Snatchers (Book 14): The Dead Don't Hate

by Whittington, Shaun

  Dickson waited a few minutes, just in case they suddenly returned, and then walked around the circumference of the field and descended down the grassy hill. A cluster of trees were situated twenty yards from the barn, and Paul knew checking out that place was for the best before turning his attention to the house itself.

  He reached the back of the barn and tried to be as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to disturb the woman inside, and if they suddenly all returned for whatever reason he’d be seen and more than likely dealt with.

  He sneaked to the side of the barn and was baffled why it hadn’t been locked properly. There was no padlock to be seen.

  He grabbed the handle of the large door, took a quick peep behind him, and then slowly opened it. He released a depressed sigh and didn’t need to step inside. He could see the woman lying face down on the barn floor and it looked like she had been bludgeoned to death. Her head had been caved in, and a bloody baseball bat lay three yards from her. Whoever went inside had thrown her in and then performed the vicious assault.

  Paul shook his head. He had no idea if she was a part of them or a captive, but he guessed that she might have been a source of enjoyment for the three men, but had grown tired of her.

  He closed the barn door and headed for the house, bag hanging off his shoulder.

  He placed the bag on the kitchen table once he was inside and checked the living room. With the three men out, he felt almost relaxed and kept his machete in his belt.

  He checked the kitchen cupboards and came across six tins of beans. He took another peek behind him and then grabbed the tins and stuffed them into his bag. He placed the bag back on the table, and decided to take a quick look upstairs before leaving with the food that could keep him going for a week or two if he rationed them.

  He took the wooden steps to the first floor with slow movement and went to check out the first bedroom. He checked all three and they were empty. Paul took a step forward, but paused suddenly when he heard some grunting coming from the bathroom. He screwed his face and cocked his head to get a better listen. The grunting continued and Dickson headed for the bathroom. The door was open by an inch and he placed the fingers of his left hand on the door, not sure if to open it or not.

  Just take the beans and run, a voice screamed from inside his head.

  Ignoring the voice of reason, he pushed the door open, and he looked down on a man who was defecating in a bucket. He was squatting over it with his jeans around his ankles. Paul winced when he saw the grisly sight and when his nose picked up the scent of excreta.

  The man had a grey beard and scruffy dark hair, and looked up and his eyes widened. Dickson shushed him, but the man didn’t adhere to Paul’s instruction.

  He called out, “Lads! Lads!” whilst trying to pull his jeans up.

  Paul pulled out the machete and drove it into the man’s belly by six inches. He didn’t need to pull the blade out as the man fell backwards, jeans still hanging around his ankles, and cracked his head on the porcelain sink before hitting the floor, knocking over the bucket of shit.

  Dickson knew he was dead. He didn’t need to check.

  He looked down on the body and shook his head. He never thought there could be a fourth person inside. It never crossed his mind.

  Paul Dickson sighed and kept his blade in his hand as he walked away and made his way downstairs.

  It was time to go.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Harry Branston had no idea what was going on, but Jamo had tied his hands behind his back. Pickle questioned the reason but received no answer. Only until Marsden and Manson arrived the ex-drug baron knew.

  Manson’s hands were strapped up, but the fingers were still poking out of the bandage.

  Manson told Hutty and Jamo to take Stephanie and David out for some air. The two youngsters were taken out, leaving just Pickle, Marsden and Manson alone.

  “Don’t go overboard,” Pickle overheard Marsden say to Manson.

  Marsden left the garage through the side door and the tall Manson, real name Freddie Newton, pulled out a bag from his pocket and placed it on the floor.

  “Alone at last,” he cackled. “Marsden allowed me some time alone with you. He wasn’t up for it, but I wouldn’t back down.”

  Pickle gave him no response and instead fake yawned to annoy the man.

  “Am I boring you?” Manson said. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna make things real interesting in a few moments.”

  The tall man sat on the floor, five yards from Pickle, and crossed his legs. He leaned over and grabbed the bag and sat up straight.

