Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep (15 page)

Chapter Thirty One

Paul Parker remained standing by the cabin's door. There was no light in the place and despite it being early evening the group were forced to remain in the darkness while waiting for the morning to arrive.

The door was bolted shut from the inside. It was going to be a mundane, long, yet, frightening night for all involved, but safety was the priority. There were no windows in the cabin and it seemed to be built professionally as there appeared to be little cracks within the walls of the wooden building.

Sure that it wouldn't create such a problem, Paul told Jack that he could put one candle on and place it in the corner of the room, as young Thomas was beginning to grow scared the more the day dimmed outside. Jack thanked Paul for his understanding, and lit the red stumpy candle that lit up the cabin reasonably well, but not too well. They would have to flee first thing in the morning, as they had no water, food or toilet facilities. Paul suggested going back to the village hall if it was safe enough, and the rest agreed as they had no idea where else to go, as at least back at the hall—over the main road—sat their vehicles if ever they needed them to escape. Also, if the area ended up becoming awash with the non-human entities for a second time, there was the option of locking themselves in the hall if the vehicle theory wasn't attractive.

Jack sat at the back, in the left corner of the unfurnished hut with Thomas in his arms, almost sleeping. Kerry sat next to them, rubbing the child's head, lovingly. Paul was standing next to the bolted door; he didn't know why, but he did. Lee Hayward sat in the middle of the floor with his knees brought up to his chest and his forehead resting on his kneecaps. The fifty-six-year-old looked worn out and his belly hung over his trousers as he remained in the curled position. The flame from the candle was highlighting that he hardly had a single hair on his head. As he gently began to snore, the rest of the group who were in no mood for conversation, looked to be going the same way.

Paul eventually sat down on the hard floor, and was amazed that the drizzle from before hadn't crept through the roof and soaked them. He looked around the small cabin that appeared to be roughly twelve feet by twelve, in a perfect square shape, and came to the conclusion that sleep was his friend if he wanted to function properly the next day.

He forced himself to get some shuteye, although he didn't know if a full night's sleep was going to be realistically achievable. He closed his eyes while Kerry began to sing so delicately, that her voice became a broken whisper as she sang the lyrics to the Scottish nursery rhyme,
Ali Bali
, to her son.

Thirty-three minutes had passed and the group were all wide-eyed with alarm, apart from young Thomas, who remained sleeping against his father's chest. In the little light that the red candle provided, all four adult members—Jack, Paul, Lee and Kerry—stared at one another and realised that they had all been spooked by the same noise.

Jack didn't wake Thomas; he didn't want to wake his son if it was something trivial like a stray deer, as the youngster needed his sleep. Paul desperately tried to find a crack in the wall to see what was out there, but it was so well built and so dark, his effort was fruitless.

"Anything?" Lee whispered his query.

Paul shook his head. "I can't really see."

Although the door was bolted, the thirty-one-year-old moved positions and sat with his back against the door, and turned his head to place his left ear against it.

"D'ya think it's animals?" Jack remained sitting in the corner; he hadn't budged yet, in fear of waking up his son.

Paul turned to Jack; his widened eyes and the concern etched on his face answered Jack's question, but Paul decided to answer in words anyhow. "It's definitely not animals." He turned his head back round to listen out for anything else. The shuffling became more audible and almost multiplied in sound. Lee Hayward shook with trepidation and wondered how strong the cabin really was, but hoped that this night it wouldn't be tested.

The shuffling appeared to be reaching the sides of the hut and all adult members of the group produced tiny smiles as it appeared that whatever was outside, was now walking around the cabin and venturing further into the woods, away from their presence. At the right side of the cabin, a huge bang appeared, which made Kerry yelp gently, and the others, apart from Paul, jumped with fright. Paul guessed that one of the individuals probably had fallen over into the side of the hut.

It was silent again and as ten minutes passed, Paul held up three of his fingers to the group, which confused them. Jack responded with a lazy shrug, as he didn't know what Paul meant. Paul held up his fingers again and pointed to the door.

Jack frowned.
Crazy bastard's gonna go out there
.

Another three minutes had passed, Paul knew, because he timed it, and his hand reached for the bolt of the door.

The cabin was suddenly filled with strident, concerned whispers.

"What are you doing?" Lee looked aghast.

"Just gonna make sure it's safe. I need a shit anyway."

"Just shit in the corner of the hut," Jack hissed.

Paul took one look at Kerry. "No chance. Besides, it seems to be clear. Trust me, I'll be one minute."

Lee stood up and stretched, poking his large belly out. "I'm not keeping that door open if you go out."

"Fine. Once I'm finished, I'll knock it when I'm ready to come in."

Paul slowly slid the bolt to the side, and took the spear with him as he peered out of the door. He then left the cabin with Lee closing it immediately after his body disappeared into the dusky area.

