Snatchers (Book 7): The Dead Don't Yield Read online

  As she made her way into Burnthill Lane she heard one of the three guys from the barrier behind her give her a wolf whistle. Ignoring this she progressed another twenty yards and approached a steel drain lid. She crouched down, took a look to the side of her, and put her fingers in the gaps and lifted the heavy thing up. It was only half-out, but she had created a sufficient enough gap.

  Looking to the side of her again, she pulled out the Browning handgun that she had taken from the box in the Lea Hall building, and dropped it into the drain. She was certain it was KP's gun—almost certain, and despite her hiding possibly what really happened to him on that terrible early morning, Karen felt that she was protecting her friend. If Daniel eventually noticed that the gun had gone missing, she was going to deny that she knew anything about its disappearance.

  She needed it away from Pickle's eyes. The last thing she wanted was the man to see the gun and be broken again, possibly have a breakdown, and even go out on some wild goose chase to try and find KP, feeling that he needed to put him at peace the way she had to with Gary a few days ago.

  What Pickle didn't know, wouldn't hurt him, she thought, and she moved the heavy drain lid back to its original position, wiped her hands on her trousers, then made her way back to the house, back to Pickle.

  *

  Trying to reduce his monotony, Vince Kindl had visited his old farmer friends from his old camp and was seeing if they, as well as the animals, were settling in okay. Their mood was positive, and it seemed, despite the likes of James McDonald, that most folk from the Sandy Lane Camp had welcomed them. But was it them or their produce that the locals were pleased about?

  He walked away from the old football field, whistling to himself, and went by the Lea Hall building and waved at Daniel Badcock who was standing outside, having a break.

  Vince sniggered to himself; he still couldn't believe that such a surname existed. Surely if someone had inherited such a name, he thought, you'd eventually get it changed by deed poll.

  He then heard the sound of a ball being kicked against a wall, and once he left Sandy Lane and went onto Hill Street he saw David McDonald and his heavy friend, Charles Pilkington. Vince stopped walking and watched them play a game that he used to play when he was a boy. He thought that if this was a couple of months ago, then the boys probably wouldn't be outside at all and would be in their bedrooms, playing on their phone or games console.

  "Alright, lads." Vince made himself noticed, and both fourteen-year-old boys stopped what they were doing and turned around at the badly scarred man.

  "Alright, Scarface," Pilkington chuckled.

  Vince noticed he was eating a Mars Bar. Vince hadn't seen or tasted one of them for weeks. How did he get it? He then remembered that David McDonald's dad, James, worked in the Lea Hall building once in a while, and probably helped himself to a few things while people were absent.

  "Scarface?" Vince chuckled falsely. "Wow, never heard that one before."

  "You wanna game, Scarface?" This time it was David McDonald's turn to try and be the joker. "Or are you a paedophile and you want to fuck us both."

  Vince shook his head and was taken aback by such foul language from the two boys. "Now, now. There's no need for that." Vince then muttered under his breath, "You pair of little pricks."

  "What is it then, ugly bloke?" Pilkington's attempt at humour was poor, and even his friend, McDonald, never laughed this time.

  Vince walked over and gave both boys a smile. He was closest to Charles Pilkington and grabbed the Mars Bar off of him.

  "Hey, that's mine." protested Pilkington.

  "I think the last thing you need is more chocolate." Vince then took a bite and made a noise suggesting that he was thoroughly enjoying this rare treat. "I wanted to have a word with you two anyway."

  "What about?" David McDonald was all attitude.

  "You two picking on that young lad, Kyle." Vince finished off the bar and dropped the wrapper on the floor.

  "You mean, Kyle Dickhead." Charles Pilkington began to snicker.

  "Dickson," Vince corrected, and said childishly, "And I don't know what you're taking the piss for: Charles Porkington."

  "You know what I was wondering," David McDonald spoke up; his arrogance annoyed Vince. How did a fourteen-year-old boy get so cocky, especially in this world where family members have died and the world has gone to hell? He then remembered who his dad was.

