Snatchers 10: The Dead Don't Care
By
Shaun Whittington
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2016
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 English
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“The monsters that rose from the dead, they are nothing compared to the ones we carry in our hearts”
― Max Brooks, World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War
Snatchers 10: The Dead Don't Care
Chapter One
August 11th
Her eyes opened and stared at the ceiling. Back in the old world, the stippling pattern that was present above her wouldn't normally be to her liking, but it wasn't bothering her and had bigger things to be concerned about. She was in the tenth week of this nightmare and still had a roof over her head. She was thankful for that.
She yawned and rubbed her dry eyes, then slowly sat up to take a look at the room she had been sleeping in for the last few days.
She took a minute before moving again, then she slowly swung her legs to the side and sat at the edge of the bed. She was filled with sadness and felt a heavy swelling in her throat.
Not today. No crying today, please.
She had put on a brave face for the rest of the people that lived at Colwyn Place, but some knew she was hurting. It was the night time that she would break. Lying in bed, smothered with silence and her mind going at a hundred miles an hour usually broke her.
She had a short cry as quietly as she could, knowing that there was another presence in the next room that was trying to get some shuteye. She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. She looked at the watch that was on the side table. It had been given to her by John Lincoln but she never wore it.
It was nearly eight in the morning.
She stood to her feet, stretched, bending her spine in the shape of a banana, and left the bedroom. She quietly made the stairs, dressed in just an old dressing gown, and reached the ground floor. She went into the kitchen and grabbed herself a small bottle of water, then headed for the living room. She sat down on the dusty couch and looked out of the window. The curtains were never drawn the evening before and she could see that Colwyn Place was empty.
Karen Bradley sighed hard, placed the bottle on the floor and rubbed her belly. She slowly put her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She stared at her feet for six minutes and stopped when she heard the sound of footsteps coming from above.
It was Pickle.
He was up.
*
His dreams were plagued with horror, and once Harry Branston's eyes opened, he breathed out a sigh of relief.
It had been a dream.
Karen wasn't dead.
She thankfully hadn't been eaten by those diseased fucks.
Pickle sat up and a smile emerged over his face. It was strange that he had woken from a dream and was relieved. Relieved? To be living in this world? The dream must have been bad.
He got to his feet and trudged his way to the bedroom window. He glared out and could see that the day was going to be a dry one. He breathed out a sad breath and thought about the people of Sandy Lane. No one was present when they returned to the place, and although he was sure that most had fled, he was convinced that many were dead now.
Bentley was dead. Paul had told them that he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was pretty sure that Stephanie got it as well. Before she disappeared, Stephanie had informed Paul and Bentley that Rosemary and Lisa had perished, news that Paul had reluctantly told Vince when he was taken back to Colwyn Place.
Pickle heard Karen's door open and listened as she went downstairs. She had been predictably sad over the last few days, and Pickle, although supportive when needed, had tried to keep himself busy and away from his friend. He felt uncomfortable the way she was, but she had Paul. Despite their history and bond, Pickle was more than happy for Karen to confide in Paul Dickson.
He yawned, then decided to go downstairs to join her, his heavy feet hitting the bedroom floor before making their way to the door. He went downstairs and greeted his female friend with a warm smile. "Morning."
Karen smiled back. She was still sitting on the couch with her knees up. "Morning."
Chapter Two
"So who's going on this little trip?" Vince Kindl began to scratch his groin area whilst waiting for an answer off of Stephen Rowley. They were both standing outside, on the pavement.
"I had a word with John," Stephen began, then twitched and cleared his throat. "I think it's gonna be you, me and somebody else."
"Good." Vince nodded, pleased with the answer. "I'm getting bored taking trips to the Trent and gathering water to purify."
"You've only done it once, chap," Stephen Rowley began to snicker. "Yesterday was your first time."
"It was still shit."
"Has to be done."
"True," Vince sighed. "Otherwise our mouths would be drier than a nun's crutch and we'd be squeezing brown rocks out of our arses."
Stephen smiled. Despite his no-nonsense and sometimes politically incorrect phrases, he was warming to Vince.
Vince added, "I hear Pickle is going out on a little run himself."
"That's right, chap." Stephen cleared his throat loudly, like he did most times, and continued, "John wants Pickle to give Danny Gosling some experience out there. It'll be a little run to some secluded place, pretty straightforward stuff."
Vince laughed and shook his head. "Straightforward? We'll see."
"Can't be more dangerous than what we're going to do, chap." Stephen decided to sit down on the lawn of John Lincoln's house and Vince sat next to him.
"Stafford Industrial Estate," Vince sighed. "I wonder what surprises will be waiting for us on this trip. There're always surprises."
"It'll be okay. The trouble is, chap, that the longer the weeks go on, the more supplies around us dwindles. So, to get more stuff, we need to travel further, to travel further, we use up more petrol. We're doing well with the produce that's growing in the back of some of these gardens of ours, but come the winter..."
