Snatchers (Book 7): The Dead Don't Yield (25 page)

Chapter Fifty Three

Harry Branston had struggled for ten minutes to get to the top of the hill. Once he had made it he remained on his front, out of breath, and stayed there until his heart slowed to a normal rate. The climb had been made a little tougher with the bag on his back, and the thoughts of Vince Kindl being swept down that river didn't help either.

He got to his feet, very slowly, and had a check around where he was. It was a grassy hill that stretched for hundreds of yards. On the other side of the hill was a descent, and Pickle knew that Hednesford Road shouldn't be far from here. He had always been told by Lee James that this stretch of road was never too far from the river and was always to the left of it. He was true to his word.

It seemed that his short walk across the hill wasn't going to pose any threat, It was a flat hill, there was no sign of Snatchers anywhere, and he could see where his feet were going.

Because of the lack of danger this area posed, Pickle allowed his mind to wander and began to think about Vince. He hoped he was okay, but it didn't look good. Vince was exhausted and dehydrated before he fell into the river, and having some of the dead falling into the river after him only increased the danger to his life. If he hadn't drowned, he could have been attacked by one of those freaks.

The omens weren't good.

As his tired feet dragged through the grass, Pickle's melancholy mood was making him upset and he decided to snap out of it. He was now getting near the other side of the hill. Once he was near the edge he stood and stared. A smile refused to stretch across his face as he could see the Hednesford Road in the distance. It was cruel that they had been in the woods for a couple of days and Vince had been swept away when they were so close to the road. It wasn't fair.

He looked down and shook his head at the steepness of the hill. It didn't seem to be as bad as the other side, but it was still going to be tough getting down without twisting an ankle or two.

"Shit." Pickle shook his head. "This is steeper than Cardboard Hill."

With the bag still on his back, Pickle sat on his backside. He then slid slowly down and kept his eyes on the main road that wasn't far away. Once he had managed to get to the bottom, there was a two-minute walk across a farmer's field before he could reach it.

He stood up once his feet reached the bottom of the hill, and brushed his backside with the palms off his hands. He looked at the field he had to cross and then took his bag off and rummaged through it. Even though he had a machete tucked into his belt, he pulled out the two loaded sawn-offs out of the bag and walked across the field with one in each hand.

It was clear, but he was taking nothing for granted. He was taking no chances.

He trudged through the field with his mind being plagued with the image of Vince once more, and climbed over the small fence that surrounded the field. There was a sense of relief once his feet were touching the tarmac of the main road that had been talked about for days, but with Vince being cruelly taken away only twenty minutes ago he couldn't help feeling down.

He guessed that he had three miles to walk. He wasn't familiar with this area, but was certain that the entrance to the Hednesford Industrial Estate was further up.

Dressed in his black sweaty T-shirt, his dirty black bottoms and boots, and carrying a sawn-off shotgun in each hand, Pickle knew that if a vehicle was to appear, there was a huge chance that they'd drive by. He wasn't quite in the same mess that he was in when he turned up at Vince's camp all those weeks ago, when the guards thought he was one of the dead, but he was still in a mess.

He thought back to
that
incident. Shit, he thought. There had been so much going on that he had forgot about it. He had met a man called Tommy Burns. He stayed at a house with Tommy for the night, and told him about the camp of Vince's. Tommy decided to tag along with Pickle but was taken down. Pickle then made his way on his own and was attacked and had to kill one with his bare hands, getting covered in its blood. When he finally turned up at Vince's he was a mess, but he was alive.

Pickle gazed down the road and could see that it was clear. To either side of him was flat fields and no sign of possible danger. However, as he progressed further and the landscape changed, he knew that this feeling of being safe could be short-lived. Despite the area being free from danger he kept each shotgun in his hand. It was nice to have the weight in each hand, rather than having the weapons in his bag and putting further strain on his back, and now that he was out in the open he could feel more spells of breezes cooling down his sweaty frame.

A peaceful twenty minutes had passed and Pickle was now past the entrance to the industrial estate where Luke John, Bentley Drummle, Lee James and Sheryl Smith had gone to—the reason why Pickle was in this mess in the first place, and he sighed once he saw a wooded area on either side of the road that seemed to stretch for a good mile. He was going to have to be on his guard.

