Snatchers: Volume One (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 1-3) (47 page)

Chapter Twenty Six

June 18th

It was 7:21am. Monday.

Karen had had four hours sleep, but felt fine. She was alert; she felt refreshed, but was sure that later on in the day, the tiredness would eventually appear from somewhere and take her by surprise like an assassin, putting her in a world of sleep.

She had been sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn for the last twenty minutes. She was on her second coffee; her breath was putrid, but couldn't be bothered to go upstairs and use one of the four toothbrushes left by the family who used to dwell there. It wasn't that she felt guilty for using them; she just hadn't mustered the energy to go upstairs.

Once she finished her coffee, she forced her body to get off the couch and stand. She could hear gentle thuds coming from above and assumed that Pickle had tried to get out of bed. Scared in case he had a fall, the energy her body needed was suddenly shooting through her veins, and she jogged her way upstairs to see Pickle standing on the landing, waiting outside the bathroom.

Pickle squinted at Karen, and nodded towards the bathroom door. "So if yer here, who's in there?"

"Ah." Karen revealed an embarrassed smile, remembering that the two men hadn't been introduced. "That'll be George. I picked him up yesterday."

Pickle took a step back and tried to come to terms with what she had just told him. He looked terrible. Pale. Eyes sunken. His lips were dry.

Pickle glared at her. "A lover?"

"God no." Karen burst into hysterics, and then suddenly covered her mouth, as there was a danger George could have overheard her remark from within the bathroom.

Pickle rested his hand on Karen's shoulder, and looked unstable on his legs. He swayed gently as if he had just left the pub after an eight-hour session, and said, "Give me a shout when it's free. I'm in no immediate rush."

Karen took a hold of him under his armpit, and helped him walk back to his bedroom, as if she was a carer and he was an old man. They slowly made baby steps towards the bedroom that seemed to have taken forever.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

Pickle sighed, "Getting there. Might even try a wee bit o' lunch later."

"Good."

"Should be back on ma feet tomorrow mornin'."

"That's the thing with these viruses; you can take all the drugs in the world, but you're better off riding it out and letting your body beat it."

"Well, I certainly feel better. Must have been all the praying I've been doing."

As they made their first step back into the bedroom, behind them they could hear a toilet flush. They both turned around to see George Jones dressed in just a pair of jogging bottoms. He stood still and gazed at Pickle. Pickle could see the man was in a decent condition, although clearly carrying a few pounds, and recognised the tattoos on his body, especially the black and blue nautical star.

George could see that if one hundred percent fit and healthy, Pickle could be a powerhouse of a man. But at that moment, he looked weak, ashen and hunched over, but he could see the man was muscular in stature. George didn't say a word to Pickle; he just raised his hand at the ill man. Pickle returned the friendly gesture by tilting his chin upwards ever so slightly, and then turned back around, relying on Karen's help to get him back to the bed. His head ached and the room swayed for a few seconds as if he was on a ferry in turbulent waters. It reminded him of when he went to France to pick up a drugs shipment in one of his first big deals as an entrepreneur of the drugs world. He reminisced only for a few seconds, before dropping back onto the bed.

Karen looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "Do you want me to take that T-shirt off? It looks like it could do with a wash."

Pickle never answered her, and released an exaggerated moan once his head hit the pillow. "Where did yer meet 'im?"

"He was hitching. You don't mind, do you?"

"We're not a charity, but I wouldn't want to see people abandoned. Maybe he wants to get into yer pants."

Karen playfully punched Pickle on the shoulder and shook her head. "I think one arsehole is enough, don't you?"

"A bit harsh."

"Seriously; what do you think of him?"

Pickle half-shrugged. "I'd bang the arse off him, I suppose."

Karen chuckled and playfully hit Pickle on the chest. "No, I meant, does he seem okay?"

"Dunno. Only time will tell. His tattoos look familiar, though."

"Really? Did KP have ones like that?"

"Nah, he only had one." Pickle released a thin smile and his eyes looked away and briefly reminisced. "It was the same star, but a different colour. KP had a purple and black one on his shoulder."

"Did it bring back memories?"

Pickle glared, but Karen could see there was sadness in his face. "Of course; he's only been dead a few days."

Karen smiled warmly at Pickle. Because of his illness she had slept in the girls' room for her second night in the house, with George in the other room with the poster of Robert Pattinson behind him. She could have sworn that she had heard Pickle crying during the night, and had mentioned KP on a couple of occasions in his sleep, but that was understandable. As Pickle said: KP had only been dead for a few days, and in the real world his funeral wouldn't even have taken place yet. He was still in mourning.