"Yeah, yeah. I know how it works." Vince remained sitting on the lawn. His legs were stretched out, his arms behind him and his hands flat on the grass, giving him support. "What's the main purpose of this little trip anyway?"
Stephen grunted, "Don't you know? Why did you volunteer if—?"
"I like to keep busy."
"There's a place near the GEC building," Stephen Rowley began. "There's an assortment of shops. There's a carpet place, a bingo hall..."
"I suppose my living room could do with a carpet. Maybe we could squeeze in a game of bingo while we're there."
"No, chap." Exasperated, Stephen sighed and shook his head at Vince's acerbic sense of humour. "There's a place, a medical place just past the bingo and other shops. That's why we're going there."
"Look, I've raided Stafford Hospital before and it was grim. These trips can be dangerous." Vince briefly thought back to that day. He was with Jack, Claire and a heavy guy by the name of Paul. They had arrived in two vehicles and were attacked on the way back by bandits. Claire and Paul had been assaulted, both left for dead in the woods. It was in the fourth week that that had happened, June 30th, but it felt like years ago to Vince Kindl.
Stephen said to Vince, "Hospitals have people in them, which means the dead. I'm talking about a small chemist."
Vince gently chewed his bottom
lip in thought. "How do you know it already hasn't been raided?"
"One of our guys passed it two days ago, after a run."
"Probably best if Karen came with us. I think she's the only one with any kind of medical knowledge here. She'll know what to take."
"I think John is gonna get Karen to sort the stuff out when we return. Apparently John has an idea, about dishing out drugs to people with symptoms in the future. He wants the medical stuff to be stored in 17 Colwyn Place."
"So will Karen be in charge issuing out drugs?"
Stephen nodded. "I assume so."
"That'll be a good idea." Vince had a look around Colwyn Place and could see it was beginning to get busy with activity. Five minutes ago it was dead.
Old Tom was standing at Lincoln's doorstep. Both men were chin-wagging about something. Beverley was on her front lawn, reading to the toddler she had saved when she was back at Milford. Freddie Johnson was sitting on his doorstep at 9 Colwyn Place, eating a pie, and Joanne Hammett was wearing blue jeans and was bent over. It looked like she was tying her shoelace. Vince couldn't help releasing a groan.
"What's up, chap?" Rowley asked.
"Look at that." Vince pointed in Joanne's direction. "Pure perfection."
"She's lovely, isn't she?"
"Lovely," Vince scoffed. "Man, she could suck me for a hosepipe." Vince laughed and playfully punched Stephen on the arm. "Right, I'm away to drain the weasel."
"The what?"
"You know," Vince guffawed at the dumb expression on Stephen's face. "I'm off to wiggle the worm, siphon the python, shake the dew off of the daffodil, bargain with the prostate..." Vince sighed and smiled. "I'm going for a piss."
"Okay, chap."
"Be back in a minute."
Vince's stood up and brushed himself down.
He reached the drive of the house that John Lincoln had given him, and could see Joanne Hammett walking in the road, by his place. He couldn't keep his eyes off her.
She turned and smiled at Vince. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
Vince nodded, his mouth dropped open. "It is now."
He entered his house, relieved his bladder, then stepped back outside and sat back down next to Stephen Rowley.
"What shall we do now, chap?"
Vince shrugged his shoulders. "I spy?"
Chapter Three
Paul Dickson reached the ground floor of his house and peered out of the front window. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. For the last two days it had done nothing but rain, but now it seemed that, for today at least, Little Haywood was going to be drenched in sunshine.
Fully-clothed, he put his boots on and stepped out of his front door and looked up. Only one cotton ball-like cloud could be seen in the sky, and that was just a small one.
Paul kept his main door open and sat on the doorstep. He began to think about a holiday his family had a couple of years ago. They went to Bournemouth for a week, staying in a guesthouse, and the weather was so good that he and Julie had to put factor fifty on his Kyle and Bell to stop them burning. Bell had blonde hair and Kyle was strawberry blonde, and Paul used to joke that there was always a danger that his kids could burst into flames during an unusual UK heatwave.
Paul had bought Kyle a black and yellow dingy and every day, under supervision, the little man spent hours in that dingy, in the sea. It was a great holiday. They usually went to Salou or one of the Canary Islands, but risked a British holiday. The only dampener of the holiday was when Julie became sunburnt and couldn't sleep properly for two days.
He remembered another time when they went to the circus, seven months ago. Before it started, before the Ringmaster appeared and introduced the first act, Kyle turned to his dad and asked: "Dad, will there be any dogs in the show?"
"Yes, son," Paul replied. "There will be."
Kyle then said: "Will there be clowns?"
"I think there's one clown today."
"Will he have an axe with him?"
