Snatchers (Book 9): The Dead Don't Scream (17 page)

The pickup was now started and did a three point turn, facing away from them and ready for its journey back to Stafford. Ina was placed in the back by Mac and another guy, as well as the unconscious man, then Mac returned and patted the youngster holding the shotgun. "Remember, there's only one shell left in that antique. Don't waste it."

"Which one shall I choose?" the teenager asked, nodding over to the four lying bodies.

"Right now ... I don't give a shit," Mac sighed. "Just pick one and then we can get out of this fucking place. We need to go and get our other four men from the back of that village before we head back."

Pickle, Vince, Karen and Sheryl shook and took in a deep breath, waiting for this ordeal to be over. Vince was desperately hoping that this was Mac's way of frightening them, a way of punishing them for the killing of their friend, but had no intention of killing them. Who was he trying to kid?

The youngster took a few steps forwards and looked at the four individuals on the floor. He had one shell, but couldn't choose. He hunched his shoulders and said aloud, "Ah, fuck it!" He finally picked somebody, pointed the gun and squeezed the trigger.

He then ran over to the red pickup and jumped in the back. The pickup and the mopeds moved away from the four individuals that were still lying on the floor. Pickle, Vince, Karen and Sheryl remained flat.

One of them was bleeding out all over the road

One of them had been shot.

One of them was dead.

Chapter Thirty Three

Paul Dickson had decided that cutting through Sandy Lane was a bad idea, so as soon as he got to the end of Queensway he turned left. He was now heading into Draycott Park. He had heard that, in the early days, it was swarming, but all he could see was motionless bodies scattered along the floor. The stench was foul, but he continued to walk through the area without covering his face.

He peered down the side streets and saw more bodies. He knew Karen used to stay in this area, but was unsure what street she lived at. He passed through Draycott and was coming to the edge of the town. Four bodies could be seen to the left of him, on one front lawn, and it appeared that they had been dealt with by a blunt instrument, judging by the mess their heads were in. He could see up ahead that there was a burnt out car—it looked like a Porsche—and there were also crisp, defunct bodies that were scattered around the vehicle.

He went by the 'Welcome to Rugeley' sign and continued on the Hednesford Road.

He passed a road to his left. He had no idea where it would take him, as he wasn't from around these parts, but he did clock the name of the road: Stile Cop Road.

He progressed further and could see that the lengthy Hednesford Road bent round to the left, and further up ahead was another on the right.
That
was the road that Paul needed in order to get to Slitting Mill which would take him into Rugeley.

Once he took the road, he noticed that it descended down. He was now going into the unknown. This was a place he had little knowledge of, but had a rough idea where to go in order to get to Little Haywood. At least there was no dead about.

He went under a red brick bridge and followed the road that bent round. He was now walking along it with a few terraced houses to his right, and a part of Cannock Chase to his left. He felt relaxed with the woods to his left, as the trees were spaced out and anything untoward could be seen from many yards away. He did wonder what was inside the terraced houses to his right. They looked solid. There was no sign of any breaks to the windows, and with the houses being in the middle of nowhere he guessed that there were still people inside.

He decided to walk on, and was now approaching the large exclusive houses that were impressive. They weren't quite mansions as such; they looked more like condos or beach houses—an unusual design for the middle of England.

There were three in all.

The first two looked bare and unlived in. They had drives, but no cars were on them, and the large windows in the houses were intact and the curtains were open. It was very strange. Paul looked up ahead and noticed a pub not far away, on the right of the road. He craned his neck and gaped at the last of the 'beach houses' and smiled at its beauty. He guessed that it probably had four ... possibly five bedrooms, and was itching to go inside and take a look. He had only been walking for half an hour and knew that he needed to continue. If he spent too much time dawdling he'd been staying the night in the woods.

He peered over at the final house and thought he saw something. He stopped walking and continued to gaze. Then he saw it again. It looked like a child, but it wasn't of the dead variety. It was a human. He knew it was human because the child, a little boy, began to wave at him. Paul waved back and began to fill up, now thinking of Kyle and how close he had come to dying at The Horns Inn, before changing his mind with just seconds to spare.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and could see an adult male pull the boy away from the window, and Paul presumed it was the boy's father. The adult male then stared out at Paul for a few seconds before disappearing.

Paul smiled and was pleased that some families were still alive, although he never saw the mother.