Paul looked around and couldn't see much in the area. He never ventured far, and walked only twenty yards in front of the cabin, slipped his trousers down and squatted. It wasn't the greatest of timings, but he was desperate, and the area seemed to be clear. Wiping his backside afterwards would have to be dealt with at a later date, but it wasn't concerning him at that moment as Paul swivelled his head left and right constantly, searching for any signs of unwanted beings.

He was nearly finished and was fearful of insects going up his anus, but he knew that that shouldn’t be his top worry.

He pulled his briefs up and fixed his trousers and saw immediately a silhouette of one of them stumbling in front of him. It appeared lost, as its subordinates were hundreds of yards ahead of it. It was male—or use to be—and moaned almost in delight as its eyes caught a glimpse of Parker. Paul was aware that any kind of noisy confrontation might alert the rest of the things that had progressed further ahead, and might also cause derision from his group with their
I told you so
looks. I can handle this one, he thought.

He searched around in the darkness for his homemade spear and grabbed it tightly once he finally remembered where he had left it. He held the weapon with both hands, with his legs slightly bent. He awaited the attack from the creature that was no less than ten yards away from him. It lunged forward, which took him by surprise; he drove the stick into its face resulting in only superficial damage, as the spear wasn't strong enough to penetrate the head, and the eyes were completely missed. The weapon snapped, causing a deep laceration on its head, but not enough to kill it, only enough to send it crashing to the floor.

He could hardly see the thing as he stepped back once it fell. The creature's arms flapped as it released a single shriek as it tried to get up off of its belly. Paul threw his broken weapon into the darkness behind him, and put his body weight onto the ghoul's back while it was trying to get back up. Paul used his knees to keep it down.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing; it was something he had seen in a B movie once. He grabbed the hair of the being with both hands, and he pulled the head back as hard as he could as if he was performing a rowing motion. He could then hear the awful sound of splitting, which was followed by a gushing noise as the head came almost free, forcing Paul to fall backward on top of the corpse. The head hadn't severed completely, but it had been damaged enough to rip it away from its neck, emptying the black bloody contents all over the grass.

He stood up carefully and looked down to see the almost severed head still in working order, still gnashing away, still wanting to bite at him. He felt for his broken spear in the darkness and carefully drove the thing into its eye socket until it stopped moving. Paul then began wiping his shoes on the grass; he couldn't see for sure but he was hoping that his shoes were not standing in any of the liquid that had spilled out of its massive wound. He headed for the cabin, his heart smacking him from inside and his brow in need of a gentle mop. He took one last look in the dusky area; it was impossible to see anything, but he was sure the coast was now clear. He then gently knocked on the door of the cabin and announced, "It's me."

Although he was clearly shaking with the adrenaline coursing through his body, he decided to keep this little story to himself, as he didn't want to share the tale with the rest of them. He didn't want to frighten the group, because if he did, then the next morning he would be involved with a group of people walking through the woods, suffering from sleep deprivation and paranoia.

And he didn't want that. They needed to be sharp to stay alive. They needed to sleep.

Chapter Thirty Two

June 19th

It was 10am, Tuesday, and the breakfast went down well, but Pickle felt that at any minute, if he didn't get back to bed, the contents in his stomach would not dwell there for long. The nauseous feeling was reoccurring and he began to ponderously walk towards the bathroom, still fully clothed from the night before. He tried the door and released an expletive once he found it was locked. The door suddenly opened and there stood a man dressed in only his briefs. He had numerous tattoos and looked in reasonable shape, aside from a few extra pounds around his middle.

"You must be the Harry that Karen has mentioned." He held out his hand. "You look better than the last time I saw you. You never spoke to me; I assumed I was intruding or something."

"I was just feeling a little under the weather."

"And now?"

"I feel okay now." Pickle eventually shook Jones' hand; he was still feeling weak. "You must be Billy the Kid."

He released a nasal chortle. "Oh, that. Yeah, sorry about that. A rush of blood to the head." George Jones then cocked his head to the side and his eyes tried to re-focus on Pickle's frame. "Say, haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

Pickle ignored him, as he was in no mood for small talk. He couldn't wait any longer and drained his bladder, as the bathroom door remained open. He could still feel George standing on the landing. What did he want?

"Pickle!" Karen exclaimed, running up the stairs. "You ready to face the world again?" Pickle flushed the toilet and now all three were standing at the top of the stairs.

He shook his head. "Another few hours; just need this nauseous feeling to pass."

George squinted his eyes. "Pickle? I know that name."

"Just a nickname," Karen said coldly. She was obviously still angry after he had borrowed her gun and had fired it unnecessarily, but she was also angry with herself for leaving it.