Paul smiled to himself as he remained sitting on the doorstep. His son had been going through a morbid phase, obsessed with death, but he knew it wasn't anything to be worried about. Kyle even told his dad that he would love a dog, and if they got one he would like to call it Pablo Escobar. Paul had no idea where Kyle had heard of that name before, and the little man's morbid curiosity always made Paul smile and reminded him what he was like when he was Kyle's age.
Paul himself, when he was young, used to hang around with a pal called Lloyd. The pair of them would go round the back of the pub, most nights, convinced that vampires were sleeping in shallow graves.
He thought about his and Kyle's time in the house, weeks after the disaster had been announced, when Julie and Bell were missing. He tried to remember the house rules he had chalked on Bell's blackboard, to keep Kyle safe.
"What were they?" he muttered to himself. It seemed like ages ago now. Then a smile emerged under his nose. He remembered now.
1. Never look out of the window.
2. Don't shout or make any other kinds of noises.
3. Don't go outside.
4. Don't play near doors or downstairs windows.
5. Always do as dad says.
6. Don't moan, because there are people worse off.
7.
Rule seven was never filled in for whatever reason.
Paul looked up and could see Joanne Hammett walking over to him. She smiled and he smiled back. They had had a long chat the day before and seemed to like one another.
"Hey, lazy bones," she giggled.
"Morning."
Paul Dickson remained sitting on his doorstep and looked up at her. She was a stunner, no doubt, but being physical with any woman couldn't be further from his mind.
"So what's your plan today?" Joanne asked and sat down next to him, making him budge up. It was a tight squeeze.
"No idea." Paul shrugged. "I'm kind of lost at the moment. John said he'd sort me out with something, but..."
She revealed that beautiful smile and said, "But what?"
"I don't know. Some of the guys are going out to that chemist place, and Pickle and Danny are off to some daft shop or cafe."
"You want to go on a run?" Joanne began to play with her blonde hair, curling it with her forefinger.
"I wouldn't mind. I don't think John thinks I'm up to it."
"We have plenty of people here that can go out. When he was alive, Nick Gregory went out a lot with a partner. And there's the Fergusons, Stephen Bonser, James, Stephen, Freddie, and now your guys. There's a lot of us that have never been out, but we have our uses. I won't bore you with the details."
Paul smiled. "Thanks."
She playfully nudged him for his cheek, and asked him if he had had breakfast.
Paul pouted his lips and shook his head.
"Why don't you come over to mine? I'll rustle you up something. I've even got teabags."
"Sounds good."
"Come on then." Joanne stood up and held out her hand. Paul took it. They released their hands once they were both on their feet, and made the short walk over to Joanne's place.
*
"What's she up to?" Karen had left the house and walked over to Vince and Stephen who were still sitting on the grass. She stood glaring at Paul and Joanne, with her hands on her hips. She watched until they both entered Joanne's house.
"Who?" asked Vince.
"That Joanne tart."
"That's a bit harsh." Vince started to laugh and had a theory on what was wrong with Karen, but decided to keep his mouth shut.
"Joanne's a nice woman." This time it was Stephen Rowley's turn to speak up. "Very friendly."
"I bet she is," Karen groaned.
Stephen stood up as John Lincoln had finished talking to Old Tom from 3 Colwyn Place. "See you in a minute, chaps. I need to talk to John about something." He walked over and Karen took Stephen's place, sitting next to Vince.
He could see her staring over at Joanne's house and said to her
, "He is allowed to make new friends, Karen."
"I know." She brushed her brown hair behind her ears and added, "I worry about the bloke. I hope she's not..."
"What?"
"I dunno. Taking advantage of him. He's fragile."
Vince guffawed, "He's probably over there having a cup of tea or breakfast. Calm down, woman."
"I am calm." Karen wasn't very convincing.
"Having said that..." Vince began to grin, and decided to tease Karen.
"What?" She glared at Kindl for a few seconds before he spoke.
He said, "If she offered it on a plate, it'd be hard to turn her down."
"Offered it on a plate? What do you mean by it?"
"You know." Vince clasped his hands together and explained, "It. The gash, snatch, her beef curtains, her crevasse, the fingerhut muff, the furburger, bearded clam, her beef pastie..." Vince paused and tried to think of some more.
"You can be a right prick, Kindl. You know that?"
"Maybe she's noshing him off right now, as we speak."
"Have you quite finished?" Karen began to smile and it appeared that she was lightening up.
"I think so." He smiled back and gave her a playful punch on her arm.
"The fingerhut muff," she laughed and shook her head.
"Like that one, eh?"
Karen put her arms behind her back and placed her palms flat on the grass, now leaning as she sat. "Gary used to call mine Gillette. "
"Explain."
"Because apparently it was the best a man can get."
Vince snickered and looked at Karen, raising his eyebrows. "Why don't I be the judge of that?"
"Bollocks, Kindl." Karen laughed. "In your dreams, old man. In your dreams."
"Anyway," Vince sighed. "I better get ready for this trip."
"Me too."
"What?"
"Asked John earlier," said Karen. "I'm coming with you."
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