Snatchers (A Zombie Novel) (17 page)

Chapter Thirty

June 11th

It was early Monday morning, and Jack Slade released a strident and exaggerated yawn. He looked at his watch; it was nearly 7am and his stomach was grumbling for food.

He sat up and couldn't understand why the car was in the position it was in. It then came back to him that his tyre had burst and he must have blacked out as his head was throbbing so hard, it was making him feel nauseous. Wondering why the airbag never worked, he stepped out of the vehicle and stretched his elastic legs; he checked his body for any kinds of injuries, but the only injury he had sustained was minor whiplash.

He took a look at his car and saw that both tyres on the left had burst. The front was badly damaged at the side, and the rear was in an even worse state, so much that Jack couldn't get the boot open. "Fuck!" he yelled. His bag was in there.

He began to rub his aching head and couldn't believe he had been out for so long.

Cursing his luck, he headed back for the main road. He knew he was totally exposed, but at the same time, he didn't want to be somewhere enclosed where he could get ambushed. If he could see one of those things it would be a simple feat to outrun it, or so he hoped.

The road was bendy and he had made this journey numerous times by car, and was sure that he was about forty miles from his old town. Forty miles was a lot for an individual on foot, and he deliberated that as soon as he clocked a car or any other type of vehicle, he would try and hitchhike it back to the town. He thought about stealing a car, if ever he came across an abandoned one, but he had never hotwired a car before, he didn't know if it was even possible. If the worst came to the worst, he would have to break into a house and find the keys to a car. It seemed a little drastic, but he was desperate to get to his son.

Fifteen minutes and two miles later of thinking about crazy situations he could end up in that were filling his head, he saw a car in the distance. Just seeing the car furiously pumped adrenaline through his bloodstream, and a new found energy overcame him.

He began to sprint toward the car, and as he approached nearer, he could see the car was a Ford Focus. His jog turned to a brisk walk once he was ten yards away from the vehicle, and his walk slowed as he soon realised it had been left vacant.

He popped his head through the already opened door, and took a look into the front to see the keys still dangling from the ignition. He looked around; making sure it was safe. He was surrounded by a lot of shrubbery and it had briefly crossed his mind that a gang of desperados could jump out on him and kick him to death if they wanted the vehicle for themselves. It seemed unrealistic, but Jack knew that if this thing continued for months, fuel, food, water, and even medication would be fought over. Jack had never thought to raid a chemist. It would have been handy, even if it were just for a first aid kit.

As soon as his eyes finished scanning the front of the car, his misbelieving eyes stared at the passenger seat. He turned away to vomit on the road, his black jeans almost paying the price with some splash back, as it slapped the hard concrete ferociously. He wiped his mouth and spat the last chunk of vomit lodged inbetween his teeth.

He used his thumb and index finger of his right hand to wipe the water in his eyes, and looked back into the car to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The left of the passenger seat was covered in blood. The belt was strapped together and hadn't been unclipped, and the only thing that was left of what used to be sitting in the seat, was one little finger, some entrails and a severed arm that sat to the right. A pair of headphones and a pocket games console sat covered in blood. A teenager possibly.

Jack came to the horrific conclusion that because the seat hadn't been unclipped, the person must have been eaten there and then, and was devoured so much, they came away in pieces. But he couldn't understand why the person didn't try and escape, and why the driver's seat was clean.

Maybe the driver got out to fight off the things as his or her daughter or son sat innocently in the back unaware what was happening, and too engrossed in their game. Or maybe they simply ran off.

He couldn't believe that the second theory had happened; it was unthinkable for a parent to leave their child to a horde of human-eating beings. He couldn't make out what had happened, or even why the car couldn't have driven straight through the things. What was blocking the road? Maybe they decided to fall asleep for the night in what at first looked like, a long and harmless, uninhabited road.

Whatever the reason for the tragedy, he knew he had to switch it off from his mind, as scenes like these were not unique anymore.

He shut the door of the car and continued to walk along the road. He was desperate, but he wasn't prepared to take a car that was in that state. The fact that possibly a young person had been killed in the vehicle, unnerved him, and from a selfish, and some would say, a harsh point of view, he didn't fancy driving the remaining forty miles of the journey with the horrendous smell of death tormenting his nasal area.

He was hoping for some wheels soon, as his stomach was now aching to be fed, and he wasn't sure how much energy he had left in him, especially now that whatever was left in his stomach wasn't there anymore.

More monotonous minutes passed as his tired legs soldiered on, and he saw something else up ahead that made his heart gallop. He came to another scene after another mile was completed, and this time, from what he could see, it involved two cars and a motorbike.

The two cars looked to have collided with one another as both front bonnets were crushed a little. A head-on collision, it looked like to Jack. The motorbike lay on the grass and Jack thought that the rider might have lost control of the vehicle and came off, leaving the bike to slide across the road before hitting the grassy bank. But where were the accident victims? There was no sign of blood or body parts, so he could only assume that the individuals involved in the accident, had fled the area in panic. Maybe this road used to be swarming with the beasts.