She leaned over and kissed him on his clammy forehead. She made a jokingly
yuk
sound, as her lips tasted the salt off his forehead, and tried to make her partner laugh, who was in desperate need of a wash once he was fit again.

He responded with half a smile and that famous wink of his, which she hadn't seen for a while. He closed his eyes, and shooed her away jokingly by waving his hand like an Emperor would treat his servant. She exited the room, left him alone and spent a few minutes in the living room talking to George Jones, as this had been the most mundane and uneventful day she had ever had since the outbreak had occurred.

Mustn't grumble, she thought.

At least she was still alive.

Chapter Twenty Seven

The morning had come around quickly. Jack and Paul almost opened their eyes at the same time to find the unfortunate reality that greeted them, especially Jack. Apart from the two sleepy men, the hall was empty, and the only reminder that there used to be people dwelling there, was the strewn blankets, sheets and sleeping bags that lay on the floor. It seemed inappropriate to tidy them up in case the group, or at least some of the group, came back. This had been their home for the last week and tidying up the sleeping arrangements would be an indication that both Paul and Jack had given up hope that anyone would return. The dark hall echoed with Jack's raucous yawn, while Paul silently stood to his feet and headed for the bathroom holding a worn toothbrush.

Jack gawped around the hall and felt a twinge of sadness; he hoped Kerry and Thomas were okay. He thought about Gary for a few seconds, and thanked him under his breath for reuniting him with his son, albeit temporarily for the time being. If it weren't for Gary, Jack would still be roaming around the villages, like a headless chicken, looking for his son.

Paul's hard footsteps echoed and the noise bounced off the wooden walls, as he returned back from the toilet area. "Go to the kitchen and arm yourself with anything you can find," he announced. "If this takes all day, then so be it."

"What about those spears you made?"

"We can take them, but they're only designed to kill maybe one of them. We need steel, not something that'll snap once we put
one
of them down."

"What about breakfast?" Jack called out.

"Use the last of the eggs," Paul called back as he began arming himself with a hatchet that was placed in the front of his large pocket, as well as the homemade spear he was holding in his left hand. "Then we go."

As twenty minutes had passed, they ate breakfast and washed it down with the remains of the flat cola. Then the two men stepped out into the fresh wind. They went out the back way, away from the main road, facing the mass of woodland. A gentle breeze stroked their faces as they made their steps into the woods, and although a little troubled by the drizzle that filtered through the trees, they were confident that they wouldn't be soaked to the bone. It had been the second time that the area had seen the rain since the outbreak, and it was a welcome change in the weather as far as the thirsty plantation was concerned.

Still plagued by the taste of eggs in the back of his throat, Jack carefully stepped through the bracken as if he was barefooted and it was scattered with hidden broken glass—he was paranoid of adders, the only poisonous snake available in the UK. He took a peep to the side of him where Paul Parker's face showed no emotion whatsoever. Now, his face was scowling with concentration as he faced forwards, occasionally shifting his head from left to right. Despite the welcomed drizzle from the heavens, the woods was almost acting like a cover and it felt more like being in a greenhouse rather than being in the outdoors. Jack scratched the back of his neck and felt his hairy neck being irritated by the trickles of sweat running out of his hair. It needed a shave.

It had been a day since he had had a proper shave, and didn't want to use a good razor on the back of his neck. Two days ago, the group were down to the last half a dozen razors, and it wasn't just the men that wanted to use the one-blade razors that were available. It humoured Paul a little that the females were also adamant on using the razors. With the outbreak, he thought that the last thing they should be worried about was hair under their arms, as well as other places. The world was going to hell in a handcart, yet the girls still wanted to look reasonably acceptable. It was argued amongst Kerry Evans, Jemma Marlow and Karen West, that the men should be the ones to refrain from using a razor, as a beard was socially acceptable, rather than a woman that looked like she had a testosterone injection. Considering what was happening in the world, the argument was deemed ridiculous and frivolous, and was eventually laughed off by all parties.

Jack looked to his right at Paul, and was relieved that even the cool Paul Parker was perspiring as he could see a single bead of sweat on his dark skin. The bead broke away from the side of his head and gently ran down the side of his black face.

Paul himself was feeling the heat; his fresh, brown V-neck shirt was getting damp already as well as his short, black hair, and his grey joggies were making his legs feel as if they were on fire. He was twenty yards away at the side of Jack and felt for the forty-year-old. He knew what he was going through, but preferred to keep his own emotions in check.

