Snatchers (Book 10): The Dead Don't Care Page 20

  "You also said earlier that you was going to fuck me up." Paul smiled and shook his head. "I'm already fucked up. Losing a family does that to some men. You know ... I only killed my first person last week. Well, that's not strictly true." Paul remembered killing Lance Murphy with the hammer. "And about an hour ago I killed a teenager and his mum on a farm. And you want to fuck me up?"

  "We meant physically, not mentally."

  "You guys seem to be around a lot these days." Paul noticed the WOE stitching on their jackets.

  "We're doing what we're told."

  "By..?"

  Baldy seemed reluctant to answer, so Paul grabbed the handle with both hands, suggesting that he was going to ram it into Skinhead's—or Winston's—face, but Baldy spoke up in time.

  "Drake," Baldy said, shaking his head at himself for telling. "The name's Drake."

  Skinhead cried from underneath, "Let me go, man!"

  "I don't want any trouble," Paul announced. "I just want to go and lie down on a proper bed."

  Baldy asked, "What happens now?"

  "What happens?" Paul flashed Baldy a smile. "I'm going to let you two live."

  Paul released the tip of the blade and placed it into his belt. He told Baldy to help his friend up. Paul took two steps back and watched as Baldy helped up Skinhead, or Winston, and both men staggered away from Paul, slowly heading to the side of the woods where they had left their bikes.

  "One more question before you leave," Paul called out.

  Baldy stopped and turned around. Skinhead did the same. Both men looked tired of this and just wanted to get back home, wherever that was.

  "What is it?" Baldy asked with impatience in his tone.

  "Have you two ever lost somebody you love?"

  Baldy and Skinhead gaped at one another for a second, then looked back at Paul.

  "What?" Skinhead looked confused.

  "You heard me," Dickson said. "Have you two ever lost somebody you love?"

  "Of course we have," Baldy snapped. "What kind of question is that? I lost my wife and kid in the second week."

  "I lost my mum and brother." Skinhead lowered his head.

  "You see," Paul said softly. "We're all in the same boat. So why are we trying to hurt one another? It doesn't make sense."

  Skinhead began, "What's done is done. It's history. You have to be strong and try and forget your dead. It's the only way to survive."

  "That's right." Baldy nodded the once. "Forget the dead. Dwelling on the past makes you weak, and weak people die. We need to stay strong to survive."

  "What a load of shit," Paul laughed. "Is that you two talking, or is that what this Drake's been telling you?"

  "Look," Baldy pointed over at Paul and took a threatening step forward, forcing Paul to place his hand back on the machete handle, "you don't even know what you're fucking talking about."

  "Leave it." Skinhead grabbed Baldy's shoulder and pulled him back. "The guy's obviously not all there."

  "Just remember this." Baldy now had his arms folded, his face seething with anger. "There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, and people we don't want to lose but have to let go. My family can't come back, so what's the point remembering them and living in the past?"

  "And you remember this, my friend," said Paul, wiping his nose on his forearm. "When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure. Don't forget what you were before all of this happened. I'm sure you two were good guys, once upon a time. Maybe, months or even years ago, we even passed one another when we were out shopping with our wives in the town. Maybe we stood next to one another at a bar one of the nights, waiting to be served."

  "So, what's your point?" asked Baldy.

  "We're the same back then. And we're the same now. I'm just trying to survive."

  "So are we?"

  "You told me earlier that you were looking for someone, some guy called Jez." Paul smiled. "That's not surviving, that sounds like some kind of revenge mission."

  "You're nuts, you know that?"

  "Life is a shipwreck, gentleman. Try and remember to sing in the lifeboats."

  "And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

  Paul smiled, turned around and began to walk away. "Have a good day now."

  Chapter Forty Six

  Pickle took a quick stroll over the road of Colwyn Place, said hello to Kathryn Roberts who had just come out of Lincoln's house, and went over to the place where Joanne Hammett stayed. He knocked the door and waited for it to open. It seemed to take forever, but the door opened and Joanne stood in her dressing gown.

