Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

Tommy Burns had only been in Hooper's cabin for a matter of minutes and was already feeling uncomfortable. They had talked about what they used to do for a living and about their family.

Tommy was honest about his violent career, but Hooper seemed unfazed by it all. He told Tommy that he used to work in a supermarket and had stolen stuff a day before the virus was officially announced. Hooper knew that something was amiss with all the riots and biting incidents happening around the country, as well as the videos going viral, and told Tommy that he couldn't believe the stupidity of people continuing to go about their daily business.

"So what do you think it is?" asked Tommy, still sitting on the floor of the shack, legs crossed. "You seem to know more than me."

Hooper was on his feet and began to pace the floor; he seemed wound up. "I've nae fuckin' idea, but just remember that we're surrounded by pandemics, but not all pandemics are created equal," Hooper continued. "This is a disease that is fuckin' spreading faster than any scientist can make a cure.
So
fast that it has beaten quarantined protocols and border closures. If this was airborne or waterborne we'd all be fucked."

"I suppose that's one positive." Tommy scratched at his head and added, "How come it wasn't stopped?"

Hooper shook his head while he continued to pace the floor, and there was now anger in his face. "It spreads through bites, which could have been preventable, but lack o' knowledge released by the government, as well as arrogance and denial, has killed most of us." He then stopped pacing, turned to Tommy and pointed at him, his finger only inches away from his face. "If I ever come across a politician, I'll fucking kill the bampot, I'm tellin' ye."

"I suppose it's unfair to tar them all with the same brush."

"If this happened in somewhere like China, we'd all be fucked be noo. Because it 'appened here, on an island, it should 'ave been dealt with, aviation or nae aviation."

"Aren't we all fucked anyway?" Tommy asked. "There're survivors, but isn't it just a matter of time?"

"No. Humans will continue. But if this happened in a place where there's a secret government, the world wouldn't stand a chance. Imagine this happened in China with a billion people in one country, full of global travellers, and then there's the borders they could cross."

Said Tommy, "We survived the Black Death and the Spanish Flu."

"Aye, The Spanish Flu killed fucking millions, but back then they didnee have aviation, penicillin, and people with cars travelling from one place tae the next. In those days people rarely left the place they were born and raised. 1.8 billion was on this planet in 1918. There's over 7 billion now."

"Maybe they'll find a cure."

"If the scientists are still alive. A cure is useless the noo anyway. The peak o' the dead has already 'appened. Diseases, dehydration and starvation are our enemy the noo, as well as other people. Common historic diseases will eventually come back with the amount o' rottin' dead walking around and lying in streams and lakes. Then there's the family members who had infected relatives and probably couldnee come tae terms wi' killing them, only tae be attacked themselves.
That
didn't help wi' dampening the spread."

"It can't be easy killing your own father, son, mother—"

"People weren't brutal enough. I killed my own family. I killed my two weans, my missus and my lodger. Killed them all while they slept, and they weren't even infected."

As soon as Hooper made this confession, a shocked Tommy slowly went for his knife.
You crazy fucker!
Tommy couldn't help himself. He had to ask, "Why did you do that? That's fucking insane."

Hooper began pacing the floor again, and said in his broad accent, "I was protecting them from this messed up world. I killed them while they all slept on the first day o' the announcement, but I didnee have the guts tae kill myself." He then began to laugh manically and stopped moving. He stood still and gazed at Tommy with his wide, crazy eyes. "I'm no' aff ma heed. I know what ye thinkin'."

Tommy still had his hand on his knife-handle and saw that Hooper was a man that had clearly lost his mind. Maybe he was a normal family man before all of this had happened. Maybe he
really
did think that killing his family was a way of protecting them, but the grief and guilt had turned him into a fucked up psychopath. Maybe he had always been insane, had mental health issues or suffered from depression. Tommy had no idea, but was now sure that this individual could be a threat to him, and the sooner he left, the better.

Hooper continued to rant, and said with more aggression in his voice, "With the past threats of SARS, Mad Cow disease, Ebola, I should 'ave prepared myself fae this, but people just think ye crazy. What was I supposed to dae, quit my job? Persuade the wife? Yank the kids out o' school? I'd be locked up. I lived in Cannock. Hardly the most populated place in the world, but it was still littered with the infected, rioters, looters...fuckin' criminals. I wanted tae...bug out, I think they call it, but the family to go through that isn't fair. So I bugged out on my own."

"Your family should have lived. People need to survive."

