woods of Red Hill

  Demons

  Billy

  The Monkey Wing

  Clan

  Misty Falls

  Black Hour

  Snatchers

  (Most of these books are FREE)

  The following is a Fifty-Five-chapter novel about the zombie apocalypse. This is followed by a 10,000-word story called, Snatchers: A Father's Story.

  It contains disturbing scenes that would most likely happen for real if the ZA ever did occur.

  If you're easily offended, do not read any further.

  This is not for persons under the age of 18.

  SNATCHERS 2: The Dead Don't Sleep

  The future's uncertain, and the end is always near.

  —Roadhouse Blues by The Doors

  We've got to survive! Somebody's got to survive!

  —Stephen Andrews from Dawn of the Dead (1978)

  Chapter One

  June 16th

  He ran for as long as his heavy legs and gasping lungs would allow him to. His clumsy, clownish feet slapped the hard concrete, and exhaustion forced the crippling pain across his chest to snowball and he felt as if he had been struck with a plank of wood across his upper body. He stopped running and bent over in a pathetic attempt to bring oxygen back into his lungs. He wished he was back at his flat, but those things were now trying to get in, and escaping from his place seemed to be the only option left.

  He held out his arms in front of him and could see his uncontrollable shaking, as if he was an addict on his third day of being 'clean'. The shaking was down to the attack by two of the creatures earlier on that were waiting at the end of his street. He managed to swerve the two individuals, like a rugby player who had just received the ball, and managed to get away with a small bite to his left forearm as they continued to claw at him.

  Their stumbling was no match for his running and they had soon disappeared from view. He exited his village and could still see the steep road ahead of him; he began to pass the football field to his right—to his left was the entrance gates to the fitness centre—and something caught his eye, but carried on running as he knew it was something that was horrific. In the background he could hear a tired cry from a dying human on a football pitch just outside the village.

  He didn't want to look behind, but he eventually did and saw the area where the cries were coming from. The poor man was in a pain that he couldn't imagine, and he was hoping that he wasn't going to experience this kind of anguish himself in the near future. He could also see a lone ghoul limping its way in another direction, completely ignoring the 'banquet' that was occurring.

  He guessed at least seven of the things were on the football field munching on the dying individual, and had to turn away when he saw the left arm being pulled away from the body. He looked at his watch and it had been fifteen minutes since he fled the village, and he hadn't gained much, considering he was supposed to be a cardio fitness fanatic. The hill had halted his progression.

  He blew out his cheeks as if he was blowing out the candles of his birthday cake, and began running for a second time, away from the village where he had stayed all his life. He finally went past the fitness centre where he worked out three days a week. He was now at the top of the hill and at a crossroad; he was confused which way to go. It was either Rugeley or Heath Hayes, but each town was a couple of miles away. He could see on the road, what looked like, a car crash involving two vehicles, but there was no one to be seen, as it looked like the people involved in the crash had fled the scene.

  He looked at the carnage once more and wondered if the people had casually walked away from the crash, or had fled from those things. Now, at the top of the hill, he looked down from the main road and could see the road leading into his village, which could be seen to have dozens of the things walking out of the place, slowly clambering toward his direction.

  He desperately banged on the doors of the houses on the main road, but there was no answer, and he wondered what was going to be the next plan of action. He could have broken in, but he feared two things: being stabbed or shot by the frightened owner, or, breaking into a house that might have had a family that were infected who were just itching to escape into the new world, where everything that walked and had a pulse was a potential meal.

  He decided to avoid the main road for the time being, and began to enter the small wooded area, which was about a tenth of the size of Cannock Chase.

  Before all of this had happened, he had spent over a week cooped up in his flat once the news broke out, and was pleased that the week had gone relatively well without a hitch.

  From day one, his village back then was like a ghost town, but now it had escalated into something more sinister. There was dozens of them, and he wasn't sure if they were from his village or they had roamed from another place in desperate need of flesh. He wished he had made more of an attempt to flag the van down that went by a few days ago. He could see it from a distance from his bedroom window on the main road, only a hundred yards away from his flat.

  With food getting short, he bravely ran into the dark and decided to try and hitch a ride but once he was on the main road, he found that the van was in no mood for stopping. He tried to wave his arms as it went by in case they thought he was one of 'them', but by then it was too late, and he headed back with sluggish and disappointed feet to the comfort of his home, and that was when he saw his first ghoul.

  It stood in his street and glared at him from a distance. He tried a 'hello', to see if he was mistaken and the thing was actually human, but all it did was alert whatever senses it had left and it began to slumber in his direction. He then ran back into his flat, locked the door and began to pray, something he hadn't done in years.

