Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry (16 page)

Chapter Thirty Four

Jack, along with the reluctant Johnny, left the house and took the keys that were sitting by the teapot in the kitchen, just in case they needed to come back for whatever reason. The forty-year-old then slipped the keys into his back pocket, while the car keys were in his front, and walked along with his companion.

The walk itself looked innocent enough, with the exception of a hammer slipped into Johnny's belt buckle and Jack carrying the crowbar in his right hand. The streets were unusually and eerily quiet, as if it was a typical early Sunday morning, and most people were inside and in their beds, nursing hangovers.

Jack had no idea why there was very few of those things, and thought that they must have been enticed in their droves by something beforehand.

Jack thought back to the day when Gary had set fire to the Porsche, in a desperate attempt to push them back, and it exploded and took Gary and himself off of their feet. It seemed that hundreds were behind them that day. Maybe they kept walking and walking, and a lot of them from the Rugeley area had cleared out because of this. But what about the ones that had reanimated inside their own homes from day one? Were they still indoors?

Johnny, on the other hand, couldn't care less about the reason why the streets were barren with life—and death. Long may it continue, he thought.

One of Jack's questions were answered immediately when he saw to the left of him, two reanimated poor souls, inside their own living room—he presumed—trying to claw and slap their way out at the blood-covered panes of glass. Their excitement intensified once they saw the two males casually walking by.

Focusing on the task in hand, Jack faced forward and continued to stroll, and as soon as they came to the end of the street, Jack crouched down and waved Johnny back. They looked down the long road of Crabtree, and could see the black jeep sitting at the side of the road where they had left it.

"It hasn't been touched." Jack's posture was a man now brimming with confidence. "All we need to do now is take the jeep and get the fuck out of this town."

"As simple as that?" Johnny was a lot more sceptical than Jack. "What if it's a trap?"

"A trap?" Jack tried to stifle his laughing. "I think these guys have got their hands full with robbing the houses in the area. Anyway, they think we're dead, remember? Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"I hope you're right." Johnny still seemed unsure. "I just hope that they haven't drained the fuel from the jeep and fucked off, otherwise we'll be going nowhere fast."

Ignoring Johnny's remark, Jack ordered, "Follow me."

Jack decided to cut through the back gardens in order to get to Kerry's old place a different way. They jumped over fences and climbed over hedges with little fuss. Then once they were near Kerry's back garden, they stopped. Jack crouched down behind a hedge and could see that the garden was empty of life, just like the ones that they had ran through to get to their destination.

"What do you think?" Jack asked Johnny.

"Does it really matter what
I
think?" Johnny said with the sound of self-pity in his voice. Johnny knew that whatever he suggested, Jack would rarely take his advice anyway. He had no idea why his companion asked him for his opinion.

"I suppose not." Jack grinned and patted Johnny on the shoulder, letting him know that he was joking. "Come on."

They climbed the hedge and fell into Kerry's garden. Jack then told Johnny to wait round the back of the house while he had a look around the front. Johnny did what he was told, then Jack came back and told him the road was clear.

"No one there at all?" asked Johnny.

"They must have left and picked another street."

"Bastards!" snarled Johnny. "I hope they get what's coming to them."

Jack took out the car keys from his pocket, and beckoned Johnny to go with him. Jack pressed the fob and the jeep unlocked. Both men jumped into the vehicle and quickly drove away with no hassle from other outside forces, both alive and dead.

Johnny quipped, "Well, that was easy."

Jack made a right turn and speeded up down a long road called Green Lane. "Don't be too sure," said Jack, and nodded up ahead where a car was coming the other way.

"Is it one of them?" Johnny asked, as he was unsure, but Jack recognised the vehicle and turned the jeep off the road, into the playing fields. The car followed.

Both men stayed silent while the other car gave chase and followed closely behind them. Jack slipped the jeep into fourth and floored the gas pedal. He veered left, throwing him and Johnny to the side as the jeep took the sharp bend, wheels screaming, and straightened the car up. The jeep then drove onto a large play park and they were on the grass once again.

