Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) (31 page)

Chapter Seven

Both Karen Bradley and Sharon Bailey walked side-by-side one another. The two girls had slowly sauntered past the remaining caravans to the back of the camp, and were now by the shallow grave of Jack Slade.

Looking up to the dreary heavens Karen sighed, and then looked at the grave they had only dug a few days ago. It seemed so much longer.

For a moment the girls stood in silence, until Shaz began to speak. "It still saddens me the way Jack went. The look on his face in that caravan..." She paused for a couple of seconds, before continuing. "He knew he was going to die. I wonder what that must have felt like."

Karen shook her head, and said, "I have no idea."

"Jack said to me one day that his friend, Gary, had told him that the lucky ones were already dead. Do you think that's right?"

"Maybe. Jack had to go through the torment of losing his son, as well as his ex." Karen placed her hands on Shaz's shoulder, and added, "You wasn't there back in the sports centre, but
I
was. To see a man crumble like that..."

"I can't even remember my reaction once I knew that Spencer was gone."

"We're stronger than men...up here." Karen tapped her forehead with her finger. "We can handle things better, mentally. Jack was adamant on killing himself after his son died, then when he escaped he told me that he nearly fell apart."

"At least he's at peace."

"That's what I was thinking." Karen sat down on the grass in her fresh clothes. She was wearing black boots, blue jeans and a plain green T-shirt. Her now-washed hair was tucked behind her ears. "The way Jack died..."

"Go on," Shaz urged.

"Don't take this the wrong way."

"I won't."

"The way that Jack went is probably the way I would choose to leave this earth." Karen held her hand up to prevent Shaz from remonstrating against Karen's outlandish comment, and she explained further. "Think about it. Jack got bit, then fell asleep. That's it! How many people out there have been torn open by one or many more of these fuckheads? How many have seen their insides being stuffed into the ghouls' mouths while still alive, albeit barely?"

Shaz nodded her head, as if she now understood where Karen was coming from. "It's no way to go." She sat next to her friend, then looked down and noticed a small toothpaste stain on her blue Everlast T-shirt. "I'm certain that when my husband killed my son, Spencer was still sleeping and never woke up when he received his first bite—at least that's what I hope." Shaz looked down and stroked her rainbow bracelet that Spencer had made for her.

"I'm sure that was the case."

Both girls heard footsteps behind them. They both turned their heads round to see a smiling Pickle walking towards them, hands in the pockets of his black jeans.

"What would Wolf say?" joked Shaz, once Pickle turned up in his all-in-black attire.

"That I look like an assassin," Pickle called back; he then began to snigger and smiled. "I miss that old bugger."

Both girls nodded in agreement.

Pickle added, "Even his mushroom soup."

"I wouldn't go that far," scoffed Karen.

"Anyway," Pickle sat down next to his two female friends and asked, "What are yer doing round these parts? Yer got nothin' to do?"

"I've done my rounds," Karen huffed, "A barrel of laughs that was."

Shaz leant her head back, and felt the first few drops of rain spit onto her features. It was a welcome break from the blistering sun that the place had endured for most of the four weeks or so. "Vince said he has something lined up for me," Shaz eventually spoke, her eyes still closed.

"Ah," Pickle shifted uncomfortably on his backside, "about that."

Both girls slowly craned their necks and glared at Harry Branston, knowing that there was going to be news that either one of them, or both of them, wasn't going to like. Pickle glared at Karen.

Karen responded, "We ain't cleaning out the shite from the caravans, or those portaloos. Fuck that—"

"Relax," cackled Pickle. "Vince is hardly gonna let a woman in your condition carry heavy buckets of waste to the drains at the edge o' the camp."

Asked Shaz, "Then what is it? Anything to do with this...
run
he was thinking about going on?"

"Aye, it is. And yer comin' with us." Pickle crossed his legs and clasped his fingers together. He looked down at his little finger that was missing. Sometimes he would forget all about it. "We're just going to check the place out at first. Off into a pick-up truck, then if the warehouse is good to go we can go back, take a HGV and stock up the wagon."

"I like it," said Shaz.

Karen laughed mockingly at the plan. "Vince doesn't like going anywhere too far, otherwise he shits himself."

"That's a little unfair." Shaz was surprised at herself that she had leapt to Vince's defence. "He travelled eight miles to Stafford for medical supplies."

"And what was the result? Two dead. No supplies."