She grabbed Pickle's arm and tried to escort him back to his bedroom. Pickle turned around to see George walking back into the next bedroom; he noticed a huge tribal tattoo on his back, something he couldn't make out, and the initials
J
and
B
on each shoulder blade. Pickle had seen it before somewhere. He belched and kept his mouth closed for fear of releasing the toxic vapours in Karen's direction.

Karen shut the door behind her and confessed to Pickle in a whisper, "I don't like him."

"Well, that's plainly obvious."

"D'ya think you'll be fit in a few hours?"

"Defo," Pickle replied with assurance. "Once this nausea has passed, I'll be swinging from the chandeliers o' this fine establishment." He looked at Karen and could see a rare fear in her eyes. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Nah," she replied unconvincingly. "Just can't wait to get shot of him."

"Well, once I'm up in a few hours, we'll ask him to leave together. He's hardly gonna say no, is he?" He nodded to Karen's pistol sticking out of her dark blue jeans, and then nodded under the bed where his beloved shotgun slept. Karen was supposed to have hidden it in the cupboard, but had never got round to it.

"S'pose not," she mumbled.

"What's up?" Pickle began to tease. "Yer missin' me?"

"A little." Karen smiled, and headed for the bedroom door.

Pickle sighed with a smirk and knew that his resting days were over; he needed maybe another hour of sleep and then he would finally make an appearance. He felt that Karen needed him and missed him.

His eyes felt heavy, and he could hear Karen mooching about downstairs, and George Jones in the next room making the odd clatter. No matter the faint sounds that surrounded him, Pickle found that tiredness was arriving once again. With his body still craving more sleep, it was obvious that he still wasn't a hundred percent.

*

His dreaming was full of horror and stress, which wasn't surprising considering the week that he had to experience, and in his dream, Pickle was running on a road leading into the town of Rugeley. Beside him was Karen, and as he took a gander behind him, he could see the Snatchers in their hundreds swarming towards the two individuals.

At the front of the crowd were Davina Pointer, Janine Perry, Jamie Thomson and KP. It looked like they had turned. They were leading the rest and their faces were ashen; their eyes had a milky film over them and the hundreds groaned in excitement as they continued to pursue the struggling Karen and Pickle. They were gaining on the ex-prisoner and ex-nurse, and Pickle felt like his boots were running in sticky mud, and he could see that Karen was also struggling. He took another look around and could see that the dead were getting nearer and nearer. He could tell by Karen's face that the overall outcome didn't look good, and he began to feel a pain in his chest. His pace slowed and his thighs were throbbing with pain.

He saw that Karen had now pulled out her Browning and Pickle called over to her, in what little breath he had, and told her that it was a waste of time and that there was possibly a thousand behind them. They were going to be ripped apart; he could feel it. Then it suddenly dawned on him that maybe Karen had pulled out the gun to end her own life. What was the best way to die? Being ripped to pieces and disembowelled before your very eyes, or, a quick bullet to the head? It was a no-brainer, wasn't it?

Pickle's face turned to horror once he saw Karen point the gun down to the side of her, at
him
. She had no intention of killing herself. She then released a slug that ravaged his left thigh; he cried out and fell to the floor. Pickle was in pain, clutching his wound, and couldn’t believe what she had done. Then he remembered what she had told him at Stile Cop when they were having a conversation.

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

Karen: "Honestly? 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: "I knew yer were going to say that."

Karen: "Oh, I'm not joking."

Before the hundreds had managed to tear him to shreds in his dream, Pickle had woken up and was brought back to reality, an unwelcome reality, but less frightening than his dreams. He had been disturbed by a noise.

The creak of the bedroom door forced Pickle's heavy eyes to prise open. He looked with blurry eyes at a figure that emerged into the room; a small surge of adrenaline shot through his body, as for a moment he thought that a creature had managed to get into the house. His heartbeat decreased slightly when he saw George Jones walk in, looking behind him. George then turned his back and slowly shut the door, while Pickle closed his eyes to a squint so he could just see what was happening.

Once George Jones shut the bedroom door, he turned around, clutching a pillow in his right hand, wearing a thin beam on his face. He crept forward and went to the right hand side of the bed. George crept gently, not noticing that Pickle's eyes were very narrowly open. George grabbed the pillow with both hands and was holding it horizontally, the way someone would to smother somebody to death.

A shot rang out and within five seconds, Karen had ran from the living room to the bedroom and burst into the room, scanning the area, wondering what the hell was happening. She had dozed for no longer than ten minutes on the couch when the shot filled the house, and she had never ran up a set of stairs so quick.

Still lying down, Pickle pulled the duvet back to reveal that he was holding the Browning that Karen had gave him earlier. It was obvious that it had been fired as George was on the floor crying out in pain, clutching his right bloodied thigh with both hands.

"What the fuck?" was all that Karen could muster.

Pickle explained himself. "Mr. Jones was seconds away from smothering me to death, isn't that right?"