Jack asked stridently, "Johnny, how we doin'?" Jack couldn't see what was going on. The back wheels span and spat up dirt so much that it was hard to see through the back window via the misty rear-view mirror.

"Not a lot." said Johnny, peering out of the back.

"Be a bit more fuckin' specific than that," Jack snapped, smothered in tension. "I mean: Are they close?"

"Pretty fuckin' close."

Jack turned the wheel and the vehicle swerved left back onto the road. "How many in the car?"

"Two."

Johnny could see that Jack was lost in thought, despite the fact that he should be fully concentrating where he was going.

Johnny questioned, "What's up?"

Jack responded, "Maybe we should stop the jeep and take our chances." He then pointed to the crowbar, sitting in the back of the jeep.

Johnny was confused. "And do what? Run?"

"Beat them to death."

Johnny shook his head and slowly dropped it into his hands. "Just keep driving. They'll give up eventually."
Please give up
.

Jack slipped the jeep into a lower gear, and the car behind seemed to be getting closer. He floored the gas pedal once again; the tyres of the jeep screamed out as the vehicle made a sudden sharp turn to the right. They were now along the main road into the town centre, and Jack could see up ahead that there was a crowd of the dead lingering around a roundabout called The Globe Island.

He had no idea why they were hanging around that area. Maybe a kill had taken place.

"Hold on," instructed Jack.

Seeing that he wasn't joking and that Jack Slade was planning on ramming the vehicle through the eighty-strong crowd of the dead, Johnny cried, "Oh Jesus," and braced himself for impact.

Out of habit, both men were wearing seat-belts and jolted forward as soon as the steel bumper hit the front of the horde. It felt like it had hit a brick wall, and Johnny kept his eyes open and witnessed dark blood and brain matter hit the windscreen with a disgusting splat. Thankfully the windscreen never cracked, and Jack kept his foot fully-down no matter what.

The jeep had made it through the crowd and they heard the car behind try and replicate what the jeep had done. It should have been easier because the jeep had caused significant damage through the centre of the group, but the car was just a Mazda with very weak protection.

The vehicle was stopped in the middle of the crowd, and the surviving ghouls that hadn't been mowed down by the jeep, surrounded the car. Jack stopped the vehicle, once they were in the clear, and he and Johnny stared out the back, looking at the stationary vehicle from fifty yards away.

Whether it had stalled, or the sheer mass of the bodies had stopped the Mazda from moving, they were unsure.

The two men in the jeep could not see anything because of the horde. Somehow the things had got inside the vehicle, or had pulled the men out, because Jack and Johnny could hear the screams of the two men as they were being eaten alive.

"The sooner we get to that place, the better." Johnny looked at his driver.

Jack never responded to Johnny's comment; he simply used the windscreen washer button to wash the glass in front of him, and then he put on the wipers to move away the debris that had been created by a one and a half tons of metal that had ploughed itself through a group of rotting and diseased beings.

Chapter Thirty Five

Karen and Pickle weren't far away from the back of the estate, and they began to chat as they continued to stroll along the football field.

Asked Pickle, "So what would yer be doing now, if this whole end-o'-the-world thing wasn't happenin'?"

Karen laughed, "You make it sound so trivial."

Pickle never responded to Karen's remark; he continued to glare at her for some kind of answer. She then pulled a confused face and said, "I don't know. I'd probably be getting out of bed after my nightshift. I usually sleep till late afternoon. Then hang about in my pyjamas and watch crap TV. Then Gary would come in from work; I'd make him a meal that dogs wouldn't eat." She laughed to herself after making that remark, but Pickle could see the melancholy in her face. Karen continued, "I would then get ready and kiss him goodnight, and go to work around eight or nine in the evening."

"Shit. That routine sounds worse than the one in prison."

They ambled in a few seconds of silence and Karen took a peep at Pickle's back and scowled in thought.

"What's wrong?" he queried.