  He now looked around, and all he could see was trees. He didn't know whether it was shock, fear or confusion, but he had no idea where to go. He began to turn his walk into a gentle jog. His jogging only lasted another minute, and once again, he had to stop. Every time he turned around, he began to see black trails. He was becoming tired, agitated, and sure that he was now hallucinating.

  He bent over and placed both hands on his stomach and felt unwell. Something was happening to him; something he couldn't explain. He then stood straight, which was painful, and began to rub his tender throat. When he was five years old, he had contracted mumps. It was something that took nearly two weeks to clear up, and this felt similar. He was only five years old at the time, but could still vividly remember the discomfort that he felt.

  He was now feeling the tingling sensation of pins and needles in his left arm, as if he had just woken up after sleeping on it for an hour. He delicately placed his hand on the affected area and could hardly feel a thing, as if he was touching
a limb that belonged to someone else.

  His head spun and he half-sat and half-collapsed onto the grassy ground. He blew out his cheeks like a blowfish and released tension-filled air from his orifice. He rested his forehead on his hands and couldn't believe how hot he had become. He lifted his head straight up and cursed himself as tiredness was beginning to tease his senses. Tired? With those things coming up the road, only a few hundred yards away from me? I must be mad.

  He grabbed hold of a branch that was above him and attached to the nearest tree, and tried to pull himself up. Something was wrong. He felt awful, and it felt like every bone in his body ached and throbbed with pain. He managed to stand and his legs throbbed as if he had been beaten with baseball bats. His legs felt dead, numb, and couldn't fathom why he felt so terrible. He came to the conclusion that if his 'admirers' were here, right now, he would probably find it hard to outrun the things, as he was now struggling walking in baby steps.

  He sat back down, once again, and stared up at the sky. He glared at the shy sun—for maybe too long—that had reappeared from behind a cloud, and saw the sun spinning and spinning. He then looked away and saw the hexagonal red spots dance teasingly before his eyes, before eventually disappearing for good.

  He felt a small pain in his stomach and without warning threw up onto the grass, most of it being blood. In any normal circumstances, he would have panicked, but this time there was no panic, just confusion. He looked at the lumpy pile of vomit and blood, and shook his head. What was happening to him? His eyes suddenly became so heavy, that he struggled terribly to keep them open. He looked down on his T-shirt; there were now specks of blood on it from the vomiting, but he could still see the writing Slightly Damaged Human across the chest in dark blue letters as he looked down. It was the name of one of his favourite metal bands.

  Still sitting, he looked at his small bite on his left forearm that had been received from an altercation with one of them, and rested his head against the trunk of the tree.

  Trying to ignore the pain, he closed his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  He sat back in the van and began playing with the radio dial. It had been a while since he had heard anything, especially music, and knew that if he kept the volume at a low level, he wouldn’t be putting himself at risk.

  He eventually found something. It was an interview on an unknown radio station.

  Unknown Host: "What is the cause of this outbreak, Dr Jones?"

  Dr Jones: "Well, we think it's a rabies-type virus. You can get it the same way an animal can give it to you, by saliva into the bloodstream, and in some cases, even from a scratch. Then your CNS is affected. Remember we're calling this a rabies-type infection, but it is slightly different to the original rabies. This spreads a lot quicker. Rabies sufferers become hydrophobic, but there are reports of these things in lakes and all sorts. We also believe that their blood getting into a healthy human's cut or eye could also prove fatal."

  Unknown Host: "Why has it spread so fast? It's not even an airborne virus, or is it?"

  Dr Jones: "It has spread so fast because the general public didn't know about it. It's not airborne. If it was, there would very little survivors. The only way it could go airborne is if the virus borrowed traits from another to make it an influenza-style disease. But two radically different viruses can't do this, as they are so different. At first, there were isolated incidents of biting, but when someone is injured, what happens? They get sent to hospitals, and are looked after by families. We had an incident where a person was taken to the GP's clinic. He collapsed and then awoke within an hour in the GP's nursing room. He then began to attack the waiting patients and staff. They, in turn, eventually spilled out onto the streets themselves once they reanimated and began attacking fellow shoppers on the main street and you can guess the rest."

  Unknown Host: "So you've known for a while? But the government didn't want an 'unnecessary' national panic?"

  Dr Jones: "We were aware of isolated incidents, and the Prime Minister felt that these 'isolated' problems could be quashed. It only started to get out of hand on Saturday 9th June. Even though technically it has been around for a few weeks, we're calling Saturday 9th June officially as Day One of the outbreak. There was an attack that occurred on the Glasgow train to London from Central Station and by the time the carriage reached King's Cross, a lot of the victims had died and reanimated by the time it reached London. The whole train was infected, and don't forget the previous stops where some of them had maybe spilled out onto the platforms of Manchester, Birmingham, etc. There were also four reported incidents across the UK in hospitals as well."