She shook her head and placed the palms of her hands on each temple." I knew you were a wrong 'un."

"He's lying!" George screamed, helplessly trying to stop the blood pouring out from his thigh. "The man's crazy."

Pickle swung his legs and stood to his feet. To Karen he looked that he was almost one hundred percent fit. Pickle pointed the Browning. It was three yards away from George's head. "Tell Karen yer real name."

Clutching his thigh with both hands, he looked at Bradley and waggled his head and shrugged his shoulders in unison, as if he didn't know what Pickle was talking about.

Pickle allowed there to be silence for a few seconds to allow the man to confess his real name, but it never came. It was obvious that the groaning, wounded man had no intention of telling Karen the truth, injured or not, and remained tight-lipped. Pickle laughed and added, "Well, allow me to tell her then."

"What's going on?" Karen brushed her brown, greasy hair behind her ears, awaiting an answer from either man.

"This man," Pickle spat, "is called Jason Bonser! He was in my prison."

Bonser's eyes widened. "Pickle! I knew I'd heard that name from somewhere!"

"Why didn't you say so before!" she yelled.

"It just came to me. But when I saw the tattoo on his back, it made me think. The nautical star on his forearm looked familiar, but it was the tat on his back and the initials,
JB
that set the alarm bells ringing. We were on different wings. A few months ago, I was in the prison's gym doing some cleaning and he was there with a few of his cronies including the delightful Kyle Horan, who stabbed a few inmates."

"So you shot him because he stabbed some of your friends?"

"Nope. I shot him because he wants us dead. He wants this house, the van and everything in it."

"How do you know all that?"

"He changed his name, didn't he? Jason Bonser has been in and out of the tabloids since his incarceration. Maybe he was scared you'd recognise him
and
his name. You're hardly going to give a drug criminal a ride, are yer?"

"But I'm with
you,
" Karen said with confusion.

"But I befriended yer—saved yer; this fucker here makes me look like a choirboy. I heard stories about him in prison. Also, he shot that Snatcher outside unnecessarily making him a liability, an addict to violence, and it also proves that he's someone who has handled a gun before, and he just came into this room clutching that pillow." Pickle pointed to the floor where the pillow sat next to Jason Bonser's wounded right thigh.

Karen was finding this hard to take in. She turned to Bonser. "I don't understand. Why didn’t you just kill us both when you took my gun and went outside to kill that Snatcher?"

Karen stepped closer toward Bonser and knelt beside him. The penny had dropped. She knew exactly why he never killed them both. "So what was the plan then...
Jason
? You kill Pickle quietly, so I don't get disturbed while I'm downstairs, stopping me from making a run for it? You take me by gunpoint, keep me alive and rape me, then after that, kill me once you're bored? Then you live happily ever after in this house and a van full of food."

Bonser snarled, "I actually appreciated it that you gave me a ride. I had no intention of harming you until you spoke to me like a cunt in the middle of the street!"

Karen added, "So once I pissed you off, you then decided to get rid of us? Psycho!"

He never answered her. Instead, he just sneered and spat in her face. "It was
you
that picked
me
up. Fuckin' whore. I fucking knew there was something not right when I saw that it was a prison van." He then turned to Pickle. "Did you get this from our jail?"

Karen interjected, "Never you mind."

"I wasn't asking you, slag!"

She stood up, pushed him over onto his back and brought her right heel down onto the side of his face. Jason released a scream that immediately embarrassed him. The impact was painful, but the scream was an angry scream, the result of being assaulted by a young woman—something he would never hear the last of, if ever it had happened in the old world and his associates had heard of it. Strangely, the pain to his face was almost as bad as the bullet to his thigh, but it was the bullet to the thigh that could end his life if he didn't get the bleeding under control.

Pickle raised his hand informing Karen to stop. Noticing the injuries to his leg and his face, Pickle spoke. "Let's not ruin the carpet."

"You fuckin' bitch!" Bonser screamed, now with his left hand clutching his thigh and his right inspecting the damage to his face.

"What are we gonna do with him?" Bradley tried to speak over the continuous tirade of taunts that were being thrown at her from the injured man on the floor.

Pickle sighed, "We bandage him up, drive him in the middle o' nowhere, and leave him there."

"That's it?"

Pickle guffawed, "Well, what else you want me to do? Suck his cock?"

Karen jokingly raised her eyebrows at her friend.

Pickle shook his head with a smile. "Bradley, you're a disgrace." Pickle's face then lost its smile and he now wore a more serious expression: "Drop him off a few miles from Longdon. It's about two miles away. Even if he makes it, he'll be too exhausted and wounded to try anything; the village has about four or five streets in it—that's it! Don't go right in. If those things see the van it might draw them out. With all due respects to the population of the village, I don't want those things leaving and heading towards us."