"You're right earlier. You
do
seem to be losing a bit of weight. I'm sure that back was a lot more muscular when I first met you."

"Aw, come on. I ain't lost that much muscle mass."

"You seem to be a little hunched over as well," Karen began to tease. "This whole apocalyptic scenario is aging you pretty quick."

"Cheeky bitch. I'm only forty-three."

Karen pointed. "Here we are."

They had made the concrete path and had stopped at the end of the familiar street. Karen scanned the area before taking another step, and was satisfied that, once again, it looked reasonably peaceful.

They both entered the street, and Pickle pointed at a house on the left. "Let's try that one. That's the place that has the greenhouse in the back garden. It seems vacant."

"What makes you so sure it's vacant?"

Pickle stopped walking and looked around the small street. "Well, the front door is open, and there's blood smeared all over the front of it. If there's anyone inside, it's o' the dead variety." He pulled out his machete, and Karen copied him. "I'll check upstairs again and yer can start filling yer bag."

They entered the house with careful footsteps, and with paranoid eyes they scanned the place; their eyes were constantly on the move. Once it was apparent that the ground floor looked uninhabited, Karen went into the kitchen and took more tins, while Pickle mooched about upstairs.

Pickle reached the landing of the house and could see that all four rooms—three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed—had their doors shut. Because there was little light, it felt like night-time in the place.

He reached for the bathroom door and, with his machete at the ready, he pushed it open and had a quick peep inside. The bath was filled to the brim, suggesting to Pickle that there were, or used to be, people inside during the beginning of the outbreak. 'Filling the bath with water' was one of the many tips that had been broadcasted on the radio in the first days of the disaster.

Staring at the three closed bedroom doors, and now thinking that they may be people inside, Pickle closed the bathroom door very quietly, and went to the first door to his left.

He knocked the door with his middle knuckle and awaited a response. He didn't know why he was doing this. He didn't
need
to do this. If there were people hiding, then they were obviously scared, so it wouldn't make a difference if Karen and Pickle looted the house or not.

Pickle cleared his throat and began to speak, "If there's anyone in here, or yer can hear me from the other rooms, I'm just passing through. I mean no one any harm."

Pickle paused and felt a little foolish. What if there was no one inside?

His presence remained by the frame of the door, as he was aware that if there was people inside, there may not necessarily be hiding in a corner, shivering with fright. They could be aiming a shotgun at the door, waiting for Pickle to go in.

There was no verbal response from behind it, and Pickle was in two minds whether to just go back downstairs and help Karen out. But what if there were children in that room?

"Okay," Pickle said. "I'm coming in. Just remember, I come in peace."

He pushed down the handle and tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked or barricaded.

Suddenly he heard a male's voice from behind the door. "Leave us alone."

"Who's in there?" Pickle gently questioned. "Yer alone, pal?"

"No, I'm not alone." The man added, "I'm in here with my two daughters. Please, don't hurt us."

Pickle was confused with the man's pleading. "Why would I hurt yer?"

There was silence from behind the door, and the man finally spoke. "I heard from a frightened resident that, a few streets away, four men in a pick-up truck had been raiding houses, regardless whether there were people in there or not."

"Did this...
resident
happen to know what they looked like?"

"All she said to me was that there was one of them with greasy, black hair, tied in a ponytail, with a horrible grin."

Pickle was convinced it was the same four men that had attacked them a while ago, the same men that had shot dead the middle-aged man and woman that had kindly gave them a ride a few days previously, and the same men that were responsible for the splitting up of his group when he and Karen ran for their lives one way, and Paul and Jade ran the other way to avoid a shotgun cartridge.

Pickle said, "Do me a favour. Open the door."

"I-I can't do that," the man stammered.

"Let me talk to yer, face-to-face. I have a machete, if I wanted to come in and hurt yer, I could anyway."

"You might be one of those men."

"I'm not one o'
them
. I'm with a woman. We're here to get food, but if I'd known there were people in here..."