  Pickle looked her up and down and laughed, "At this time o' day?"

  "I know." She gave off her wonderful smile. "I need to get ready soon. John wants me doing a stock check, now that the medical stuff has been sorted."

  "Under guard o' course."

  "Oh, I'll be watched like a hawk by James Thomson." Joanne mocked, "Don't want to be taking any bandages without permission now, do I?"

  "I suppose if people began helping themselves..."

  "True. I'm just joking." Joanne had stopped talking and knew that Pickle had come over for a reason. She guessed it was about Paul. She guessed right.

  "Wanna come inside?" Joanne opened her door wider and walked into the living room. "Drink?"

  "A green tea would be nice." Pickle smirked and stepped inside.

  Joanne turned and looked confused. "I don't think I have—"

  "I'm joking."

  She sat down on her couch and, for fear of making the woman feel uncomfortable, Pickle decided to sit in the armchair that was opposite her.

  "So what's the problem?" Joanne had a feeling what Pickle was going to talk about, but questioned the man anyway.

  "About Paul," Pickle began.

  "Is he back?" Joanne shifted in her seat. She looked uncomfortable.

  "No." Pickle shook his head. "But he will be, and when he does I don't want people knowing about what happened between the pair o' yer."

  She widened her eyes in surprise. "He told you?"

  "Aye, he did." Pickle smiled thinly at Joanne and tucked in his bottom lip. "And he felt ... he feels terrible about it."

  Joanne straightened her back and gulped. "He frightened me."

  "I know he did. I'm sorry he did what he did, and so is he." Pickle stared at Joanne. She was a lovely thing, beautiful, and felt for the woman. She looked lonely. "I'd just appreciate it if..."

  "I didn't tell anyone?"

  "Yes." Pickle nodded. "Outside o' our group, yer was one o' his few allies in this place. He's not exactly Mr Popular, and I don't want to give Lincoln any ideas about throwing him out."

  "You didn't see the rage in his eyes." Joanne began to shake and added, "It was as if he was possessed."

  "I understand." Pickle straightened his back and cleared his throat. "I'm not excusing what he did, but he has lost his wife and daughter to this infection, then a couple of weeks ago he saw his own son being devoured before his eyes."

  "So what are you saying? He has issues?"

  Pickle laughed gently, "I suppose we all have. I don't know what Paul was like in the old world, but we knew him from four weeks ago or so and he was a gentle, grieving man that lived for his son, and Kyle was all he had left. Now he has nothing. He's surrounded by all these people, yet he's still alone."

  "I tried to be his friend," said Joanne.

  "Then yer came onto him and freaked him out. Just a couple o' weeks after his son died."

  Joanne lowered her head and was lost in thought. "I never thought."

  "Yer a gorgeous woman, and any man in normal circumstances must be insane, or gay, to knock yer back. Paul did."

  "Are you trying to say he's insane?"

  "No," Pickle snickered, then lost his smile and thought for a second. "At least ... I don't think so, but he is in a strange place at the moment, mentally. It'll be good for him if yer continued to be his friend, if that's possible. But I suppose if yer
frightened o' him—"

  "No, I can do that."

  "Thank you." Pickle stood up and said softly, "Can we keep this ... misdemeanour by Paul to ourselves?"

  Joanne took in a deep breath and nodded.

  "Thanks."

  "He might not come back," she blurted out.

  "He will. I might take a vehicle and have a look for him later." Pickle smiled, checked the time on his Omega Speedmaster watch and added, "I'll let myself out, Joanne."

  *

  Harry Branston left Joanne's house and walked across the road, heading for 2 Colwyn Place. He rubbed his stubbly chin and smiled as he had a quick scan around at the modest area. Yes, it was tiny. But it was another safe sanctuary for the ex-inmate.

  Over the months, he had to experience the death of his lover as well as many other people he had got to know, like Jack Slade, Sharon Bailey and Wolfgang Kindl, but he had also been lucky.

