Snatchers (A Zombie Novel) (26 page)

Chapter Forty Five

KP felt for Laz, and thought about him as he stood guard near the wooded area of Stile Cop, and although he insisted to Pickle that someone should also stand guard by the edge of the beauty spot where there was a massive decline, Pickle refused and comforted the anxious KP by informing him that the hill was almost humanly impossible to climb, and that meant completely impossible for any one of those clumsy and unstable deadheads as well.

Comforted by Pickle's confidence, he finally agreed with his fellow ex-inmate and stood in his area without verbally challenging him. KP occasionally looked to his left to make sure there was nothing unpropitious clambering out of the woods, and then to his right as he watched the shocked group, David Pointer, Pickle, Jamie, Janine and Karen sitting around the dying fire. Davina was sleeping in the car with her daughter. KP could see that Janine was somehow fast asleep on Jamie's shoulder, which was probably a wise move, as she was up next on babysitting duty.

He swapped the pistol from one hand to the next every few seconds, almost as if he was playing catch with himself. It was his way of stopping himself from losing his grip. His clammy hands were annoying him, and every time he swapped the gun, the free hand was wiped on his trousers and vice versa. The safety catch on his Browning was on and the gun was cocked, he was taking nothing for granted.

As the fire burned humbly, the group passed between them a two-litre bottle of diet cherry cola around the campfire. Pickle had asked the group if they were thirsty, and it was the first thing he took out the van. The group never protested, as they were sick of the sights of water, despite deep down knowing that this vital liquid was the best thing for their dehydration.

Karen was the last to take a generous swig and screwed the lid back on and placed it beside her feet. Janine was sleeping on Jamie's shoulder, Jamie eyes were half-closed, David Pointer's head was lowered staring at the shoes on his feet, and Pickle and Karen, who sat next to one another, sat in quiescence.

The pair of them had spent an hour in each other's company, and Pickle showed Karen how to load and unload the Browning pistol in case she had to fire one. He also showed her where the safety catch was and informed her that target practice was not advisable, as it may attract unwanted attention, which she agreed.

He told her that later he would teach her how to dismantle the gun, and piece it back together as, in order for it to work consistently, it regularly needed cleaning. Pickle told Karen that the SAS used to carry the Browning cocked with the safety catch on, to allow for a quicker draw and fire. He also used this method in case anything threatening took them by surprise.

The group were ready for sleep, if that at all was possible after the death of Laz. The Pointers had their car, and there was a cell each inside the prison van for the rest of them, whilst one of them stood guard during the night. The tiny cells were not designed for sleeping, they were designed for inmates to stand up in, but curled up in a ball on the floor was achievable.

Karen finally broke the silence and turned her attention to Pickle, who was sitting to her left. "Shame about Laz."

Pickle shifted wretchedly, and took a while to reply to her comment. "It is. He was a decent enough bloke. I didn't have a shovel, so it had to be a shallow grave. I had to use the heel of ma boots mainly. Still, I couldn't just leave him there, it would be disrespectful to leave him there to rot away."

"Not only that," Karen added softly. "He'd stink the place out; attract all kinds of wildlife."

Pickle turned to his right to look at the attractive twenty-three-year-old, and half shook his head at her hawkish response. "Are yer always this cold?" he asked with a half smile.

"I never used to be, but a few days ago I was working in a hospital, trying to pay the mortgage. Now, in the space of a couple of days, I've had to toughen up after losing my boyfriend, my family may be dead, and everything I took for granted like television, food, even my car, has changed. My way of life has changed, which means my priorities have changed."

"Everybody's in the same boat." This time it was Pickle's turn to be cold, but Karen knew there was a touch of realism in what he had said.

"Yeah I know. I'm not feeling sorry for myself." Karen's response was defensive, and decided to change the subject before the conversation turned into a blazing row. She said, "How's your nose?"

He touched it gently with his left hand and winced. "Still sore."

"Sorry about that."

Another gulf of quietude threatened to surround them, and Karen was ready to turn in. Her backside from sitting on the hard sand was becoming sore, as if she had been punched, and her eyes were becoming heavy.

Pickle had prevented her leaving temporarily, as he returned to their original talk. "Yer say yer priorities have changed. So what are yer priorities, now?"

Karen thought long and hard about Pickle's question and released a long, and slightly fabricated moan. She felt his eyes gazing at her during her deliberation, and it didn't feel like any normal gaze, it was something she felt uncomfortable with, the way Oliver had stared at her during their latter hours in the woods.

She thought the worst of Pickle for a minute. Here was a man who had been incarcerated for God knows how long, and had been locked way from women. He was now out in a lawless land, and anything could happen. If he raped her by gunpoint, who was going to convict him if the law had ceased to exist?

"My priorities?" Karen was finally getting around to answer Pickle's question. "My main priority is to stay alive."

"Is that it?"

She nodded without eyeing him. "That's it. So long as I'm breathing, there's always hope."

"So if we ever get surrounded by those things, and it's just me and you carrying guns, what would yer do?"

"Honestly?" Karen smiled. "I'd put a bullet in your leg, and make a run for it as those cocksuckers tore you to pieces. At least then it would give
me
a chance to escape."

Pickle giggled and slapped his right knee, he pointed toward Karen. "I knew yer were going to say that." He then cleared his throat and spat onto the floor beside him.

"Oh, I'm not joking."

His tittering began to subside, and his smile very slowly disappeared from his face. He cleared his throat, and although originally affronted by Karen's comment, he simultaneously began to respect her for her honesty and her toughness.