  Pickle knew his experience with Manson was going to be an uncomfortable one when the man pulled out six darts out of the bag with Union Jack flights on them.

  “I can’t see a dartboard anywhere,” Pickle spoke up. He looked around and double checked the walls. “Definitely not one to be seen.”

  “You’re the dartboard.” Manson’s eyes rolled and he looked unsteady, out of the game.

  Pickle elevated his eyebrows and released a groan, “I thought as much. Can yer throw with yer hands all bandaged?”

  “Not as well when the painkillers wear off.” Manson wiggled his fingers. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Let’s play a little game,” Manson chuckled to himself, and then raised his head in thought.

  “Go on.”

  “Here’s a question,” said Manson, picking up the first dart. “How many people are in this hospital where you stay?”

  Pickle hunched his shoulders and never verbally responded.

  “Okay.” Manson threw the first dart and it landed on the left side of Pickle’s chest.

  Pickle winced and looked down to see that it had stuck in real good and wasn’t about to fall off. It was sore as hell, but he tried to keep his face straight, giving Manson little pleasure.

  Manson picked up another dart and asked the same question. Pickle knew that whatever was asked, he was going to experience the pain of six darts in him whatever was said.

  “Too many for yer to handle,” he responded.

  “That’s not a number,” Manson sighed, and threw another dart that hit Pickle’s belly. This dart had broken the skin, but wasn’t in as far as the first one and hung a little.

  “Over a thousand people.”

  “Wrong answer.” Manson had lost his sense of fun and angrily threw the dart, aiming for Pickle’s head, but he moved his head to the side and the arrow missed him by centimetres and bounced off the wall.

  “Yer trying to put ma fucking eye out?” Pickle was annoyed by Manson’s actions and clenched his teeth. He didn’t mind being in this world with a thumb missing, but not an eye.

  “You have a hundred people,” Manson said. “David has already said.”

  “Then why the fuck are yer asking me?”

  “Just having some fun. Although it hurts my hand every time I throw one of these bad boys.” Manson brushed his hair from his eyes and picked up another dart.

  There were two left, excluding the one in his hand.

  “How many vehicles do you have?” Manson asked.

  “Why?”

  Manson sighed that his question was responded to by another question, and threw the dart.

  “Just tell me.” He could see that the fourth dart that he had thrown hit Pickle in the belly. This one looked to be in deeper than the other that was hanging, and Manson seemed pleased with this effort.

  “We have a few mopeds...” Pickle paused and then said with a smirk, “A combine harvester, a couple o’ skateboards and a pogo stick.”

  Manson picked up another dart and moaned, “Very disappointing, Pickle.” Manson shook his head and threw his fifth dart. “If yer gonna crack jokes, at least make them funny, faggot.” The dart hit Pickle’s chest, in the centre. It stayed in.

  Pickle winced with the pain from the new dart in his body and could feel the blood trickling down his skin.

  “One more time. Vehic
les?”

  “Why do yer want to know? David has probably already told yer anyway.”

  “Double clarification.” Manson picked up the final dart.

  “What do yer want to know for? Yer thinking about trading me for our wheels? Drake won’t do that for one man.”

  “You catch on quick.”

  “So are yer gonna throw that dart, or what?” Pickle said.

  Manson threw it and Pickle never flinched as it struck him in the left forearm. “Take that, faggot.”

  “Go fuck yerself, yer straight, tit sucking, fanny-fucking rapist cunt.”

  “You’re right, Pickle,” Manson guffawed. “I do rape now and again. And I’ve got my eye on that young blonde you brought with you.”

  “She’s fourteen, yer sick fuck.”

  Manson laughed and his eyes widened. “Even better.”

  “Well, I suppose someone like yer have to resort to that. Yer don’t have an option.”

  “What are you talking about, Harry?”

  “In the real world I bet yer couldn’t get laid in a monkey’s whorehouse with a handful o’ bananas.”

