She turned around and saluted Vince.
"Cheeky cow," sniggered Kindl.
Vince was now sitting alone, and Rowley was standing over him.
"Sit next to me," Vince urged Stephen. "Standing over me like that makes me feel uncomfortable. What is it?"
"Look, chap," Stephen began and placed his bottom next to Vince's. "I'm guessing that out of all the Colwyn residents, apart from your own people, I'd like to think that I'm closer to you lot than any of the other residents, including Lincoln."
"Look," Vince showed the palms of his hands to Rowley and tried to joke, "I ain't sucking your dick."
"Chap," Stephen groaned. "I'm trying to be serious."
"Okay, I'm sorry. You're closer to us than the rest. I'd agree with that." Vince nodded. "What's your point?"
"First of all, I'm not a grass. I'd like to make that clear."
"Okay."
Stephen grunted, cleared his throat and twisted his neck. It was something that Rowley couldn't help, but it still annoyed Vince. "People are moaning about you lot, especially the fellow that's missing."
"Paul? Have you any idea what he's been through?"
"I could imagine, chap." Stephen then cleared his throat once again and added, "I heard one individual saying that he hoped that Paul didn't make it back, that he was a weirdo and an accident waiting to happen."
"Well, thanks for the information, Stephen. Me, Karen and Pickle will take care of Paul when he comes back, which will probably be sometime today. Pickle has told John Lincoln that he's gonna take a ride out later on. If Karen doesn't go, I may take a ride out with him. Got nothing else on this morning."
"I know Pickle had upset John before he left with Paul yesterday. The whole place was talking about it, chap."
"And?"
"And ... if you lot keep on going over his head, it won't be good."
"Just relax. We'll behave. As soon as Paul gets back, I'll have a word with them all and we'll square things with John and the others."
Joanne Hammett stepped out of her house and sat on the doorstep. She took out a cigarette and lit one up. Vince stared over and gave her a wave, but she never responded.
"Charming," he laughed.
"Have you upset her, chap?" Rowley enquired.
"Not that I know of."
"You like her, don't you?"
"Of course I do. She's gorgeous."
"To be fair, chap " Stephen grunted. "She's never really appealed to me."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. Looks too much like my sister, Emma."
"Wow. Now I would really like to meet your sister. Married?"
Stephen smiled and shook his head. "No, she's not married."
Vince realised that Stephen hardly talked about his past and he guessed that maybe his sister wasn't around anymore. Or maybe he just hadn't seen her since the outbreak and didn't know whether she was alive or not.
Vince decided not to ask any further questions about his sister, Emma Rowley, and tried to lighten the mood once more, the only way Vince Kindl could.
"She kind of reminds me of an old flame," Vince began and had another peep at Joanne. She was now coming to the end of her cigarette.
"Who? Joanne?" Stephen wasn't sure if Vince was exaggerating or not. Vince was a strange-looking, some would say, ugly-looking man. He was too thin and had old scars over his features, and Joanne looked the type of woman that would date men that were fit and tanned.
"Well, her face looks kind of similar to the girl I'm referring to." Vince was beginning to backtrack, telling Rowley that he was exaggerating about one of his exes looking like Joanne Hammett. "She looks or looked like Joanne from the neck up, but this chick I used to see had an arse like a bag of washing and had more rolls than a bakers."
"Not cool, chap." Stephen made it clear that he disapproved of the way Vince was speaking. "That's someone's daughter. And that poor woman could be dead now."
"Yeah," Vince sighed and seemed unbothered that Stephen was offended. "More than likely."
"I mean, imagine that was your daughter and somebody was talking like that about her."
"You know what?" Vince stood up, informing Rowley that it was time to go. "You're right. Only lasted a couple of months with this girl anyway. There were issues in the bedroom department."
"Right, I need to go and get some water filtered." Stephen also stood up and had heard enough from Vince.
"She used to sweat more than a dog in a Korean restaurant," Vince reminisced. "After we had sex, the sheets would be soaked."