Pickle was a tough nut, but here was a twenty-three-year-old nurse who seemed mentally tougher than him. Instead of crippling her like it had for David Pointer, this new terrifying event had made her stronger, and he admired that. She had mental strength that
she
probably thought she never had.

"In that case," Pickle indicated with a grin. "Maybe I shouldn't give yer this."

Pickle handed Karen his nine-millimetre Browning.

She glared at him with mischievousness. Was he joking?

He then tossed two magazines onto her lap, and including the magazine in the pistol she was now the proud owner of a pistol and thirty-nine bullets.

"What about you?"

Pickle chuckled softly and stood up his B725 shotgun that was resting by the side of his legs. "I have this baby."

"How...?"

Pickle elevated his eyebrows, waiting for Karen to finish her question. She didn't, so he completed it for her.
"How did I get a hold of the guns?"

Karen nodded with a suspicious scowl. She knew he was a prisoner, but didn't think he was a hardcore criminal. He didn't look the type. Pickle was very muscular, but she felt there was a gentle side to the man. Maybe she was wrong.

"Let's just say I used to be a bad boy, and we'll leave it at that." A hush came over the two weary individuals and Pickle decided to keep the chat going. "Yer a nurse, Karen. How do yer think something like this could happen—medically, I mean?"

Karen gently shook her head. "I'm a nurse, not a scientist. But, if I'm guessing…a virulent rabies-influenza viral hybrid, could lead to masses of infected victims turning into violent creatures. I had this discussion with KP earlier. The radio I listened to reckons it could be rabies related or some kind of malfunction of a cure vaccine."

"I suppose it depends on yer beliefs." Pickle grinned. "I believe it's God's doing, but if yer a Darwinist or heavily into science, ma theory would be laughed at."

Karen spoke, "I don't know. I don't think we'll ever get to find out, although it may be related to the incident that happened in Newcastle. Jamie mentioned terrorists before, and everyone laughed at him, but why not? The world has amazing scientists who can clone people, so a mixture of the rabies and flu virus wouldn't take much to create in a laboratory."

"Yet, they can't find a cure for the cold."

"Well, that's true." Karen began to sit up, straightening her back and leaned over to Pickle. "In order to make someone become one of those Snatchers in the first place, the virus would have to destroy all of the brain except for the amygdala, which is responsible for the flight or fight instinct and the medulla oblongata, which is responsible for processing neurological signals from the brain and spinal cord, movements such as walking and grabbing. The virus would have to rip the brain down to its most basic components known as ataxic neurodegenerative satiety deficiency syndrome, or ANSD."

"That's what I was thinking," Pickle mocked gently.

Added Karen, "After creating a virus capable of destroying all parts of the brain necessary for reasoning and awareness, then they would next determine its method of transmission. The virus doesn't have to be airborne to cause a crisis. The biting is a slower process than an airborne virus, but it can still be effective if we don't get on top of the catastrophe.

"I'm only guessing, but these things seem to respond by biting because another critical part of the brain—the ventromedial hypothalamus—is broken, which normally tells you when you’ve eaten enough. The brain's frontal lobes, responsible for problem solving, are devoured by the virus so they can’t make complex decisions. Impairment in the cerebellum means they can’t walk well, either."

"But yer don't know that for sure." Pickle smiled. "Interesting theory, though. But I'll stick with ma God theory. It's simpler."

Karen smiled and shook her head. "Have you noticed some are quicker than others?"

Pickle nodded. "Something to do with rigor mortis, isn't it?"

"These things are supposed to be dead, right? Normally, when a body dies, chemical changes happen which stiffens the body. This starts about three to four hours after death, then reaches maximum stiffness, and gradually dissipates about two days or so afterwards. So the slightly quicker ones are probably the ones that have been dead for a few days or could be the ones that have just been infected."

Their conversation came to a halt, as they both listened as a vehicle drove by the area; a vehicle they couldn't see because of the darkness and the bulky van blocking the entrance.

"I love that sound," Karen grunted.

"Yep," Pickle agreed. "It tells us that there're more survivors out there."

Pickle cleared his throat and threw in another question at his intriguing guest in order to avoid the uncomfortable silence that was almost sneaking upon them and threatening the night to come to a close, which is what a tired Karen Bradley actually really wanted.

"So tell me, Karen, have you ever wanted a family?"

Karen laughed out loud at the unexpected question, which made a sleepy Jamie and Janine jump simultaneously, as they still sat opposite on the other side of the timid fire. David never flinched, he was still in a self-hypnotic state still trying to come to terms with the events that were unravelling, and wasn't listening to a word they were saying anyhow.

Answered Karen, "Once upon a time, maybe, not now. Who in their right mind would want to give birth in a ditch and bring up a baby in this shitty world? It'd be madness."

"Humanity needs to continue."

"And why the fuck should
I
be responsible for that?" Karen scolded bluntly. "I'll tell you this, there'll be no cock going anywhere near
me
anymore. It's too risky, and besides, most men are shit in the sack anyway."

Pickle smiled calmly. "That's a romantic way o' looking at it."

"I don't give a shit. Any man comes near me, they'll soon know about it."

Pickle narrowed his eyes suspiciously; cocked his head to one side like a baffled dog, and lifted his chin. "Is that an indirect threat toward me, by any chance?"

Noticing the tone in Pickle's voice, Karen backed down with her aggression and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just saying; that's all."

"Let's get one thing straight, Karen." Pickle leaned over toward her as the fire by them was almost out, and the only light the spot had was the light of the full moon that hung above them. "One: directly or indirectly, never threaten me, especially when I give yer food and water that cost the life of two men, that's just disrespectful. Two: any potential rapist in this camp who attacks either you, Davina or Janine will be personally shot in the balls by yours truly."