After what he had witnessed earlier on, he carefully stepped toward the carnage. To his right, was a wooded area, and he was aware that danger could be prowling all around him. He peered into both cars, but both of them were empty. There was no sign of carnage, no blood, no dead bodies.

Both cars were spotless and Jack couldn't fathom on what had happened. Inspecting the front of both cars, he was sure that they were un-drivable, most probably with radiator damage, so he set his sights on the motorbike. It had been years since he had ridden one, especially one of this size.

Its bodywork was lime green, and it looked like a BMW with a 1300cc engine. Apart from a few scratches, it appeared that the bike was in working order, and like the car a mile down the road, the keys were in the ignition. There must have been some of those things here. It was the only conclusion he could come up with on why someone would leave a perfectly working motorbike.

Whatever the real reason, his or her loss was Jack Slade's gain. He was taking it. The motorbike would expose him and provide no shield like a car would, but it was all he had, and there were positives with this vehicle, especially if it were needed to escape through a field or an alleyway. Jack convinced himself that there were pros and cons riding a motorbike
or
driving a car.

A motorbike in this current climate, Jackie boy? Are you completely insane?

Chapter Thirty One

He stepped out of the Wolseley Arms and breathed in the country air. It smelt wonderful to be free, but he knew that not so far away, the smell of death was awash in towns and cities all across the nation and possibly other countries. It was something he was trying not to think about and was glad to a certain degree that TVs were down, as the only thing reporters would show the world from now on was the carnage across the country, and would give an insight to the average human on how they were going to eventually die.

Harry Branston felt his smooth freshly shaven face, that was achieved with cold water and a used razor from the owner—he guessed—and span slowly around gawping at the area he was in. He was now standing in the middle of the pub's car park, yards away from the van. He saw the river, and the main road leading to Stafford, and the more he spun around he could see the garden centre and the road that led to Rugeley and Little Haywood, where they were the day before.

It was only a mile up the road, where dozens upon dozens of the things were when the van left the premises, and he was reasonably surprised that he couldn't even see one of them.

He spent the night with KP, and slept restlessly, and could have sworn he had heard noises outside. On two occasions he went downstairs into the dark, barren lounge of the pub, only to find nothing inside. He checked the doors and looked out of the windows. He saw shadows moving, but wasn't sure that it was anything untoward.

For minutes, he glared until the tiredness and the effects of the alcohol that had been consumed were beginning to take their toll once again.

He checked his watch and knew he was the first to rise; the rest seemed to have over-indulged more than him as far as the booze was concerned. He walked slowly over to the river; it looked to be in a dirty condition and he was surprised if any fish dwelled in that murky watery place.

Pickle—Harry Branston—screwed his eyes and continued to walk toward the river. He was now out of the car park and stood on the grassy bank that had a reasonable steep decline. He saw a hundred yards down the river, a body. When he was in the car park, that's what he thought it was, but he wanted to make sure.
Poor soul
.

He took a deep breath in as he saw the washed up corpse on the bank and didn't understand why he—he assumed it was a
he—
wasn't walking around with the rest of the dead.
Maybe he tried to escape as a human via the river and drowned.

His thoughts were shattered when he heard the rest of the group talking in the background and KP shouting his name, wondering where he was.

Time to go back
.

He whispered a prayer for the dead man, turned around and went back to the car park to meet his nervous group who were wondering where he had gone.

Chapter Thirty Two

They shared an orange juice between them, and sat eating a cold tin of beans. Twenty-four hours ago, Karen would have turned her nose up at such a breakfast, but her stomach ached for food, any food.

The two of them had decided to take turns in sleeping the night before. Oliver slept from 9pm to 4am, whereas Karen managed another four hours sleep afterwards. The pair of them both admitted that the sitting around was killing their psyche. The boredom was self-evident as the conversation, once it had covered most of their personal and private life, went onto the subjects of politics, religion and why what was happening, was happening.

Karen spoke up, "So now we're all fed, and refreshed, do you think we can make our way up to Stile Cop? It should only be a thirty to forty minute walk if we take it easy."

"Sounds like a plan." Oliver smiled; his gaze lingered a little longer for Karen's liking. "The incline's a bit of a bitch, but it has to be done."

"If I wasn't so exhausted, we could have made it last night."

"Maybe." Oliver nodded. "I do sometimes think we'd be better off in here, where no one can see us."

"True, but up at the beauty spot, we could set up camp nearby; the higher we are, the
safer
we are. Besides, a lot of other people might have the same idea, so there may be a few of us eventually. Safer in numbers."

Oliver smiled. He was thinking along those lines not so long ago, but there was still a fraction of him wondering if the woods would be a better hiding place.

The two remained sitting on the grass, their knees tucked into their chest trying to muster the energy to get to their weary feet and make the walk to one of the highest points in their area. Karen knew the day before that the incline of the walk was the main factor why she couldn't go on as well as the lack of sleep she had received since the virus outbreak. She now felt reasonably refreshed—normal even, and combed her brown hair back with her fingers, and tightened up the bobble on her short ponytail.