"I'll see you later." Stephen hurriedly walked away from Vince and left the scarred man standing.
Vince had a chuckle to himself as he watched the back of Rowley disappear into his house. Vince then decided to go back to his own house. He hadn't been given a job to do and was hoping, after the last day or so, that he and some of his buddies would be given a day off.
Fat chance!
Vince started walking to his house and had only managed a few steps.
"Vince!" he heard John Lincoln's voice bellow from behind him, stopping Vince in his tracks.
"Oh, here we go," Vince moaned.
"Wait up!"
He turned around, wearing a false smile for the rotund man, and asked what was up.
Lincoln seemed to take an age to reach Vince, and once he did he was out of puff and struggling to speak.
"Anything wrong?" queried Kindl.
"Just seeing how you are."
"Really?" Vince didn't believe him. "Well, I'm fine. Is that it?"
Lincoln stood with a thin smile and it looked like something else was on his mind.
Wait for it. Vince was certain something else was going to pass John's lips before they made their separate ways.
"Actually," Lincoln confessed. "There is something else."
I knew it. "What?"
"Well, as you know, Paul Dickson is still missing. I know that Pickle wants to go out and look for him and I have no problem with that."
"And?"
John Lincoln said, "When he returns, I want you to give him..."
"A foot rub?" Vince said with a grin, "A head massage?"
"This is no laughing matter, Vince." John shook his head at Kindl and ran his chubby fingers through his hair. "Some of us are worried. I want you to give him a talking to, straighten things out. I've tried talking to him, but..."
"He'll be fine." Vince tried to relax a flustered John Lincoln. "He'll settle down. He's grieving at the moment."
"Do I have your word that you can keep him right?"
"Well, I can't see into the future—"
"Vince!"
Vince released a big heavy breath out and said, "You have my word. Things will be fine."
"You sure?"
"Of course."
Chapter Forty Four
Craig Burns strolled along the pavement, away from the house that they were staying at. Supplies had dwindled and Craig was becoming frustrated. All they had for food was the chocolate bars from the kiosk. Liquids were okay, but it was the lack of food that worried him, so he decided that he and Jez should go for a walk. The pair of them had rucksacks on their backs that had been found in the attic, and were both hoping to fill them with goods that would keep them alive. They had also brought along empty bottles that they were going to fill at the brook and Craig had put his hockey stick in the bag.
They had only been on the road for seven minutes when sounds of engines forced Craig and Jez to veer off the path and behind a hedge. They sounded like they were quite far away, giving the boys plenty of time to hide. Manic thoughts began to plague Craig's mind.
He turned to Jez and said, "All this walking for supplies is draining us."
"Ain't nothing else we can do." Jez shrugged his shoulders. He then paused for a few seconds and said with a smirk, "If you was told you could have a mixed grill if you bit the heads off fifty goldfish, would you do it?"
"What kind of a stupid question is that?"
&n
bsp; "Just answer it."
Craig looked confused then asked Jez with a serious face, "Do I have to eat the heads?"
Jez nodded with a smile.
"Probably." Changing the subject Craig announced, "I've got an idea." Craig grabbed his hockey stick out of his bag and added further, "I've got a feeling it's probably members from that biker gang." He nodded at the stick, "I'm gonna try and take one of them out. Grab the bike and we'll shoot off. I think it's time to say goodbye to Slitting Mill today."
"That's a stupid idea." Jez was beginning to panic. "If it's them, and I get caught and taken back to Drake, they'd skin me alive."
"Don't get caught then."
"Seriously, Craig."
Craig smiled and placed his hand on Jez's shoulder. He could see that the poor young man was petrified. "Look, I'll take one out, and you hide until I'm on the bike and ready to go. All you have to do is jump on the back."
"No ... I can't."
"It's not as if I'm harming nice people, is it?"
"But..."
"Stop panicking." Craig began to laugh. The engines were getting nearer. They could both hear it. "I promise I won't kill anybody."