"And wha' was I supposed to dae? Eventually watch them get ripped tae pieces? Only the strong will survive."

"And you're one of them?"

"Aye." Hooper then pulled the knife out and said, "Which is why I'll be needing ye bag o' supplies aff ye."

Tommy felt his heart speed up. He was certain that this man was more-than-capable of sticking him, and Hooper's reaction didn't really come as a great surprise. Tommy said as calmly as he could, "I'm afraid I can't give you the bag."

Hooper nodded towards his blade, reminding Tommy that he had the advantage. Or so he thought. "Ye don't 'ave a choice in the matter."

Tommy released his hand away from his knife and pulled out the Glock from the front of his trousers, and stood while pointing it at a shocked Hooper. "I'm afraid I do. It was nice knowing you. Thanks for the drink, but I need to be on my way."

"Ye fuckin' cunt."

Tommy had the gun, but was certain that Hooper was crazy enough to lunge at him with his knife, so he stepped backwards out of the shack while Hooper remained glaring at him, with hate in his face. Tommy quickly left the area, wondering what other adventures was going to come his way.

He walked briskly through the woods, with the bag on his back, and couldn't help looking over his shoulder every second to make sure the mad Scotsman wasn't following him.

Crazy bastard!

Chapter Twenty One

Pickle ambled on his own along Cardboard Hill, and decided to make the awkward hill easier by trying to run up it. He found that walking to the premise of Cardboard Hill always hurt his back and his hinge joints.

Once he reached the top, he sat down and could see a few dark clouds skating across the blue sky, threatening to release their saltwater over the area. Despite the threat of rain, it was muggy, and Pickle was quite happy to sit out in the rain for a few minutes, as the area hadn't seen much of it since the outbreak.

He stroked his stubbly face, took his machete out of his belt, and decided to hit the floor and do press-ups. After fifteen minutes, a panting Pickle relieved himself on the grass and then sat down near Grace's grave. He lowered his head and thought of KP. He then whispered The Lord's Prayer under his breath, and stood to his feet and closed his eyes.

With a smile on his face, happy that he was alive despite the cruel world he had been released in, he was about to take a stroll to the right of him, down to the woods, near the stream. But to his left, on the football field, he could see five figures walking across it. It looked like a family, and Pickle decided to go down to meet them and see what their plans were.

He made the decline with heavy steps and decided to wait for them by the twelve-foot gap in the hedge. Once the family reached near him, they stopped walking and stared at the lone figure.

"Going anywhere in particular?" asked Pickle.

Amongst the five there was the father, a big man, but he looked frightened to death. His petite wife, a daughter of about ten, a younger son of seven, and a male teenager, about eighteen, were also present. The teenager seemed to have some balls; he was holding a knife in his right hand, and had a grimace on his face as if he was about to lunge at Pickle.

"We don't know for sure," the father finally answered. His rotund figure and his heavy panting suggested that he wasn't the fittest of individuals. "My son," he looked to the knife-wielding teenager, "had persuaded us to leave our home and go to a place where there's a cabin. We've been barricaded in for over three weeks, ever since it was announced."

"The cabin ain't gonna happen." Pickle was serene and unthreatening with his statement, but it still managed to irk the teenager.

"Is that right?" the teenager yelled.

"Yes it is. We don't own the hill. Feel free to pass, but if the cabin is yer destination, then I'm sorry, but it already has enough people up there, including myself."

The teenager took a step forward, but Pickle pushed him back.

"Another move like that, son," Pickle began, "and I'm afraid I won't be responsible for ma actions."

"Oh yeah!" The teenager stepped forward and took a swipe at Pickle. Pickle raised his left arm as an automatic reaction, and his forearm took a slice. It wasn't too deep, but it began to bleed out.

"Gavin!" the mother screamed at her teenage son. She grabbed him back before Pickle could react, but Harry Branston stood silently, with his arms by his side, allowing the blood to trickle down and run off his fingers.

"God, I'm so sorry!" the father yelled. He looked aghast that his son had reacted in that way, but Pickle never had much doubt at all, he was just angry that the little shit had managed to cut him in the first place.

"Don't be." Pickle continued to glare at the teenager, his eyes never blinking. "Yer boy's scared. He's just reacting because he feels he needs to be the protector o' the family, the second in command."

"I'm scared of nothing," the teenage boy snarled, and would have lunged again if he wasn't being held back by his mother. The other two kids hid behind their father.