  Unknown Host: "Why hospitals?"

  Dr Jones: "As I said before, if someone is bit, they might have been driven to hospital by a worried relative."

  Unknown Host: "Which hospitals has this occurred at?"

  Dr Jones: "There should be many affected, but the main four we're aware of are, The Southern General in Glasgow, where a supposed psychotic patient walked into casualty and attacked staff. You can imagine the chain reaction of that, especially as patients are lying helplessly in their beds. Stafford Hospital reported a few junior doctors being attacked. Birmingham's Children Hospital had to be closed off at parts because of a problem with admissions. The worst case that was reported was the incident in Burnley Hospital."

  Unknown Host: "Is it true that when a person is infected, it takes an hour for them to turn?"

  Dr Jones: "Roughly. Although there are reports that in some cases it has taken a lot longer. We had one incident in our lab only yards away from your studio where it took half a day for reanimation with one subject."

  Unknown Host: "Subject? Are you guys studying these things while this…carnage is happening?"

  Dr Jones: (silence)

  Unknown Host: "What about armed police or the armed forces? Couldn't they contain the problem?"

  Dr Jones: "Nope. The problem was too big. Here's a classic example: On June 8th, an armed unit had stormed an office in Watford that was awash with the things. The two teams went in, and eight of the unit were taken down."

  Unknown Host: "How did that happen?"

  Dr Jones: "I'm guessing that there was too many of them, and it was unknown then that headshots were the only way to kill them. They probably had to find out the hard way, like most units around the UK probably did. Imagine the panic when open firing at these things and they're not going down and the crowd are just progressing forward without dropping or showing signs of pain when being hit. Then maybe a headshot occurs, and then suddenly the penny drops. Then after—"

  He switched the radio off and sighed. It was an interview he had heard numerous times and didn't understand why the radio station insisted on repeating it. The only conclusion he could come to was that there was no one there and the radio station was on some kind of loop—something that would only be stopped once electricity ceased to exist.

  It was Saturday; it had been a week since the outbreak had been officially announced. On that terrible Saturday evening, only seven days ago, the world—the UK at least—had changed for the worse, but that week had felt like months.

  He looked at the digital clock on the dashboard of the van. 11.25am. He hated waiting around.

  Harry Branston sighed and looked out into the woods where he could see, in the distance, the back of his female friend who was making her way to the brook. "Hurry up, Karen."

  Chapter Three

  Her careful feet almost glided through the long grass. Her progression was slow, but a necessity in order not to raise suspicion amongst anything that could be classed as a predator in the woods. Her stroll to the brook was a ponderous affair, but time was something she had plenty of these days. She carried with her, a carrier bag with utensils she wouldn't normally find in her shower, but she was in no position to be picky.

  She hadn't showered in a week and although the smell wasn't something that bothered her partner, who sat at the side of the road in the van waiting for h
er to finish, it bothered her a great deal. The greasy hair was making her scalp itchy as if it was plagued with lice and made her agitated as she scratched herself constantly. Her overall odour wasn't too bad for someone who hadn't been bathed for a week, and not cleaning her genetalia was something that was also bothering her, as it was something that she had never experienced in her adult life.

  She finally reached a stream, but wasn't entirely sure how clean it was. They had previously driven by a canal, however, from neglect and the petroleum from the barges, the canal water was a coffee colour and might have carried all kinds of infections, so she opted for the stream, which seemed a lot clearer, although she wasn't expecting it to be perfect.

  She plonked the carrier bag down and pulled out a crumpled, but fresh, black plain T-shirt, as well as a fresh pair of dark blue jeans.

  She took a look around and took out her Browning that was inserted in the front of her trousers, and carefully placed it at the side of the stream. She then began to strip off her dirty rags that were decorated with days of perspiration and the occasional spray of blood. She had washed her face and armpits with a damp cloth two days ago, but this time she needed to clean herself up properly.

  She stripped till her body was exposed; her skin was covered in scratches and contusions that were reminders of the crazy week she had had. She perspired even when naked, as the sun had returned after a few days of wet misery, and had shone on the area strongly, just like it did the weekend before; and the wind filtered through the trees and mumbled in her ear for a brief while.

  The final piece of clothing she had removed, were her socks. She took them off one by one, by standing on her left leg and taking off her right sock, and vice versa. Every item of clothing had been taken off and screwed into a ball; she had no intention of wearing them again, even if there was a launderette nearby. As far as she was concerned, they were pieces of clothing that were contaminated; they possessed physical and mental reminders of the last week, which consisted of pain, misery and death, and she was glad to have finally dumped them.