"I'm sorry," Jez sighed and shook his head. "But if you get caught, I'll be well-gone."
"I kind of presumed that that would happen." Craig smiled, admiring Jez for his honesty. "You just stay down."
Craig stood and crept to the edge of the road, hiding behind a tree. He could now see three bikers, one behind the other, coming from the left of the main road.
Perfect, Craig thought. He would take out the individual at the back. But he needed to be quick.
He took an intake of breath as they got nearer, and prepared to strike. Moped One went by, quickly followed by Moped Two, both bikes now disappearing around the bend that curved to the left.
Craig jumped out from behind the tree and struck the third rider on the chest. The bike went by Craig and wobbled. It fell to the side and the man fell off. As soon as he came off, he quickly got to his feet, ran and tried to call after his two pals. Craig allowed the man to go free and picked his stick up, took his bag off and placed it inside. After putting the rucksack's straps over his shoulders, he then went over to the bike and picked it up.
"Jez!" Craig called out, now sitting on the moped. "Ready when you are, son."
Jez came rushing out of the side, panic scrawled over his face, and jumped on the back.
The biker that had come off had now disappeared, and Craig was aware that it was only a matter of time before the other two realised that something was up. As soon as they realised that they were a biker down and found their companion on foot, who would inform them what had happened, they'd be back. Back for revenge.
Craig told Jez to hold onto his waist as he pulled the right handle bar back, making the bike move. He turned around and sped off with Jez holding onto Craig with both hands.
"Hold on!" cried Craig.
"Don't worry. I will."
The moped reached forty and Jez took a peek behind him, clocking the two riders that were now following them. He couldn't see for sure, but he assumed that the man that Craig had knocked off was on the back of one of them.
Jez started slapping Craig's shoulder to let him know what was going on. Craig took a quick peep behind him, realised what was happening, then managed to get the bike up to sixty, now entering Rugeley and riding alongside the clear road that was below Etching Hill.
The bike slowed down as it approached a junction and turned left. Jez thought that they were going to head deeper into Rugeley, but Craig had opted to hit Rugeley Road and head to Wolseley. Another half an hour, Jez thought, and they'd be in Stafford.
Oh shit. Please not Stafford. Not where the gang is based.
The bike roared along the road and Jez took another peek behind. The bikers could not be seen, but he knew they were following.
To Jez's displeasure, Craig went by Wolseley and on the Stafford Road, now six miles from Stafford. Craig took a look behind and could see it was clear for now. He turned the bike left at the next side road and went over an archaic hump bridge that went over the River Trent.
It looked like they were heading to Little Haywood, but the bike would have to be ditched. It was in the red and struggling.
Chapter Forty Five
Tired and weary, Paul Dickson smiled as he saw the Wolseley Arms pub in the distance. He was getting near. Another mile or so and he'd been back at Colwyn Place. He was dying to lie down and put his feet up. A few gulps of water would also be nice.
He thought about the farm and told himself that what he had done was justified. People like this were only making survival harder for the normal folk.
He yawned and heard the snapping of a branch coming from the trees.
He puffed out his chest. What now?
Forty-one-year-old Dickson tried to ignore it and kept his machete in his belt. He then saw two mopeds a few yards into the woodland. They had been parked up, but there was no sign of the owners. These fuckers seemed to be everywhere these days.
Paul continued to walk by, looking forwards and focusing on the pub in the distance. His feet were so tired that they dragged along the tarmac occasionally, creating an unnecessary noise. His walk continued for another twenty six seconds until two men appeared from the woods. Paul stopped still when a voice called out behind him.
Paul remained still and stared out, not even worried what was approaching from behind. He waited.
He could hear the footsteps on the road, from behind him, and heard a man say, "Why don't you turn around and we can take a look at you?"
Paul had a smile to himself.
The same man yelled, "Arms in the air, so I can see them!"
Paul kept his arms by his side, frustrating the man from behind and making him yell the same instruction, but Paul had managed to turn one-eighty without any harm coming to him.