"Is that why yer been hiding in yer house for the last three weeks?" Pickle smiled at the boy, riling him up even more.

"I could take you," the boy snarled.

Pickle released a laugh that he couldn't hide.

The boy's father turned to his son, and yelled, "For god's sake, shut up. Haven't you done enough damage?"

"Someone has to have balls in this family," the boy snapped, and looked at his father with contempt.

It was obvious to Pickle that there was some kind of love/hate relationship between father and son, and if it had been one of his own, Pickle felt that he probably would have been given a slap by now.

"I'll repeat this once more. The cabin's out o' bounds," announced Pickle. "I'm staying there myself with some others. Yer can try it, but you'll be wasting yer time. No offence," Pickle looked the father up and down. "I don't think yer would make it up the hill anyway."

"What do you suggest?" asked the heavy man. He looked like he was at his wit's end.

Began Pickle, "Past the cabin is the woods. I've spent days in there; it's not great if yer don't like exercise or starvation. The dead are not yer only problem." Pickle pointed at the two bags that the father and the irate teenager were carrying. "I'm guessing yer have supplies in those bags."

The father nodded.

Added Pickle, "If yer come across any human desperados, you'll probably be killed, all five o' yer, for those two bags."

"That's bullshit!" The teenager managed to get free from his mother's grip and hurtled towards Pickle for a second time.

Pickle took a quick step to the side and palmed the young man under his chin, forcing him to hit the grass of the football field with a heavy thump. Harry then stood on his outstretched arm that was still holding the knife, and then bent over and took the knife out of his hand.

Both mother and father were screaming at Pickle to let their boy go, but Pickle shushed them and told them to calm down. The teenager on the floor looked dazed and his eyes never left Pickle's, wondering what his next move was going to be.

Pickle snickered, "If yer ever pulled a wee stunt like that in the old world, I would have had yer stabbed to death by now, or shot. Yer silly boy!"

"Fuck you!" the youngster growled from the floor.

"This is not a fuckin' game, people!" Pickle straightened his back and glared at the parents of the group. "There're people out there getting killed by these things, and, on top o' that, people are killing people for their own survival. I've seen it. And it's only going to get worse, now that people like yourselves are starting to leave their homes." Pickle lifted his left bloody hand to reveal his missing finger. "Do yer think I got this playing rugby? Well?"

"I have no idea what to do," sobbed the father.

"Go back to yer house, use up yer supplies, and once things get really shit, raid some o' the empty ones on yer estate. There's a few, but with the dead everywhere, yer gonna need a weapon. And yer gonna need more than a knife that's being carried by a mouthy fanny."

"So we should go back?"

Pickle nodded, "That's exactly what yer should do. Now, give me an item o' clothing out o' that bag."

The father took his bag off, and pulled out a black T-shirt and handed it to the stranger. Pickle, using the teenager's knife, cut the shirt into strips and began dressing his wound. The wound was wrapped with a fair amount of material and Pickle looked satisfied at his shoddy work. "First aid was never ma strongest subject." He then clicked his fingers at the father. "Yer water."

The father was unsure whether to give him a bottle or not. He then saw that the man, who was carrying a knife, had his son pinned to the floor with his feet, and also had a machete in the side of his belt that he never even drew. The father passed Pickle the small bottle. Pickle took it and poured it over his left arm to get the blood off.

"Isn't that a waste of water?" the father bravely spoke up.

Pickle nodded. "Indeed it is. But this is yer son's doin', and I'm not returning to the cabin dripping blood everywhere." Once he was finished, Pickle tossed the empty bottle back to the man without looking at him.

"Can we go now?" the mother asked.

Pickle said, "Sure." He bent over with the knife in his hand, and quickly sliced the teenager's cheek. He screamed out and began to sob, causing angry cries from his parents.

"Now we're even." Pickle winked at the teenager and helped him to his feet. He gave him back his knife and said in his ear, "I could have kneecapped yer, but having a limp in this new world...yer may as well be dead." Pickle then grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him into his father's arms. "Go on, yer naughty boy. Come back when yer balls have dropped."

Pickle remained standing by the gap of the hedge, and the family eventually turned round and went back to the estate they had just left.

This incident had made Pickle think.

If the next lot of people were more dangerous and armed, the outcome could be different. With the days ticking by, some people were starting to leave their homes. Wolf had always predicted this, but it appeared that in a few days, staying in the cabin was soon going to be unfeasible.