Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) (13 page)

He drove the car out of the car park, and once he got on the main barren road, he pulled up at a bus stop once he was clear of danger and took another look behind him and then broke down.

Once he got himself together, he reprimanded himself for being so weak and shook his head at himself.

You shagwit, Slade!

Chapter Twenty Three

"Just stop here," came Pickle's instruction once they reached Little Haywood.

Jamie adhered to the inmate and pulled on the handbrake of the van. The street had only one of the things moping about, but the main road they had turned off to get into was swarming with at least thirty of them shuffling around not knowing where to go, and clumsily bumping into one another.

Pickle jumped out of his van, confident that they wouldn't drive off without him, as he had the guns, and kicked his own front door in. He called out to see if his cousin was in, but there was no answer back. The fact that the door was easily kicked in, suggested that the lack of barricading meant that his cousin who was staying there had fled to go elsewhere once the news filtered through. Most probably to his mum's, Pickle thought.

He ran upstairs and went into the main bedroom. His cupboard had been ransacked, making him aware that his cousin had hurriedly packed a bag before leaving.

He got to the bottom of the bed and squatted with his hands underneath it. He lifted the bed and forced it to stand upright against the wall. Certain that the bed wasn't about to topple over him, he pulled out a piece of cut carpet and easily lifted three of the floorboards, where a small, yet, heavy bag hid.

He pulled out the sports bag, and tossed it round his shoulder. The space in the floorboard area was almost empty, apart from one object. He pulled out his prized possession, a weapon he had only used for practice. It wasn't something that had been used against another human being, the handguns dealt with that.

He pulled out his Browning B725 sporting shotgun, and blew the little dust that sat on the black barrel. In the bag, over his shoulder, were Browning hi-powered semi automatic pistols, nine millimetres, with cartridges for his shotgun and eighteen magazines for the pistols, excluding the ones already in the guns. Pickle was now ready to leave. He heard the hooting of a horn coming from outside; it came from the van and he knew something wasn't quite right.

He looked out of his bedroom window and saw eight beings surrounding the van; there were more pouring into the street. The hooting of the horn didn't help matters, but Pickle was sure that Jamie only did it out of anguish.

Pickle quickly took off his prison jumper and T-shirt and picked out a plain black V-neck, he then doused himself with deodorant and ran down the stairs to the front door. He opened the door to be greeted by a street full of the things, at least thirty of them, and half of them scampered towards the front door, aching for a piece of his flesh. As he shut the door, they began to smack the palms of their hands against the glass. Pickle ran back upstairs into his bedroom. He opened his window and made a circular motion with his finger, ordering Jamie to turn the van around and back it up so he could jump onto the roof, as there was no way in hell he was going to get in it leaving through the front door.

Jamie knew exactly what Pickle meant, gave him the thumbs up and reversed the van around, crushing some of the hapless things underneath its seven and a half ton weight. None of them showed any facial expressions of pain, as their legs and chests were crushed. Those that had damaged limbs continued to move and dragged themselves towards the house. Pickle opened the window once the van gained nearer, and once it had reversed onto the front garden, he crouched onto the window ledge in preparation for his jump.

He was only going to have one chance at this, and knew if he messed it up, it could cost him his life. Holding his shotgun and with the bag around his shoulder, he jumped onto the roof of the van and was thankful he never slipped or rolled off onto the hard pavement. He banged the top of the cab to inform Jamie it was safe to go. Pickle lay on his front and held on in case there were any sudden movements or jerking.

He had a vision of the van jolting forward, and throwing him off into the crowd of the hungry scavengers. He knew that that kind of death had happened to many a people, but he couldn't think of a worse way to go than being eaten alive.

The van slowly drove off; Jamie, being aware that Pickle's position was rather dangerous, never slipped the van into anything higher than second. The things grabbed desperately at the van, the windows were clawed by the walking corpses, a wiper was almost ripped off as one desperately tried to climb onto the front.

The van shook from side to side as it slowly ran over some of the resolute barbarians. Bones continued to be crushed and on three occasions, heads popped like crushed grapes from the weight of the hefty vehicle's wheels, temporarily decorating the van's wheels with their mashed infected brains.

As soon as they exited the street onto the main road, which was now more congested than the street they had just left, Jamie increased the gas and put the gear into third to finally rid himself from the monsters. He frowned in his right wing mirror to see the last of them, slowly fading into the distance once they got onto the country road. They were now only a mile away from the town of Rugeley.

As they approached the Wolseley Arms public house, Pickle, who still clung onto the roof like Colt Seavers, banged on the roof of the van. The van turned right at the roundabout and pulled up on the country road.

Pleased that there wasn't a soul in sight and with the bag around his shoulder and the shotgun in his right hand, Pickle slid down the front of the van and jumped onto the road. He gave Jamie and Janine the thumbs up, and both officers exited the vehicle. The van was parked up in the pub's car park that was yards away from the River Trent.

"That was fucking mad!" Pickle exclaimed; his adrenaline was clear for all to see, as his body shook with excitement like a five-year-old child on Christmas day.

"There were loads of them." Janine shuddered. "Makes you wonder how places like London and Manchester are coping if that's what can happen to a little village."

"I'm sure the survival rate would be the same," Pickle expressed. "At least in the cities there're high up places, apartments and offices to hide in for a few days."

"Not much use if those things are
already
in your office or apartment," Jamie snickered falsely, the same way someone would politely laugh at a bad joke in order not to offend the storyteller.

Pickle went to the back of the van and opened up the vehicle; the three inmates spilled out of the back and groaned as they were introduced to sunlight once again.

"That was scary shit," Laz spoke, running his trembling fingers through his greasy grey hair. "Was that noise what I think it was?"