"Take what you want. We have enough in
here
...for now."

Pickle remained by the door and could hear movement coming from the room.

"Okay," the man spoke out. "I'm letting you in."

"Good man. I swear to God I'm not one o' those idiots."

The man began to remove furniture from the door. Pickle then heard speaking and a little girl asked him what he was doing, in a frightened voice. The father appeased his daughter and slowly opened the bedroom door to be greeted by Pickle's warm smile.

"May I come in?" Pickle asked.

The man was in his thirties, dirty-looking, and small in stature with blonde hair. Pickle stepped into the room and saw his girls, sitting in the corner. The place wasn't a mess; it looked like any kind of bedroom with the curtains closed.

Pickle looked at the man, then looked at his scared girls.

"This is ridiculous." Pickle couldn't help himself. "What are yer doing, hiding in here?"

"I'm trying to protect my girls."

Pickle then heard Karen shout up from downstairs, "I'm done!"

Pickle bellowed back, "Be down in a minute. Wait outside for me."

He then turned his attention back to the father. With his forefinger, Pickle beckoned the man to follow him. "Come with me. Yer girls will be fine for a moment."

Both men left the bedroom and Pickle shut the bedroom door. He and the man were now on the landing. Pickle quickly checked the other two bedrooms, that were thankfully vacant, and then stared at the man and shook his head at him.

The man, who never introduced himself, asked nervously, "What is it?"

"This is yer home, right?" Pickle interrogated.

The man nodded, but had no idea where Pickle was going with this little talk of his.

"Then take it back, for fuck's sake, before somebody else takes it."

"What are you talking about?"

Pickle looked exasperated and spoke in a passionate rant. "Those things are out there, and there're looters out there, and yer hide in a bedroom and claim yer protecting yer daughters, seriously? Yer front door was wide open; yer have a greenhouse in yer back garden with all kinds o' vegetables yer could live on—"

"I have no idea where you're going with this—"

"Grow some fucking balls, man! Yer got two daughters to think of. This house should be a fortress."

"I have no weapons, I—"

"Yes, yer have," Pickle growled. "Do you have a set of knives downstairs?"

The man nodded.

"Then yer have weapons. Yer got a hammer?"

The man nodded.

"Then yer got weapons. Yer got a wooden handled brush or mop?"

The man nodded.

"Right," Pickle sniffed. "Tape a screwdriver or a steak knife to the handle o' one o' them, and yer have a spear that could gouge out one of their eyes from five yards away. Think!" Pickle placed his forefinger to his temple and began tapping it.

The man cried, "I was just scared. My wife was killed in the first week—"

"Well, I'm sorry about yer wife, but there're two other girls that need yer now. You've got a bath full o' water in yer bathroom, that's a brilliant start, because I think that the running water is ceasing up now. So whatever yer do, don't drain it."

"Okay." The tears ran down the man's cheeks, and he shivered in fright. Like most people, he wasn't adapting to this new world. Even though he had two little girls that were relying on him, he was falling apart.

Pickle added, "I'm gonna leave now, and I'm gonna shut the door behind me. I expect yer to block off yer doors and downstairs' windows. Then yer can take yer daughters out o' that stuffy bedroom and give 'em a different change o' scenery before they lose their fucking mind." Pickle pointed his finger into the man's chest and added, "This is yer house; keep it that way."

The man wiped his tears away and accepted his reprimand. "You're right."

"Right," Pickle sighed. "I'm gonna go for a piss in yer downstair's toilet, and then I'll be on ma way."

"Don't flush," the man pleaded. "Apart from number twos, we've been avoiding flushing in case it attracts those things."

"Well, with the lack o' water, I'm not sure that's gonna be possible anymore." Pickle turned and winked at the man. "I hope yer got plenty o' buckets."

Harry Branston then walked down the stairs and began whistling.

"Will I see you again?" the man called out.

The back of Pickle's head nodded and he responded, "I might be back later, just to check on another house or two. You and yer daughters, stay safe, my friend."

"You too."