He turned away from the residence and went to walk away, but a voice called out and stopped him in his tracks. Paul turned around and could see the man of the house, walking down his drive. Paul thought that it was a brave thing to do, especially as the man looked unarmed and didn't know who Paul was; he greeted the man with a smile.

"It's nice to see more survivors," Paul began. "I'm sorry for staring. You don't see many children these days."

"That's quite alright." The man reached Paul's frame and smiled. He was a tall man, grey, beard, and the clothes that he had on had seen better days. "I'm Dave." He put his hand on his chest. "And you?"

"Paul."

"Good to meet you, Paul."

"I saw your son..." Paul lowered his head. "I lost my own quite recently."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dave said, and ran his fingers through his beard. He seemed to pity Paul Dickson. He guessed correctly that the man had gone through a lot.

"I'm surprised you came out. You don't even know who I am."

"I could tell from the window that you're a good guy. Just a survivor." Dave nodded. "I wanted to give you these." The man called Dave pulled out two tins of mackerel out of his pocket, but Paul politely refused them.

"That's okay." Paul declined the man's kind offer. "I've eaten. Keep it for you and your son. You mustn't have much left."

"We're doing okay," Dave admitted. "The neighbours fled in the first week, and we noticed that they never packed up the car. They must have made just a short journey to be with other family members ... maybe. So I said to Teresa, I'll go next door and see what they've got. It took me ages to empty their cupboards and fridge."

"And now?"

"We've got a few more weeks left of food. Then I'm gonna have to think of something else. The sanitation is a bit of a pain, but..."

"I hope it works out for you."

Dave was a tall guy, very thin, and despite the grey beard he looked to be a man only in his forties. Paul didn't want to be held up for too long, and if the man were to offer him a bed for the night, Paul Dickson wasn't going to take him up on the offer. His mind had been made up. Little Haywood was his destination.

"Well, it's nice to speak to another person." Dave smiled and looked over his shoulder. He waved at the window, and Paul could see a woman and the little boy.

Paul liked him. He seemed like a genuine guy, and was pleased that he still had his family with him. He assumed that the Teresa he had mentioned earlier was his wife or partner.

"It's good to speak to you too, Dave," Paul acknowledged and cleared his throat. "I better be going."

"Where you headed?"

"I'm going to Little Haywood."

Dave widened his eyes in surprise. "But that's miles away."

"I know. But it's where I'm originally from, and I also have friends there now."
I hope.

Dave rubbed his head in confusion and asked, "Then what're you doing here?"

Paul released a short chuckle. "It's a long story."

"You could move in next door. Problem solved." Dave appeared to be keen for Paul to stay. Paul wasn't sure
why
until Dave added, "We could go out on supply runs together. Check out the houses and the Horns pub."

"You don't want to do that," said Paul. As soon as Dave mentioned the pub, flashes of the dead attacking him, Stephanie and Bentley entered his psyche. "The Horns is a no-go area. I lost two friends there yesterday, after fleeing my camp."

"Shit." Dave seemed baffled by this statement. "It's only up the road as well."

"I know."

"What happened to your camp?"

Paul began, "The dead came for us, but we managed to escape. I've heard that some of my friends went to Haywood because there's another camp there. That's why I'm going."

Dave still couldn't fathom why Paul was making the suicidal journey. "It just seems a bit mental to go all that way, four miles, when you have places here."

"I suppose it does." Paul agreed with a nod of the head. "But, like I mentioned before, there's a strong possibility that people I care about could be there—well, one person in particular. She's been a life saver. A real rock to me."

"A girlfriend?"

"God, no." Paul laughed and spoke further, "We both lost our partners."

"So you don't have a thing for this woman?" Dave teased in good spirits.

Paul politely smiled and shook his head from side-to-side. "I lost my wife not so long ago, and this woman's old enough to be my daughter."

"How old?"

"Twenty-three."

"That's not that young," Dave snickered. "How old are you? Forties?"

Paul nodded.

"And it's never crossed your mind?"

Paul never answered.

"Me and Teresa are still intimate," Dave began. "I had the snip, so I don't have to worry about... Okay, so we don't smell as good as we did a few months ago, but..." Dave stopped talking, suddenly realising that he was going off on a tangent. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay. So it's just your son and Teresa?"

Dave nodded. "We've been lucky so far. We've seen the dead now and again,  but  there hasn't been much activity. I've never had to kill a single one."