  Manson stood up and brushed himself down and asked, “You finished?”

  Pickle nodded.

  Manson ran at Pickle and kicked him in the stomach. The wind was taken away from Pickle and he fell to the side and received another kick in his chest.

  “That’s enough!” Marsden called out.

  Manson turned around and never heard Richard Marsden come in. Marsden had his head in his hands and said to Manson, “Take those darts out of his body and get over to the wall, out of the way! I thought you were gonna give him a bit of a slap, not torture the prick.”

  Manson laughed and did as he was told.

  He quickly pulled the darts out of Pickle’s body, as well as the dart that missed him, making the man wince with discomfort. He put them in his small bag and stuffed them in his pocket and went over to the wall.

  “Sorry about that.” Marsden turned and smiled at Pickle. “He can be a bit over zealous sometimes.”

  “Yer don’t say.”

  “I’ll get yer cleaned up and give you another shirt.”

  “What are yer actually going to do to us?” Pickle asked. “I mean, if yer want revenge for the other day, then let the kids go and focus yer attention on me. Yer have a van and the supplies. Yer have hit the jackpot.”

  “You’re right,” Marsden said. “But with you guys here, I may as well get as much as I can.”

  “What are yer talking about?”

  “Coming across you lot was a stroke of luck. But I want more.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Hutty and Jamo had untied Pickle. They then took off Pickle’s shirt, then used a wet sponge to wash away the blood from his chest and stomach area. Jamo then threw Pickle a plain black T-shirt and told him to put it on.

  “What’s happening now?” Pickle coughed and then twisted his face in discomfort. “Yer gonna start bowling balls at me?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Manson snapped. “If you’re gonna come out with cheeky lines, make them funny.”

  “No, Harry.” Marsden sighed and decided to sit on the floor, only a couple of yards from Pickle. “What’s going to happen next is the final stage. You see, when you’re in charge of a camp, people look up to you. You feel responsible for them and will do anything to keep the community at an advantage.”

  “Yer don’t feel responsible for people here,” Pickle laughed at Marsden. “Yer come in and bully, sometimes kill them, and yer think they respect yer. They fear yer, that’s all. Sure, maybe about a dozen converts have yer back, but don’t believe that the people of Gnosall are behind yer. If yer lot left, it’d be a huge sigh o’ relief for the poor bastards.”

  “I disagree.” Marsden smiled, hiding his annoyance. “I bet this Drake character has done a few naughty things to enhance survival for his guys, and you, too. I’m just doing the same.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Pickle groaned. “What are yer gonna do?”

  Marsden released a sharp whistle and Manson left the garage at the side door. Minutes later, Stephanie and David were ushered in by Manson.

  “What’s happening?” David cried.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Manson struck the teenager in the stomach with the handle of the machete he was holding.

  David collapsed to the floor and Stephanie was told to get on her knees.

  She looked over at Pickle with tears in her eyes and said, “Pickle?”

  “It’s okay,” said Pickle. “Just stay calm.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “It’s me they want, not yer guys.”

  “But...” Stephanie shrieked as Manson kneed her in her side, forcing her to collapse, and told her to shut the fuck up.

  “Fuck’s sake!” Pickle exclaimed. “Leave them alone! They’re both still children!”

  “Shut the fuck up, gay boy!” Manson growled.

  Manson then turned to Hutty and Jamo and told them to tie Pickle up again, including his legs.

  Once they were done, Marsden looked Pickle’s way, “Bye, Pickle.”

  Marsden left the garage and Manson ordered Hutty and Jamo to get Richard back.

  Pickle winked at a petrified David and tried to calm him. The boy was shaking, crying, and Pickle felt for the lad.

  The side door to the garage opened and Pickle could see Hutty and Jamo dragging an injured Richard into the area. Both men had their hands under each armpit and dropped him on the hard floor next to David and Stephanie.