Shaz was disappointed with her friend's comment. "He still tried. And he came back for you and Wolf."
Although he wasn't going to once we thought we had lost Pickle.

"And he and this girl called Claire went to Stile Cop to save Jack and get him out o' a car wreck." Pickle was next to chip in. "He can't all be bad. He'll grow on yer."

"What's this?" Karen looked at both of her friends. "The Vince Kindl Appreciation Society?"

Pickle smiled and told Karen, "We've done well meeting up with him."

"And he's doing well out of us. He's got me running around after these old fucks who don't know what day it is half the time, and yesterday I delivered bottles of water, from the well, to eleven caravans. One minute I'm not allowed to lift heavy objects, the next I'm carrying water bottles."

"Don't exaggerate. What would yer rather do? Hang about all day?" Pickle folded his arms and continued with his lecture. "Would yer rather be out there, killing Snatchers so yer can get to a place that has scraps o' mouldy leftovers from dead families?"

Karen took an intake of breath to try and calm herself down. "All I'm saying is that when Vince leaves the camp, shit happens."

"Well yer should be fine this time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Yer not going."

Karen gulped and never responded at first. Vince had already told her beforehand that she was going to be on 'light duties' for the foreseeable future, and she had—kind of—promised Shaz she would try and take a step back. "Well, that's hardly a surprise. I don't get it. Vince is calling me a warrior one minute, then he's acting as if I can't even wipe my own arse anymore."

"It's no biggie." Pickle could see she was a little hurt. "It's a quick drive, there and back."

"Who's going?" asked Karen.

"Myself, Vince, Shaz, and a young boy called Harry Beresford."

"Who? I've never heard of him." Karen turned to the side, emptied her nostrils on the grass and turned back to face Pickle.

Shaz jumped in. "I met him an hour ago. It's the kids from a few days back, when we were heading towards the Ash Tree. They'd just arrived."

Karen couldn't hide the surprise on her face. "He took a spotty kid instead of me?"

Pickle laughed, "The spotty kid isn't going. It's another boy, and
he's
not carrying a child."

Shaz added, "I was told that three of them turned up at the barrier. Vince didn't like the look of one of them, so he did some kind of initiation test, but the kid failed."

"He's dead?" Karen gasped, wide-eyed.

Shaz nodded with sadness. "He was only a teenager."

"This is ridiculous." She turned to Pickle and said, "You need to say something to that psycho. He'll listen to you."

"I've already tried." Pickle held his hands up, and slurred, "It's not ma camp, so it's not ma call. I'm not the leader anymore, and I kind o' like it tha' way." Pickle got to his feet and brushed himself down. He tapped Shaz on the shoulder and said, "I think he wants to go tomorrow morning."

"So you're leaving me again," Karen huffed. "Remember what happened last time?"

Pickle screwed his face, feigning deep thought, and clicked his fingers. "That's right! I came back...alive!"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Karen was in no mood for jokes. "Only
just
, Branston. That bandage that used to be on your arm was the only thing stopping you from being one of those dead fucks."

Pickle smiled. He knew he was lucky to be alive, and he thanked God for it every single day. "In all seriousness: if we can pull this off it could keep us going right through to the winter."

Karen nodded. "I know. And I hope it works out. I really do." She shuffled on her bum, trying to get comfortable. "I'm just a little fed up that I can't come with you."

"Anyway," Pickle yawned and looked up to the dreary heavens. "It's time for another walk around the hedge. I think he's putting me on the barrier this evening."

"Woo-hoo!" Karen sarcastically yelled out. "Maybe tomorrow you'll get to wipe his arse."

Pickle sighed, "Right, I'm off." Pickle pointed at Karen and shook his head at her. "Yer in one o' those moods again, Bradley."

Chapter Eight

Although Paul Dickson had tried to explain to his son on many occasions that the world had become a different place, he tried his best to make sure none of those things had been seen by the seven-year-old's eyes. He had never come face-to-face with those things himself, and had spent all his time cooped up in the house and constantly peered out from his blinds, watching the horror unfold and seeing the ghouls only from a distance.

Considering what he had seen on the news, away from Kyle's eyes, of course, Paul expected the scenes in his street to be more horrific—not that he was complaining. Over the first days when he fretted for the safety of his wife and daughter, he gazed out of the windows on a regular basis.