"You
are
lucky." Paul held out his hand and was ready to say cheerio to Dave. Their conversation was adding minutes to his journey.

"So, is this you definitely going?" Dave shook Paul's hand.

"I have to."

"If you change your mind on the way there, feel free to come back. I could do with a neighbour." Dave nodded in the direction of the abandoned house next to his.

"Thank you. But I need to do this."

Both men stopped shaking hands and Dave queried, "You have protection?"

Paul nodded. "I have a knife, but the best way to protect yourself out there is to run."

"Well, let's hope you don't have to do a lot of
that
on your way to that village."

"Let's hope not."

"It's good to see another fellow human being." Dave smiled and gently nodded his head. "Let's hope one day we can get back to normal."

"And what's normal?"

"Cracking open a beer and watching the football. That's a good start."

Paul smiled and nodded in agreement. "That sounds like heaven. Bye."

"Bye."

Paul walked away and turned right at the junction, onto Penkridge Bank Road. Another half a mile and he'd be back in Rugeley.

He turned around to wave goodbye to Dave, but he had already gone. Back to his house. Back to Teresa. Back to his son.

Chapter Thirty Four

He opened his eyes as the sound of engines faded into the distance, and then began to cough gently. Although he had only been lying on the hard ground for a matter of minutes, his chest was smarting and his face was warm from pressing against the hot road that had been torched by the sun for hours.

He was getting too old for all this carry on.

Still lying flat, he could see blood a few yards ahead of him. It was the blood of the woman they had accidentally knocked down earlier.

He tried to remember her name. Anne? Mia?

No.

It was Ina.

It was the accidental death of Ina which was why they were in this predicament.

His ears still rung from the blast of the gun earlier, and he struggled to get to his knees. He turned and sat on his backside, feeling the relentless heat of the fireball in the sky ... burning his face. He puffed out a breath when he saw that the pickup was gone, but something macabre had quickly diluted any disappointment he felt about the missing vehicle.

Something more disturbing and upsetting.

His eyes narrowed as his brain began to understand what had happened. They weren't joking. They really did what they said they were going to do. He thought that there was a chance that the threat of one of them being shot was a way of scaring them.

A blast was definitely heard, but he hoped the blast was to frighten them, making the four of them fill their shorts as a way of punishment for the manslaughter of the gang's friend.

Yes, they had killed a female member of their party. But it was an accident. Surely they could see that. It wasn't as if they had done it on purpose.

They were driving along an empty road, doing a steady forty. Then she came out. Quickly over the road. The brakes were hit, but they didn't stop the pickup in time. It was just bad luck. A tragic accident.

And now all this.

The gun blast, however, wasn't created to frighten them. He could see clearly that the gun had been used for real. On one of his friends. And this was confirmed when he saw the wound to the back of the head.

The head was almost obliterated to mush, and he could feel the tightness in his throat on witnessing this. Blood pooled around the decimated skull and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

He never liked this individual at first, but Vince Kindl had grown fond of this person as the days went on.

The individual was a real loud-mouth, said what they thought, but he admired the person for it. They didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

After surviving the camp being overrun with the dead, it seemed cruel that this is how it ended for his friend.

It was a cruel world and an unjust end to this person's life.

Vince continued to look over at the body with sadness and could see his other two companions sitting up, now that the mopeds and the pickup had bypassed the pub and were now on the Stafford Road.

The three of them watched from afar, and the gang disappeared once they followed the bend to the right. Their attention was then brought back to their dead colleague.

He watched as his two pals stared at the dead body from their sitting positions, and both of them looked despondent, shocked. Nobody spoke for a minute. They just glared at the macabre sight of their friend who had met a violent death. Yet, it had been quicker than what most people had to endure these days.

He rubbed his hand over his scarred face, slowly stood to his feet, and Vince Kindl went over to his two other surviving friends, who were also getting to their feet, and all three took a slow walk towards the body.

He stood over it and looked down. It was a disgusting sight; even more so because he knew the person. His two companions stood either side of him. The one on the left put their hand on his shoulder as a way to comfort the middle-aged man.

Vince cleared his throat and said to nobody in particular,  "We don't want to be hanging around here for a second longer."

Nobody responded.

"What do we do now?" Vince asked.

Again, neither one of his friends responded.

Karen Bradley and Harry Branston were still in shock.

Vince shook his head, gazing at the back of the mutilated female's head. "Poor Sheryl."