If there was any chance he could find Jocelyn and his two-year-old daughter, Hannah, he needed to be calm and not make irrational decisions in order to keep himself alive. The truth was that he had no idea where they could be, but was convinced they wouldn't leave the area of Staffordshire. Nevertheless, it would still be like looking for a needle in a very large haystack, but Jack Slade's story gave Paul a glimmer of hope. Paul Parker needed to stay alive, whatever the costs, so he could see his family again. Once it was safe, the plan was to go back to his own home and wait for them there. It was the only thing he could think of.

He was aware that there was a chance that Jocelyn may think that he was already dead, simply because when they left the house it was full of those things while Paul was still in bed upstairs. Paul didn't blame Jocelyn for running. He was aware that she ran for the sake and safety of their daughter. He was glad she ran. He couldn't imagine a world without his little girl. He didn't
want
to imagine a world without his little girl.

"Oh God," Jack spoke out.

Paul stopped in his tracks and turned to his colleague who had his head in his hands.

Paul walked over to Jack, and the closer he came, the more he could smell that recognisable smell of death. The annoyed flies buzzed away as he stepped closer and stood side-by-side next to Jack. They were both ten yards away from the bloodied corpse of Jemma Marlow. The bracken and grass around the body was dyed with her blood; her legs and arms were half-eaten and her torso was almost non-existent. A bloodied breast could be seen attached to a part of her chest that hadn't been devoured. The breast lay next to her severed head, and although it looked like her brains had been scooped out by using the opened neck as a means of getting to them, it was still obvious who it was. Her eyes were missing, but her nose and mouth were intact.

Jack released a muffled belch in an attempt to stop his body from rejecting the breakfast he had earlier; the taste of eggs as well as the sight of Jemma's body wasn't helping.

"Let's keep moving," Paul said coldly.

"What? We can't just leave her here."

Paul was putting a brave face on, Jack could see that, but he remained cold in his speech. "You want to give her first aid?"

Jack shook his head at the crass comment. "Don't be ridiculous."

Paul added, "One question: Can you help her?"

"Of course not."

"Then let's move."

Chapter Twenty Eight

Karen looked out of the living room window from behind the curtain. The sky possessed a few cotton balls of grey clouds that hung threateningly over the small village, and she sighed at the depressing sight. The month of June had just experienced its second shower of rain. She released the curtains and sat back down; the lack of exercise was making her irritable.

The company wasn't much better either.

She was glad that she had managed to potentially save a life, despite Pickle hinting previously that they shouldn't bring anyone back, but as a conversationalist, George Jones wasn't the best. It was as if the art of conversation wasn't his strong point. She cruelly assumed that his job as a labourer consisted of years of talking about women in a derogatory way, with the rest of his male colleagues talking about football, and arguing with one another, using a profanity with every sentence. She couldn't be sure, but a job where there was no contact with the public must have had some effect on his talking skills, unlike
her
old job, where she was always in chatter mode with someone. She worked and talked with sick people, as well as relatives of the sick, other colleagues, as well as police and fire crew that would come into the A and E department.

George was okay, Karen thought, but he wasn't Pickle. And as soon as Harry Branston recovered from his virus, the better, she thought.

She peeped to the side and saw that George was in the single chair, nursing his sixth cup of coffee of the morning. He
also
looked bored rigid, and even though she had a cheek to even think of it, she contemplated on whether to go upstairs to lie on the bed and possibly go for a nap.

She had come to a quick decision and rose to her feet, and informed her surprised guest of her intentions. She walked lazily upstairs and once she got into the bedroom, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. The head sank delightfully into the soft, cold pillow and she released a contented moan. She began to daydream about Gary, which was interrupted as her eyes shot open of the realisation that she had left her Browning on the side-table in the living room downstairs. She then closed her eyes again, and tried to appease her weary, paranoid mind that George didn't seem the type to gun down a woman and a sick man just for the extra food that was left in the cupboard.

What was the worst he could do? Pick it up? The gun wasn't cocked and the safety catch was on, and he probably didn't even know what that was. She slipped away into unconsciousness. Her peace lasted thirty-seven minutes.

*

"What the fuck?"

She shot out of bed and collided with the side-table. She lost her balance and bounced off the wall as she hastily stood on her wobbly legs. She never gave her body time to wake up, and this was self-evident from the drowsiness that had caused her to lose her bearings.

She had heard shots. But she didn't know where they were coming from. She left the bedroom and went into Pickle's room, which faced the main road of their street. Pickle could be seen wearily hunched over the windowsill, glaring out of the window.