"I need a shower," she gasped.

Oliver smirked. "Oh, I dunno. You look good to me."

"Oh, please." Karen shook her head.

"What's wrong? You're an attractive woman."

"Am I really?" There was a huge tone of sarcasm in Karen's voice and she wasn't impressed with the compliment from this man.

"Well, I wouldn't say no."

"I lost my boyfriend yesterday and it hasn't even hit me yet. I was attacked and carjacked by two men,
we've
only just met, I haven't washed in more than twenty four hours, and if you want me to be brutally honest, I'm not attracted to you anyway."

"What harm could it do?"

Karen took a look at Oliver's face; he had changed somewhat over the last few hours, his eyes looked demonic. "Are you serious?" Karen laughed when she asked the question.

Oliver leaned over and placed his hand inbetween Karen's thighs, just above her knee. His hand then gently stroked her inner thigh and slowly made its way upwards. Karen stopped the progression with her own hand. He pushed her hand away and grabbed her crotch; she tried to push him away and said, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Oliver was losing control and he grabbed her by the hair and Karen let out a small shriek. He threw her to the ground and sat on top of her, his knees resting on her arms preventing her from escaping. He leaned over and began kissing the side of her neck and using his tongue to inspect her facial features. His right hand slipped under her light blue uniform trousers and she shrieked as his clumsy, clammy hands pulled out a few pubic hairs as he felt for her opening. He stopped what he was doing, and leaned over toward her and went to kiss the side of his neck while he unzipped his own trousers.

Karen threw her head forward, her forehead connecting violently with Oliver's nose. He let out a shriek as immediately his nose bled; she then used her bodyweight to throw him off and he landed to the side; she then grabbed her club and smacked him across the face as he lay on the floor.

"You can stay away from me from now on!" Karen screamed. "Or I'll kill you, understand me?"

Oliver wearily got to his feet; his face was unrecognisable with the blood he was losing from the damage to his nose and to the side of his cheek. His face looked disfigured, and Karen assumed that the blow from her club had probably fractured his cheekbone. He ran at Karen, which took her by surprise, and she responded by pushing her foot forward into his stomach, winding the man, but also making him fall to the floor.

"What the fuck? What are you doing?" she yelled.

Oliver slavered, "I just wanted to make love to you."

Karen laughed and scrunched her face in befuddlement. "You fucking men," she said with disdain. "You only think with your dicks, and you don't even know how to use
them
properly. We're living in an apocalyptic world, and you want to empty your
balls? Seriously?"

There was no sign of Oliver letting up as he struggled quickly to his feet, and as he did this, Karen bent down and reached for his small axe lying on the grass. As he hobbled within her vicinity for a second time, she never panicked and seemed in control as if she knew exactly what to do.

As he staggered toward her, she suddenly crouched and swung the axe into the side of his left knee. He let out a painful scream and fell to the floor. She wanted to disable him, not kill him. At least this way, it would prevent him from following her. It may have put his own life in danger by now having a handicap, but it was
him
that chose to attack
her
, she was just protecting herself.

The blood seeped through his combat trousers, and with the hatchet in her hand, she walked over to the damaged Oliver Bellshaw. He flinched as she stood over him, and using the small axe to lean on, she crouched down toward him.

"I want you from now on to go that way." She pointed toward the outskirts of the woods by the main road. "I don't want you anywhere near these woods anymore, got it?"

He nodded pathetically, and continued with his whimpering.

"Right." She stood to her feet. "I'll be keeping your bag. If I see you again, I'll kill you next time."

Oliver began to sob; his bloodied face looked full of regret, but Karen wasn't falling for his pathetic response.

"Just go," she snarled.

He stood to his feet painfully, as she took a couple of steps backward, and he turned around and hopped painfully away from her toward the main road. It wasn't too far away, but for a man with
his
injuries, a yard would feel like a hundred.

She remained stationary for a few minutes and could hear the sound of a vehicle in the background. She cocked her head to one side to get a better listen and found that the vehicle was groaning louder. It was coming up the main road; she was split in two whether to flag the vehicle down and try and catch a ride before Oliver got to it first, or just to stick it out on her own.

She had enough food in her bag to last another three days if she rationed it. She decided to stay on her own, as flagging down a vehicle could be potentially opening up another can of worms, she thought. Oliver was a nice guy, but twenty-four hours later, he had changed. There was destruction happening across the country, but not everybody was pulling together for the sake of mankind.

Karen thought that, now that there was probably no police presence and a feeling of lawlessness across the land, the surviving humans might take larger risks and think that they could get away with violence, because there was no law to break anymore.

She suddenly heard the engine of the van to the right side of her, she obviously couldn't see anything because of the condensed trees, but a thud was heard as the van's engine began to decrease in sound as it travelled further away, making its way to the top of Stile Cop Road.

It sounded like it had hit something…or someone.

Oliver.