  "No," Vince sighed. "What?"

  "I was wondering what my dad would do to you if I told him you were harassing me."

  Vince laughed, "You know what I was wondering?"

  "What?"

  "I was wondering: Did the guy who invented the drawing board get it right first time?" The boys looked confused, making Vince sigh. "Forget it. Anyway, I've already visited your father. He may act hard around his boy, but he shat a brick once I finished with him."

  "You're lying." David McDonald had lost his smile and swagger immediately.

  Vince began to stroke the handle of his machete at his left side. "I wonder how hard I would have to strike to make this blade go right through your skull." Vince then pulled out the machete and brought it down. At first he looked like he was going to strike the boy, but he stopped the blade's momentum about an inch above David's head, making Charles Pilkington gasp.

  Vince laughed, "Of course, I'm only joking. I would never do that." Vince then thought back when he had killed a man called Stuart because he thought he had been bit, but it was a birthmark on his hand. He put the machete back into his belt and said with a chuckle, "See you around, boys." Vince then gazed at David and pointed at his trousers. "You don't want your old man seeing that, do you?"

  David shook his head and looked down to see the patch around his groin from where he had just pissed himself.

  "I'm telling," Pilkington spoke up bravely.

  "Good idea," mocked Vince. "And I'll also be forced to tell everybody that your friend pissed his pants."

  Neither boy responded and stood staring at Vince, still in shock.

  "Probably best if we keep this to ourselves." Vince then walked away. "Stay out of trouble, chaps." He went back to his house, dropped the machete off at the place, and decided to go for a walk without it. He almost felt naked without it, but it felt good to be in safe surroundings.

  He had to admit: This set-up was so much better than his own at Spode Cottage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Oi! Kindl!" Vince turned around and saw Harry Branston jogging his way over to him. "Yer alright?"

  "What are you doing out?"

  "Karen's just back." Pickle began to chuckle to himself. "I think I'm doing her head in, so I decided to go for a walk. Yer need company?"

  "Well," Vince joked. "I'm very flattered, but you're just not my type."

  Pickle and Vince walked along the pavement side-by-side and both eyes scanned around the area. "Going anywhere in particular?" Pickle asked.

  "I was talking to Lee before he left," Vince began, scratching at the back of his neck. "He told me that he hadn't seen John Waite and that daughter of his..."

  "Helen."

  "Helen, that's the one. He said he hadn't seen them all day yesterday, so he asked me to check on the pair of them. I was gonna do it before the barrier watch, but I forgot."

  "I'll come with yer. John and Helen were given half a canister a couple o' days ago, so we can pop in for a coffee, tea—anything apart from water or juice."

  Vince mocked gently, "There're people still out there, barely alive, who would love to get at least a mouthful of water."

  "I know." Pickle sighed and lowered his head shamefully, not picking up that Vince was joking with him. "I sometimes forget how lucky we are."

  Vince groaned, and was now falling into a sombre mood. "Can't get what happened at the camp out of my head. Ten people is a lot to lose in one morning."

  "Everything that has happened gets replayed in there," Pickle tapped the side of his head with his index finger, "every day
. From leaving the prison to going into Karen's house a few days ago."

  "We're only into week six."

  "I know." Pickle nodded. "After six months I'm gonna have a breakdown."

  Vince pointed at a house ten yards from the men. "That's their place there. 26 Burnthill Lane."

  Pickle knocked the front door and both men patiently waited. There was no answer, and after a minute Pickle tried again.

  "Maybe they're sleeping." Vince said, while he had half a finger up his left nostril.

  "Both o' them?" Pickle wasn't so sure.

  "You don't wanna try again if they're both having a nap."

  "I'll go round the back and have a look."

  Pickle left Vince standing by the front door and went down a pathway that led to a small gate. He opened the gate and tentatively stepped into the back garden. He didn't know why he did this. The whole area was Snatcher-free.

  He peered in the kitchen window, then another window that showed off the living room, and couldn't see Helen or John. Pickle was certain that something was wrong, and decided to go back to the front of the house where Vince was waiting for him.