  After Stile Cop, the house at Heath Hayes and the sports centre, they were taken in by Wolf and stayed at his cabin for a while. Then it was Vince's place at the Spode Cottage and Sandy Lane.

  Sure, they had moved a lot, but they always landed on their feet. In the early weeks they had to flee Stile Cop, the house at Heath Hayes and the sports centre. All because of the dead.

  Some of their later moves had been on their terms. Leaving Wolf's cabin was a decision they made because Vince had given them a better offer. Vince's camp was abandoned after the dead invasion that resulted in ten deaths, which deflated Vince and questioned his role as a leader. Vince's old friend, Lee James, had asked Vince if the rest of his crew from the Spode Cottage wanted to join him at Sandy Lane, and he said yes.

  Pickle reached the door of 2 Colwyn Place, cleared his throat and gave it a huge knock.

  It opened and he was greeted by a smiling Stephanie Perkins. Her hair was washed, combed and hanging down. This had been the first time he had seen the young girl with her hair down.

  "Yer look different," Pickle remarked.

  "Coming to check on us?"

  "Something like that," he snickered. "Just wanted to see how yer all doing. How yer settling in?"

  "We're doing okay."

  "Mind if I come in?"

  She smiled and widened the door. "Be my guest."

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Craig and Jez were out on the street. They looked around the next street that they entered, and Jez gazed nervously with petrified eyes, clasping onto his knife. Craig was to the left of him, a little more calmer than his younger companion, and held the hockey stick.

  Like some streets in the UK, this one had a few bodies scattered on the road and pavements. There was also two houses burnt out at the bottom of the street and an overturned car was to their left, a few yards away.

  "So, what's the plan?" Jez looked to the side, looking at Craig and waiting for an answer.

  "Not sure. Another house?" Craig hunched his shoulders and tried to joke, "Not getting killed would be good."

  "Doesn't sound much of a plan to me."

  "Maybe not." Craig sighed and added, "But if you wanna try being alone instead, with the dead and your biker friends out there, be my guest."

  "You've said that before." Jez revealed a little smile, knowing he was behaving like a whiny brat. "Maybe I'll stick with you for now."

  Craig sniggered, "I thought you would say that." His head turned from left to right and couldn't believe there were no dead about. What happened to them? Where were they?

  Many places had drives but no cars, and the very few cars that were around were either burnt out, overturned or damaged.

  Craig stopped walking and examined the street. He pointed up ahead and told Jez that they were going to stay in one of the houses, if they were suitable.

  They both continued to walk.

  "What about that one?" Jez nodded to his right.

  Craig shook his head. "I said further up. I think it'll be better for us if we're away from the outskirts and go further in."

  Jez sighed petulantly, "If you say so."

  "What's the matter?" Craig asked his younger companion, picking up on his negative vibe.

  "My feet are killing me."

  "Stop your fucking whingeing," Craig laughed.

  "And I'm bored. You're hardly great company."

  "Cheeky bastard." Craig lost his smile and looked frustrated with Jez's ungrateful comment. "Just remember what it'd be like if you were with that biker mob."

  "I know, I know. I'm just a bit bored, that's all."

  "You're hardly a laugh a minute yourself, you know."

  "Okay, for a litre of water, would you shoot a gorilla in the face?" Jez began to giggle.

  "Is this supposed to be a joke?" Craig scratched at his head.

  "It's a theoretical dilemma."

  Craig scratched his head. "What if the gorilla survived? It'd beat me to death."

  "That's the risk with the scenario."

  "Erm ... I dunno." Craig rubbed his fingers across his eyes. He never slept well the night before and was too tired to be playing games. "Probably not, no."

  "Look." Craig stopped walking and pointed up at the spectacular building of St Mary's Abbey.

  "What is it?" Jez queried with a scowl.

  "It's a fucking gym," Craig replied sarcastically. "What do you think it is?"

  "Alright, alright. I was only asking." Jez placed his hands on his hips. "What're you thinking?"