Dickson could now see there were two men standing in front, around ten paces from him.
One of them was bald; he was covered in tribal tattoos, apart from his face, and was dressed in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Baldy was middle-aged and had a scar on his cheek, possibly from a knife. The man by his side had a skinhead, and was a lot younger, around mid-twenties.
Skinhead spoke up, "My partner told you to put your arms in the air when turning round, didn't he?"
Paul never responded. He stared at the men with a glazed look.
"Looks like we have a wacko here," Baldy laughed, and brought his wooden bat up and rested it on his shoulder.
Paul could now see that both men were carrying bats, but was unbothered by this. He had no idea why. A month ago this sight would have made him a nervous wreck, but he didn't seem to care.
Baldy noticed that Paul was carrying a large blade that was tucked in his belt and said, "We need you to put the machete on the floor."
Paul smiled. "It's fine where it is."
Both men looked unhappy that Paul wasn't 'playing along' and pondered their next move. They weren't used to backchat from other survivors. This was new to them.
"We need to ask you a few questions before we let you leave." Skinhead walked forwards, his young frame moving with a swagger and wore a cocky smile. "So don't be nervous."
Paul gazed at the young man with cold eyes and began caressing the top of the handle of his machete. "I'm not. It's you that should be nervous."
Skinhead stopped walking, lost his smile and brought up the bat, now snarling, but Baldy told him not to attack the strange loner.
"We can't get answers out of him if he's unconscious," Baldy laughed, then flashed Paul a glare. "Or dead."
"True." Skinhead nodded.
"Right." Baldy stood up straight, the bat still resting on his shoulder. "Where are you from and do you have a place to stay?"
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno."
"You don't know what?" Skinhead was beginning to lose patience. "You don't know where you're from, or if you have a
place to stay?"
Paul stood in quiet, forcing Baldy to yell, "You're not making things easy for yourself, mister! Are you?"
Paul never answered and continued to gaze into nothingness.
"We're looking for a guy called Jez. Blonde guy. He was with our group for a short time, but ... turned his back on us."
Paul sighed, "I don't care."
Skinhead snarled, "Have you seen him?"
"Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't."
"I'm sick of this." Skinhead marched towards Paul, forcing Paul to pull out the blade, holding it in his right hand with confidence. This man had used this thing before, both Skinhead and Baldy could see this, and their reluctance to apprehend Paul was clear on their faces.
"I think we can take him." Skinhead began to laugh and looked at his friend.
Baldy nodded and sighed, "Sorry, friend. If you don't comply, then we're gonna have to fuck you up."
"Are you the police now?" Paul began to snicker.
"Looks like we're gonna have to hurt you," said Baldy.
Skinhead ran at Paul with his bat, but Paul stepped to the side and took the young man out with a side kick to his knee. Skinhead yelped and fell to the floor, lying on his back, but before Baldy could react, Paul Dickson had the tip of his blade on Skinhead's cheek. Paul told both men not to move a muscle.
"Don't kill me, man!" Skinhead cried.
Paul shushed the sobbing man that was on the floor and then stared at Baldy. "You said you was going to hurt me before." Paul spoke with calm. "May I ask how you was going to do that?"
"What?" Baldy was confused and was more concerned for his friend rather than answering daft questions.
Paul repeated his question. "How was you going to hurt me?"
"I don't know. I suppose..." Baldy thought for a minute. "I don't know."
"I lost my wife and daughter to this sickness. I then lost my only son, my Kyle, my big chap, and watched helplessly as a member of the dead was devouring his little body. So I will ask you again..." Paul's eyes widened and saliva ran down his mouth when he growled, "How the fuck are you going to hurt me, cunts? I'm already fucking dead!"
Baldy lowered his bat and gulped. "Look, man. We were all normal once, but I'm just trying to survive. I used to be a waiter in Pizza Hut for fuck's sake, and Winston," he pointed at Skinhead, "he used to work as a porter at Stafford Hospital."
Snatchers (Book 10): The Dead Don't Care Page 19