Looking from side-to-side Pickle clasped his clammy hands tighter on the shotguns and looked at each cluster of trees, hoping that no surprises were going to turn up. It would be a cruel twist for Harry Branston to get so close to the camp, only to be attacked or be forced to move in another direction. The way it had gone for Vince, he wouldn't be surprised if it did happen.

The muscles in his thighs felt like they had been replaced with steel. He was finding it so hard to move properly, and considering the lack of food and water as well as the exercise he had to endure, it was a wonder he was still standing at all.

He widened his teary eyes in an effort to sharpen his concentration, and tried to pass the wooded area as quietly as he could. An occasional drag of the foot would occur, but it turned out better that he thought. He had passed the wooded area and was now back with a view of flat fields to either side of him.

Before he could feel relief he heard some rustling behind him, but refused to stop walking. He feared that if he stopped, his heavy legs wouldn't be able to move once placed in the stationary position.

He turned his head over his shoulder but couldn't see anything. The legs were still moving, but he hadn't been able to feel them for a while. Pickle tried to pick up his speed, but he felt like he was in a realistic dream. No matter how hard he tried to run, the same slow speed was the only outcome.

Another rustle could be heard, and as he looked behind he could see one creature stumble out of the congested wooded area. Pickle shook his head, fatigue slowly crippling his body, and barely had the strength to raise the shotgun in his right hand. Once the being got close enough, he squeezed the trigger and watched as it fell backwards to the floor. Its head blew out diseased brain and blood from the blast, and sprayed out onto the tarmac.

Pickle dragged his feet along the road and tried to pick up his pace, which was proving difficult, and heard more noises coming from behind him. He didn't want to look behind, but he did, and saw more coming out of the trees on the same side of the road. He looked at the shotgun in his right hand and had assumed that the Snatchers had been attracted to the noise of the weapon. Rookie mistake!

Six spilled out onto the road, and he was convinced that there was going to be more.

"Oh bollocks."

He knew he didn't have it in him to remove these things with the blade tucked in his belt, so raised both guns and unloaded them into the six ghouls. "Fuck it!"

Three cartridges were released and two more bodies went down in a bloody mess.

With one of the weapons tucked under his arm, he turned back round and put his hand in his pocket. The shotgun cartridges in his pocket had disappeared. "Great." Maybe he had lost them climbing the hill, or maybe earlier on. Whatever the reason, they weren't there anymore and he immediately took the bag off his back, placed the empty shotguns into the bag, put it back over his shoulder and moved away, occasionally looking behind to make sure they weren't catching up with him.

Out of breath and out of energy, Pickle looked up to the heavens and said, "Help me, Lord. You are my heart; you are my strength."

His movement began to quicken and he concentrated on looking forwards and progressing, rather than worrying what was behind him. He told himself that he would count to thirty before looking over his shoulder. And when he did this there was many behind him, but they were so far away that he could relax a little.

He was now passing the road, to the left, that led into Slitting Mill, and was only half a mile away from the camp.

He was near.

Chapter Fifty Four

There had been a change of plan.

Theodore Davidson had a discussion with Frederick and Willie the night before and had decided to scrap the idea of trying to join the camp. Bear thought that the two companions he had was bad enough, without having to live with others that would probably get on his nerves. It appeared that staying at the Spode Cottage was the new plan, but the Lea Hall building was going to be raided at some point by the three villains as the supplies that it possibly had could keep them going for weeks.

Bear and co sat and watched the camp for at least an hour from behind a bush, near the rail track. They watched for a while, but the boredom was killing Willie and he thought the whole thing was pointless. They had plenty of supplies from the pub that could last them a week or so, possibly longer. He didn't want to risk his life for food they didn't need just yet.

Willie took out his last cigarette from the crumpled packet in his pocket, and lit it. "So we're definitely not going to approach the camp?"

"How many times are you gonna ask that same fucking question?" Bear shook his head. "We're staying at the Spode Cottage. Anyway, Rugeley's a shit hole. I was thinking in a few weeks of going further north, Yorkshire maybe. Pickering, Malton—maybe somewhere else. Now we've got the jeep, we can do that."