"Nice one, Karen," he chuckled falsely, without turning round to face her. "This street's gonna be awash with those fuckers, if he gets his way. How on earth did he get yer gun?"

Karen stepped forwards and stood by Pickle's side. She looked out of the window to see George holding the Browning she had left on the side-table. She looked past him to see one solitary Snatcher lying dead in the middle of the road. George looked pretty pleased with himself, and Bradley could see the twitches of three sets of curtains across the road, probably from families wondering what the hell was happening and hoping and praying that this maniac would disappear shortly. So far, the street had been relatively quiet, but the sounds of gunshots could easily put that to a stop.

She left the bedroom, hurriedly, and galloped downstairs and went through the already-opened front door. She ran out into the desolate street and was greeted by a smiling George Jones. Without thinking there was a danger that the gun could go off, she snatched the gun out of his hand and screamed, "What the fuck are you doin'?"

George was taken aback by Karen's outburst, and struggled to explain his action.

Karen continued, "We're trying to keep a low profile here, not just from
them
," she pointed at the dead creature, "but from outsiders as well!"

George shrugged and explained. "I peered out the window and saw it walking along the road."

"So instead of letting it harmlessly walk past out of the village, you decided to put two rounds into it?"

George went to open his mouth, but refrained from answering her question immediately. He rolled his eyes in thought and said, "And what's wrong with that?"

"Where there's one, there could be others."

Karen waited for a response from the confused George, and could see for the first time in his face, a wave of rage building up. He grinded his teeth together, took a deep breath in and shaped his lips in an
O
shape as if he was about to blow out smoke rings. He then released carbon dioxide from his mouth and Bradley wondered if this was an anger management technique.

Shit! Is he going to hit me?

Despite being the carrier of the Browning pistol, she took a step backwards and was pretty sure that there was a good chance that George was going to lash out, but Karen didn't want him to think that she was intimidated by this, so she continued with her rant. "And how did you learn to shoot, anyway?"

George never answered her; he continued to glare at her, and Karen wondered if he had rage issues. Whether he didn't like being spoken to in that tone, despite him being in the wrong, or the fact that it was a young woman who was verbally abusing him, his face suggested he was not happy. George's silence was more threatening than if he launched his own verbal attack, but instead, he chose to continue to exhale out slowly and then gulped hard as if he was trying to move the anger back into his gut.

She could see his flushed face beginning to return to its original colour and this eased her own heartbeat, and although still at a moderate gallop, it had reduced its pounding.

George spoke, "I'm gonna grab myself a drink." That was all he could muster. That
one
sentence.

"Wait a minute." Karen pointed at the body lying in the middle of the road. "You just gonna leave that there?"

George turned and stared at the body. The creature looked like it used to be a female teenager. Its face was bloated and had black marks as if it were rotting. It was dressed in a bloody stained blouse, that probably was a freshly ironed yellow item when the woman first put it on, and she donned a black knee length skirt with her legs covered in ripped tights that hid her porcelain legs that looked painfully swollen and bruised. Although the back of its head was producing a fair amount of blood from its ravaged cranium, the entrance wounds in the forehead were just a couple of clean dark holes.

George remained glaring at the body, and Karen was now beginning to think that this silence was being done on purpose. He finally turned back to Karen and gave her the answer by nodding his head.

Yes! He was going to leave the body there. And his face suggested:
What are you going to do about it?

He walked away and went back into the house, without turning around. Karen muttered an expletive under her breath and decided to leave the body where it was. She shook her head in frustration and tucked her brown hair behind her ears that was now getting damp from the persistent rain that fell from the skies.

She looked up to the sky angrily as if the weather was God's fault, and followed George in. As she approached the house, with the backed-up van sitting on the front garden to the side of her, she looked up to see Pickle still peering out of his window. She could feel that there was something more sinister to this George, and the sooner she had a fit Pickle to use as back-up, the better.

She didn't want to point her gun at him and kick George out of the house just yet, as his shooting may have been just a dumb, spur of the moment thing. It was his attitude afterwards that bothered her.

She was beginning to regret her act of charity. She wasn't scarred by this however; she knew that the next time she had to take the van out and get more supplies and there was a family with children hitching, her conscience wouldn't allow her to just drive past if there was no danger. She felt that she had toughened up over the last week since the pandemic, and in front of Pickle she was perceived as a tough cookie, but the old Karen was still in there somewhere. She still had a heart. She still had empathy.

She locked the front door, placed the keys into her pocket and decided to go upstairs for an hour. At the moment, she didn't want to look at George or be anywhere near his presence, and she had an inkling that the feeling was mutual.