  "If it's clear, we could use the abbey as a base," Craig began, "and we can search the houses. Whatever we find, we bring back to the abbey."

  "And what happens when we've checked all the houses and there's no food left?"

  Craig struggled to give the young man an immediate answer and huffed, "Let's just live day to day. Don't worry about the future."

  "But what happens when we run out of stuff?" Jez persisted.

  "Then we move on."

  Both men took a stroll across the road and went to the main doors of the abbey. Craig put his hockey stick on the floor and tried the doors, but they weren't budging.

  "I'll try round the back." Jez pulled out his knife and went down the left side of the building.

  "Hang on a minute. Wait for me." Craig tried the door again. It must be locked from the inside, he thought. Or something was pushed up again the doors.

  He turned to his left to see that Jez had disappeared and shook his head. "Little prick."

  Craig bent down to tie his shoelace, then picked his weapon up and walked around the corner of the building to meet up with the annoying Jez.

  Craig had made little progression when he saw Jez returning, running around the corner of the building and heading back to the front, towards Craig.

  "What's going on?" Craig put his arms out, demanding a quick answer. He knew something was wrong.

  Jez had fear on his face, ran past Craig and went round to the front, by the main doors, and was now bent over and panting.

  Craig casually walked back to the front and was now standing next to a panting Jez.

  "Are you going tell me what's happening?" Craig asked. "Did you see one of them?"

  Gathering his breath, Jez slowly stood up straight. "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry? What for?"

  "We'll need to find a place as soon as possible. But it can't be this place."

  Craig was becoming irate and growled, "What're you talking about, bell-end? You're not making sense."

  "I saw a door. There was a water feature propped up against it. I wondered what was behind the door, so I moved it and..."

  "And?"

  Jez sighed, "Take a look for yourself."

  Craig approached the left corner of the building, the same one they went by only minutes ago, and peered down the side of it. Six dead were staggering their way down the side of the structure, heading towards the front, towards Craig and Jez. But more were appearing from around the far corner.

  The males were all dressed in suits and the females in dresses. It looked like they were a
t a wedding party when attacked. Craig stared long enough to see the bride appear from around the far corner, the front of her dress saturated in blood, and then moved away to meet back up with Jez. There were now twenty of them.

  Craig grabbed Jez by the shoulder and pushed him away. "You really are a dopey shagwit, aren't you?"

  "I didn't know there was anything behind the door."

  "I told you to wait for me, didn't I? Didn't you at least place your ear against the door and listen for any movement?"

  Jez dropped his head. "Not exactly."

  "Not exactly?"

  "Okay," Jez admitted, "not at all."

  "I've met some cockwombles in my time..."

  "What now?"

  Craig shrugged his shoulders and sighed, "Follow me. We're gonna have to find a house pretty soon."

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Terry Braithwaite stepped out of the cellar with a glazed look in his eyes. The thirty-four-year-old took his six foot frame into the kitchen and took a few gulps of water from the bottle that was sitting next to the sink. He ran his fingers through his short ginger hair and tried to fight back the tears. His thoughts went to his wife, Barbara. Of course, his children, both Kayleigh and Leighton, also tormented his mind and wondered if he would ever get over this.

  Once he had composed himself, he stepped out of 1 Colwyn Place, into the fresh air, and waved at Stephen Bonser who was at the gate, bat in hand. Terry called over and asked where James Thomson was. Stephen told him that he was inside the house where the newly stolen medical supplies were kept.

  Terry always hated the quiet periods. Weeks ago, when the camp was formed, he would spend his spare time in his back garden, where his family were buried. After weeks of this, it seemed pointless. What was the point of talking to dead bodies buried in the ground? Was he really doing it because he thought they could hear him? Or was it for his own solace?

  Terry walked down the street, away from Stephen Bonser and was distracted by a knock. He turned and saw that John Lincoln had knocked on his front window and was now waving at him from his living room. Terry waved back, but continued moving.