  Jamo left the garage once more and brought in a large light brown sack. It looked like a potato sack and this baffled Pickle.

  “Stay outside,” Manson ordered Jamo. “Unless it’s Marsden, don’t let anybody in.”

  Groaning could be heard from a half conscious Richard, and Manson addressed the captives in the small area.

  “Some of you in here will deserve what’s coming to you,” he began, enjoying his own performance. He then looked at young David, “But for you, son, it’s just rotten luck.”

  “Let him go, at least,” Pickle said.

  Pickle knew what Manson meant about the individuals deserving what was coming to them. Stephanie shot an arrow in Manson’s hand, Richard turned traitor, and Pickle assaulted some colleagues and injured Manson’s other hand.

  “Can’t be done.” Manson shook his head. “The youngster is part of the message that we’re going to send to this Drake guy.”

  “What message?” Pickle tried his best to free himself, but his tied hands weren’t shifting.

  “That we’re not to be fucked with. Maybe this message will help Drake to comply and not hesitate.”

  “I thought you were trading us in for the vehicles at the hospital, is that right?”

  “We...”

  More groaning came from Richard, and a winded Stephanie went over to see how he was.

  “Gonna gag him?” Manson said to Hutty. “He’s starting to get on my fucking nerves.”

  “I don’t have a gag.” Hutty hunched his shoulders.

  “Fine,” he huffed, and then nodded at Richard who was motionless on the floor. “Stab the cunt.”

  “What?”

  “You fucking heard me.”

  Stephanie gasped and looked at Pickle for support, but the ex inmate lay on the floor, helpless, with his limbs tied together. All he could do was watch.

  “I can’t do it.” Hutty shook his head. “Don’t make me do it.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Manson huffed. “He’s a fucking turncoat!”

  “He’s only a kid.”

  “He’s seventeen!” Manson turned to Jamo, wondering if he would do it, but he also refused.

  Pickle smiled at their reluctance and had at least some respect for the two men, despite their association with Marsden and the psychotic Manson.

  “Honestly,” Manson snapped and held out the machete. “You’re a bunch of fucking pussies.”

  Manson
turned to David and Stephanie and pointed the blade at the pair of them. He warned, “We have people in this village, going about their business. As far as they’re concerned, you are the bad guys that tried to kill us when we were on the road. Now, whatever you do, don’t fucking make a noise.”

  “What are yer talking about?” Pickle snapped.

  Ignoring Pickle, Manson kept his eyes locked on the two teenagers and said, “Put your hands over your mouth.”

  David and Stephanie looked at one another, bemused by his instruction.

  “Do it!”

  A confused David and Stephanie did as they were told and Pickle opened his mouth to ask what Manson was playing at, but his words were stopped when the ex-jailbird stood over Richard and then dropped to his knees, bringing the blade behind his head.

  Manson brought the blade down and it connected with Richard’s neck, making David scream through his hands. Stephanie and Pickle looked on in shock, but David turned away, closing his eyes, and never witnessed the other two strikes that followed that removed Richard’s head from his body.

  “Jesus!” Manson laughed as the blood came out faster than he thought, spilling out and making its way over to the shoes of a shocked Stephanie and David.

  Manson stood up and tried to catch his breath. He looked at his right hand and winced with discomfort. “Think I’m gonna regret that,” he snickered, watching the blood running off the steel. “I think I might have re-opened up the wound.” He then turned to Stephanie and glared. “You know, the one that you gave me, you little cunt.”

  “What was I suppose to do?” Stephanie sobbed. “Let you kill Pickle?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have fucking done!”

  “Takes a real man to kill someone that’s already unconscious, doesn’t it?” Pickle yelled. His eyes narrowed as he clocked the headless body of Richard. “Pussies? Yer the fucking pussy. Yer always have been, even in the prison, hiding behind Marsden, you fucking prick!”

  “Careful, Pickle.” Manson pointed at the ex-con with the dripping blade.

  “Or what, bellend? Or what?”