Pickle, Jamie and Janine all nodded simultaneously.

"Are you okay?" KP asked Pickle.

Pickle nodded and appeared a tad embarrassed with KP's concern, which baffled Janine.

KP sauntered over to the car park of the Wolseley Arms and stroked his short beard. He looked around at the pub and saw the sight of the River Trent that he hadn't seen in years. "Why don't we stay here for a night?"

"Why?" Pickle asked, and looked over at the pub. "So we can spend all night getting drunk?"

KP beamed. "And what's wrong with that? Besides, there should be plenty of food in there. I quite fancy a rib-eye steak myself. In the morning we can put whatever's left in the back of the van."

Jamie looked to Pickle. "He's got a point. We could stuff our faces for a night on good food, before we move on and have to eat what's in the back of the van."

Pickle stroked his chin, and a thin smile emerged on his face. "I think it's fair to say, I haven't had a decent meal in years." Pickle turned to Jamie and then said, "Yer do realise that four inmates who haven't had a proper drink in years and being allowed in a pub, isn't the greatest idea in the world? It's gonna be messy."

"That's all right," Jamie tittered. "We're all on the same side now, as long as they don't do anything stupid and attract unwanted attention. The pub looks solid enough, just make sure we lock up and we'll be fine."

Pickle took out his Browning shotgun. "Let
me
check the place out first."

"Erm...and where're our guns," KP joked.

Pickle patted his sports bag. "You'll get them as soon as I've taught yer how to shoot 'em."

"And when will that be?"

"After I've checked the place out. This is the plan: Jamie and Janine have been on nightshift, so we should let 'em sleep for a few hours. Then we do a bit o' shooting practice, I'll show yer how to load, reload and take yer pistol apart, as it needs to be cleaned. We won't shoot much, don't wanna waste the bullets or attract too much attention. Then we can lock the place up, eat and get drunk. Then we head to Stile Cop in the morning."

"I'll cook," KP chipped in.

Laz looked at Jamie. "KP worked in the prison kitchens; he's a great cook."

Jamie nodded his head. "I do know. I used to work there."

Janine, who was standing next to Jamie, said to Laz. "He doesn't say much," she spoke, referring to Grass, who was propped against the van chewing on his fingernails.

"Nah," Laz responded. "He's a quiet one; he's just a boy really. Probably just frightened; we all are."

Pickle left the group to stretch their legs; he tried the main door of the pub and was pleased that forcing it open was unnecessary as it was already unlocked. He walked alone into the establishment and entered the lounge. It was an old-fashioned country pub that sat next to the bank of the river, and there was a fireplace at the end of the lounge, and all the seats and tables looked heavy and made from oak.

He looked into the barren bar area and was pleased to pick up a set of keys for the place as well as some menus. He put the shotgun down and looked through the menus. Everything that wasn't available in the prison was on the menu: Burgers, steaks, pizza, ribs, the more he read, the more he salivated and his stomach growled impatiently.

He carefully took the stairs and went to the first floor and checked the living arrangements. He checked the living room and bedrooms, and was satisfied—although a little baffled—that the owners had decided to leave once the crisis had been announced. There was no car in the car park to suggest that there was any sign of life inside, but he needed to be sure.

There was one more place to check.

The cellar.

Every pub had a cellar.

In the bar area there was a small wooden door; it was padlocked. Sure that the door led to the pub's cellar, Pickle placed his ear against it. He could hear faint groaning, and sighed as the moans told him that at least one of
them
was inside.

How did it get in there? Was it a worker?

He used the butt of the gun to break the lock, and after three attempts, it began to give way, but he felt the noise he was making probably enticed the thing to the door. He was correct, as the noise that he had made seemed so severe that he could hear thuds coming from behind the wooden door. He had attracted the attention of the creature and with no hesitation he opened the door, which revealed a former young girl dressed in waitress attire. It immediately raised its arms reaching for Pickle; its face was grey, the eyes were lifeless and her mouth was almost purple. She looked more like a victim of domestic abuse more than anything else.

He fleetly responded by striking the thing hard in the face with the butt of the gun; it fell backward down the concrete ramp that was normally used to roll barrels of beer down. If it was steps, Pickle was pretty sure the thing wouldn't have been able to climb them to the door. It had struggled and crawled to get up, tumbling hard. He, at last, managed to find the light switch to the cellar that was situated outside to the left of him. The place lit up once he flicked it and it was like any normal cellar, apart from the body at the bottom of the ramp.

It had wine racks with numerous bottles, and barrels of beer situated in the corner. The body at the bottom began to flinch, and Pickle quickly trotted down and stood over the thing. It appeared that the frightened owners may have put the infected girl in there themselves, locked her in, and fled the establishment. He couldn't think of any other scenario that made sense how she got there in the first place.

Because the being was already in a precarious position and there was no danger to Pickle's life, he decided to save on a valuable cartridge. He turned the gun around and used the butt of the shotgun to hammer at the young girl's head that still lay on the floor.

He slammed the gun at the skull, and it eventually cracked like an Easter egg. A black substance oozed out of the top of the skull, and more followed as he delivered the final blow that revealed a black and diseased brain that half-slipped out like a stone from a ripped open peach. He felt queasy, but knew it had to be done.

He carefully placed his shotgun on the floor and dragged the body to the corner of the cellar; the smell from the body was foul, like a sewer full of dead fish. Pickle guessed that the body had already been technically dead for many hours, as only death could smell that bad.

He trotted back upstairs and wiped the butt of his pride and joy with a dusting cloth that sat on the bar. He walked through the lounge and stepped out into the glow of sunshine to greet his new friends.

"It's all clear."