  As soon as Vince saw Pickle return to the front, he asked, "Well? Anything?"

  Pickle shook his head. "Somethin' ain't right. I can feel it."

  "Jesus, you're worse than a woman."

  "I'm serious."

  "So am I."

  Pickle paused, then announced, "Fuck it. I'm kickin' the door in."

  Vince reached over to the handle of the door, pushed it down and shoved it open, making Pickle blush. "No need."

  Harry Branston took a step inside and called out John's name three times, but there was no response. Vince waited in the reception area whilst Pickle checked the ground floor. Neither men had a weapon of any kind on them, and both never thought that they were in a dangerous situation anyway, it was just odd.

  Vince waited patiently, and once Pickle had returned he said, "Right. Shall we go?"

  "I need to check upstairs."

  "Pickle," Vince exhaled noisily, "if someone broke into my place and then went upstairs and woke me up, I wouldn't be best pleased. Unless it was Karen wanting to hop on the old pork sword, of course."

  Ignoring Vince's remark, Pickle called out John's name once more. No response. "I'm going up."

  "Fine." Vince groaned, "I'll come up with you."

  Both men traipsed up the carpeted stairs, and Pickle checked the bedroom first, hesitantly, just in case it was where Helen slept and she was naked or even semi-naked. The room was empty, but the bed looked like it had been slept in by one of them.

  "In here," said Vince softly. He was in the next bedroom.

  Pickle left the room to go into the other one where Vince was. He stopped in his tracks and never went beyond the frame of the opened door. He could see Vince leaning against the window, head lowered, and puffed out air filled with melancholy.

  Both Helen Waite and her father, John, were on top of the bed, holding hands. The lemon sheets were saturated in blood and it appeared that the wrists of both persons had been slashed.

  "Why now?" Vince looked perplexed at the situation. "John had been with us from the start, and never expressed an interest in killing himself. He then meets his daughter and he's dead within three days."

  "I'm sure it's not a decision tha' both o' them took lightly. Poor souls." Pickle gazed at Vince and enquired, "Yer heard about wha' happened to Helen, didn't yer?"

  "Not really." Vince's head was still lowered, and shrugged his shoulders. "To be honest, I've hardly seen them, especially John, since we did the move."

  "Helen had lost her daughter and her baby boy. Her boy was eaten in his own cot." Pickle glanced at the father and daughter, both of them were as pale as ivory. He guessed that they had killed themselves today. "I don't know the full story, only what Karen had told me. Apparently, when Helen told John what had happened, when we all moved in, John never left the house."

  "He used to go on about his grandkids all the time." Vince reminisced and had a thin smile on his features. "The granddaughter was called Carla, and I think the young baby was called Jack."

  "The loss was obviously too much for the pair o' them, collectively. Shame."

  "So what happens now?"

  "I think we inform one o' the senior folk and they'll get rid o' them. Sounds 'arsh, doesn't it?"

  "A little."

  Pickle added, "I suppose we don't 'ave much spare land to start creating some kind o' graveyard. I don't know if they'll end up on tha' big pile by the Lea Hall building. I know this camp is in the early stages, but having all those dead bodies piled up like that just doesn't seem...right, civilised."

  "Let's leave them in peace." Vince moved away from the window and headed for the bedroom door.

  Pickle moved out of the way so Vince could get past and whispered, "God bless," before leaving himself.

  Both men left the house and went to a place in Hill Street to see a woman called Gillian and told her the news. A few minutes later, the bodies were removed from the house, but neither Pickle or Vince asked where they had been taken. They guessed that they had been placed on the pile by the Lea Hall building with the rest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lee, Bentley and Sheryl filled the van in silence after the shocking incident from downstairs. In truth, the establishment didn't provide as much weaponry as Lee had hoped, but they were certainly better off now as far as protection was concerned.

  Was the run worth it in the end? Losing Luke had tarnished the run massively, but casualties had happened before, although not many. And Sheryl looked cool, considering that she was seconds away from being raped and had killed two men. Luke was carried by Lee and Bentley and carefully placed in the back of the vehicle.