He saw people leaving their homes, while most stayed and barricaded themselves in. There was one incident where a car had crashed into a contaminated being and hit a tree. The driver of the vehicle was unconscious, and the crash had attracted some from afar. After ten minutes, the street was entertaining twenty three of the dead—Paul had counted them—and they headed their way to the car, surrounded it, and forced the windows through. They ate the screaming man as he remained in his vehicle.

Since then, the street had been quiet, with the exception of the odd passing vehicle, and he thought that maybe it was because he wasn't as inquisitive as before. He peered out of the window a couple of times a day, and wasn't as obsessed as he was when the outbreak was in its infancy.

Every minute of every day he thought about his two girls, but he had convinced his troubled mind that they were both alive, despite being unable to get through when the outbreak was first announced. Paul was positive that it was only a matter of time before all four family members would be reunited.

Julie was smart. She was, without doubt, the brains of the family, and Paul was certain that she and Bell were safe and hidden somewhere.

Like most days, this day had been laborious, and Kyle began crying because he couldn't play his game console. Paul tried to explain that with the electricity unavailable there was a lot of things they couldn't do, but not being able to play his Batman Lego game seemed more of a crisis for the seven-year-old than eating cold beans or macaroni cheese from a tin.

Because of the water system packing up, washing utensils wasn't done anymore, and the only water that remained in the house was in the bath downstairs, and even that was becoming shallower as the days marched on.

The only positive about this whole dire situation was that it was July; it was the summer, which meant it only became dark between 11pm to 4 or 5am in the UK. Paul made sure little light spilled into the house, and always told Kyle that he should never look out the windows himself, even if he hears a noise.

The humdrum day was coming to a close and, although he could read a little bit himself, Kyle accepted his daddy's offer of reading him a story.

Kyle asked for three.

In the old world, when things were normal, Paul and his wife, Julie, would read to one of their children on alternative days. One night Paul would have to read to Kyle, and the following night Kyle would have his mum, while Paul read to his daughter.

When they were younger, the rule was: two stories and two songs. But as the years progressed, it had dwindled down to one story and then straight to sleep.

In the old world, Paul would get into work at around 6pm, his wife worked part-time at the hospital. After dinner, he would sit and watch children's programmes for half an hour with his kids, and Kyle and his sister would argue throughout the show over the most trivial of things. Then it was bedtime at seven o'clock, or as his wife would call it,
Heaven o'clock
. Which meant, after their story, the rest of the evening could be spent with adult company, maybe a glass of red wine or two, peace and quiet, and watching programmes like Californication, Breaking Bad or Boardwalk Empire, rather than Scooby Doo, Rocket Monkeys or Phineas and Ferb.

Paul and Kyle had finally decided on the three books that were going to be read. The Gruffalo and The Fish Who Could Wish was picked. The Very Hungry Caterpillar was also chosen, but Kyle wanted to read that one himself, if he could.

Once the books had been read, both boys snuggled up to one another in the bed that he used to share with Julie. Paul stroked his son's head and kissed him on his earlobe.

"Daddy?" the tired little man spoke.

"What is it, big chap?"

"Can Ryan stay over on Saturday?"

Paul sighed and said, "We've already been through this, son. No one can leave their homes for a while."

"But it's been ages."

"I know, squirt."

There was a silence that enveloped the pair of them. Both boys were snuggled up to one another. Paul was in his casual clothes, Kyle in his Batman pyjamas. Another question was fired at Paul.

"Daddy?"

"Yep."

"I saw a couple of monsters the other day in the street. When are they going to go away?"

The question had stunned Paul, and guessed that Kyle must have been peering from behind the curtains when Paul wasn't looking. He thought he had done everything to protect his son from seeing those things, but Kyle wasn't stupid. He knew something wasn't right.

"I don't know," was all that Paul could muster with sadness in his words.

"When they're full?"

Paul smiled at his son's innocence, and didn't know whether to laugh.
When they're full? I wish it was that simple, son.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, big chap."

"I miss mummy."

"So do I, son. So do I."

Kyle then began squeezing and lightly pinching his dad's elbow. He had been doing this for as long as Paul could remember. He and Julie used to laugh about it and wondered if their son had an OCD condition, but they were convinced it was a comfort thing. The reason why they came up with this theory was that he only seemed to do it in nervous situations, like the waiting room of a clinic, in a queue, or his first day at school. Both parents put it down as one of his quirks, and thought that it wasn't something serious enough to get him checked out at the GPs.

Another minute had passed, and the squeezing of Paul's elbow had come to a close. Kyle had finally drifted off.