Willie scrunched his eyes and looked past the structure, now looking at some people that were by the side of the building, having a discussion of some sort.

"It seems to be heavily guarded," said Willie and began adjusting the elastic band that was keeping his long ginger hair in a ponytail. "I think I saw one of those men with a shotgun."

"Don't shit yourself," Bear snapped. "We'll be fine if we plan this. We can check their routines, see who goes on guard, who looks the weakest...It'll be fine."

"I don't like it." Willie took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Don't be a pussy," Frederick laughed.

Willie punched Frederick in anger and snarled, "Don't call
me
a pussy. I'm just trying to be careful."

"Oh no." Frederick was looking past the building and could see three people walking up a long road. There were two men and a woman. It was hard to see their faces clearly, but Frederick was sure he knew one of them.

"What is it?" Bear huffed.

"I think one of those men I can see going up the road is Bentley Drummle."

"He left the jail a while ago," said Bear in contemplation. "I remember him."

"So do I." Willie's confidence was even more diluted now that it was announced that Bentley Drummle was a member of the camp. "He used to hang around with that Pickle character—nasty bastard. Do you know that he cut my cousin's ears off and shoved them up his arse, then stabbed his legs?"

"Your cousin wouldn't get stabbed for no reason. He must have deserved it." Bear continued to watch, unfazed by Willie's story. "There's a small chance that some of the inmates from Stafford could be here."

Willie scratched at his earlobe. "Do you think?"

"Well,
we're
here, aren't we?" Bear said to the men, "Maybe we should raid the building in a few days. Wait till they go on a run or something. Maybe even try and do it on a night."

"Nah." Willie began to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Bear. But this raid of yours is not worth it."

"They could have stuff in there to feed dozens of people," Frederick responded to Willie's negativity and added, "We can't keep living off scraps from abandoned houses and shops that have already been broken in."

"So what are you saying?" Bear remained calm and continued to stare out. "You're not gonna be a part of this? After all I've done for you?"

Willie tried to explain, albeit with a nervous stutter, "All-all I'm saying is that I don't want to be a part of this suicide mission. Whatever you get from the building, keep for yourselves. I want to go back to the campsite."

Frederick sighed and shook his head at his friend's lack of courage. He turned to see Bear's reaction, but he remained unusually calm. Frederick began, "You need to grow some balls, Willie. If—"

"That's okay." Bear interrupted Frederick and held his hand up to stop him in mid-sentence, "If that's what he wants..."

Willie said nervously, "Bear, I've never questioned you about anything, but I think this could be one step too far. That's all I'm saying."

"That's all you're saying?" Bear mocked with gritted teeth. "You fucking cunt. Does that mean you're leaving us?"

"No, Bear." Willie shook his head frantically. "I don't want to leave. I'm just expressing my concerns."

"Well, from now on I don't want you expressing or saying anything else. Understand?"

"What do you mean, Bear?"

Bear grabbed Willie by the hair and shoved his fingers from his other hand in Willie's mouth, grabbing onto his tongue. He left his kukri alone, released his hand that was pulling on the hair and pulled out a flick knife. Frederick then turned away and knew what was coming.

Willie was in a state of panic and tried to scream out, but the damage had already been done by Bear and it was over in a matter of seconds. Bear wiped his bloody fingers on Willie's shirt and threw the bloody severed four-inch tongue onto the floor. Willie was on all fours and blood poured out of his mouth at an alarming rate.

Noticing Frederick's concern, Bear cackled, "Don't worry about him. He'll be fine. It's a good job he didn't want to leave."

Frederick shook with nerves and asked, "Why?"

"Because I would have cut his throat." Bear stood up and brushed himself down. He looked up to the skies and announced, "We'll come back tomorrow and watch the building some more. Let's get back to the jeep."

Willie writhed and moaned as blood continued to pour out of his mouth and down his chin, but was getting no sympathy from the man that had done this to him. Bear strolled over to Johnny Wilson and kicked him gently in the stomach. "Come on. Move your arse, boy. We're going back to the camp. We can come back here later."