  "I'm parched." Bentley placed a bag of shotgun ammo in the van, next to Luke's body, and that appeared to be the last of it. "I'm gonna nip in that cafe and get a drink." Bentley grabbed a large empty sports bag, and threw it over his shoulder.

  Lee had his hands on his knees, out of puff, while Sheryl had now gone into the van, waiting to go, saddened by Luke's demise. She hadn't said a word since she left that room in the basement of the gun shop, and the death of Luke had stunned all three.

  "Okay," Lee panted. "See if you can get as much as you can. In fact, I'll come with you."

  Lee opened the passenger door of the van and told Sheryl that he and Bentley were going to the cafe. She never uttered a word, and Lee put this down to shock.

  "You okay?" he asked her. "I'm sorry about Luke. I know you two were friends."

  "We weren't that close," she said coldly.

  "Okay." Lee decided not to say anything more; he shut the passenger door and walked away.

  Both men strolled over to the cafe and stepped inside the already-opened establishment. Lee looked around the dim place and could only see edible confectionary on show. Despite the duskiness of the area, they could see that the tables were dusty and the floor was in need of a clean.

  Lee looked over at Bentley and could see him gazing out of the front window. Something had spooked him.

  "What is it?" Lee queried.

  Bentley pointed across the dirt path, at a place that used to be a garage. They could see through a large window that looked like an office that was attached to the garage. There were six men, all dressed in blue dungarees, staring back at Bentley, making his vertebrae shiver.

  Mechanics, Bentley guessed, but they were now Wasters.

  Lee looked astonished. "They weren't there before."

  "Maybe all the commotion in that gun shop alerted their senses."

  "I wonder if those guys, Cal and Ben, knew that this place was still crawling with these fucks."

  "Dunno."

  "Come on." Lee urged Bentley to snap out of it. "I'm gonna check the kitchen."

  Bentley remained gazing and could see the dead smacking the window of the office that they had probably locked themselves in when they were in human form. Tha
t glass wasn't going to hold forever, Bentley thought, especially now that they could see food on offer and that their presence had alerted the Wasters' senses.

  Bentley suddenly snapped out of his daydreaming when he heard a yelp behind him.

  Lee flew backwards out of the swing-door that led to the kitchen area, and fell to the floor. He quickly got to his feet and two of the dead burst through.

  Bentley yelled, "Stay down!" and aimed his firearm. He released two slugs, putting both creatures down, and slipped his bag off of his shoulder and threw it to the floor.

  Bentley then stared at Lee, wondering if he was okay. Suddenly a dozen of the things came stumbling through the door. Lee clambered to his feet, and his eyes stared in astonishment. Some of them appeared to be in chef uniforms, waitress gear, and others were in civilian clothing, suggesting that they could have been customers.

  No words needed to be spoken. Both men left the cafe and Lee shut the door behind him. It turned out to be a pointless task as the dozen that reached the glass door immediately went through it. Then, to the other side of them, cracks appeared at the office window and the mechanics were now getting excited as the glass was weakening.

  Two seconds later the window gave way and Bentley and Lee ran with eighteen of them behind them, six from the garage and twelve from the cafe.

  "Start the engine!" Lee yelled at Sheryl, as he sprinted towards the vehicle with Bentley just a few yards behind him. He didn't know if she had heard him or if she knew what was going on. The engine fired, suggesting that she was aware of the situation, and must have seen what was going on and shifted up to the driver's side and started the ignition. Bentley and Lee got in.

  Lee grabbed Bentley and screamed, "I thought you checked the cafe!"

  "Not the kitchen."

  Sheryl stuck the vehicle into reverse, took a peep in her wing mirror, then gazed at Lee.

  "What is it?" he yelled at her. "Just move!"

  "If I reverse over these things," Sheryl spoke with unusual clam, considering the horrendous situation they were in, "and any of them get stuck in the wheels, we're fucked. This van will be our tomb."