Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep (31 page)
As I stomped my way over the bridge, I let out a shriek when two bodies emerged from around the corner. I was trapped. If I hadn't known that these things were switched off to the real world and their only function was to feed, I would have sworn that they had planned this.
The two little surprise ambushers were in a terrible state, as if they had been munched on right up to the point they started to reanimate. They headed towards me in single file; the one in front was dressed in pyjamas and had a huge bite mark into the left side of his cheek with an assortment of scratches on its face. The one behind was almost blue in the face; its face had been half-torn off revealing some skeletal features as well as its left eye missing from its socket, and as its mouth opened, it revealed a long gasp.
I couldn't understand why this had happened as they were supposed to be dead, apart from the brain. If they weren't breathing anymore, and there was no air getting into their lungs, how did they make that sound? In normal humans the brain controlled the breathing, and I assumed that although their brains were working to a point and didn't need oxygen to survive, they might still be sucking air into their lungs, which created the moan that I heard.
The pair of them were no more than five yards away from me, and as my heart began to trot rapidly, I was overcome with cowardice and decided to run back the other way. This little plan had been foiled somewhat, when I could see the other dozen from the roundabout almost upon the bridge. The drop to the stream from the bridge was doable, but climbing off it was more of a quandary than the jump itself, as it was an enclosed bridge and to the side and above me was metal as if there was a climbing frame above it.
Oh, fuck it!
Although I had managed to outrun my attackers so far, it seemed at this point that I had no choice. If I didn't do anything now, I would experience a pain I could never imagine. Apart from being burned alive, I think being eaten alive would be possibly one of the worst ways to depart this earth and I wasn't prepared to die anyway, never mind in that kind of way. I had never been a fight in my life, and knew that the more I hesitated, the stronger the possibility that I was going to die on that bridge.
Remembering the tips that were broadcasted on how to kill these things if ever a person should encounter one, I ran at the first one with the tyre iron, gripped tightly with both hands, and swung at the skull of the first one. To my surprise, it fell straight away and I had taken a large chunk out of its skull. Some skull and matter flew behind it from the trauma I gave it, and it immediately dropped to its knees and fell face down with a thump onto the floor. The top of his head revealed some of the skull that had been ripped off, and the remainder of its black diseased brain that oozed out a little dark gunk as it lay on the floor. I didn't have time to dwell on my first kill too much as I had a small matter of needing to kill the next one in order to get home, and the fact that there was another twelve on the bridge only ten yards away, behind me.
Knowing that time wasn't on my side, I ran at the next one with the half a face and was surprised that after one strike, it fell backwards but never died.
Maybe I had put all my strength into the first kill.
As it writhed around on the floor on its back, I decided to run by it, but was taken aback when it grabbed my leg making me fall to the ground and dropping the tyre iron. My fall seemed to have excited the other twelve who were now halfway across the bridge. I can tell you now; my bowels were ready to release whatever was inside me right there.
While still on my backside, I frantically kicked at the other ghoul that had still a hold of my right ankle, and I could feel its awful grubby nails digging into my skin. One final kick forced the thing to let go and I quickly got to my feet and began running back home, but without the tyre iron.
***
With my heavy thighs and throbbing calf that had been grabbed previously by my bridge attacker, I hobbled home, hoping that the encounter I had just experienced would be my last—for that day at least.
Once I got into my street, I was surprised that there was a little activity going on. Two cars drove past me, and over the road, a family was packing clothes and food into the boot of their Nissan Jeep. The information told people to stay indoors, but the need to be with their family seemed to be too strong for some of them. Of course I had been one of them, but it had turned out that running all the way to the city centre just to see and be with my daughter that I loved more than anything in the world, was a desperate thing to do, and in hindsight, had turned into a pointless exercise.
I hoped she'd be okay with this new man she had met, and I hoped that my other daughter, Karen, would be fine too. But Karen was more like her mother—my ex—than me. Karen was a lot feistier than Kelly, and Kelly wasn't anything like her half-sister and more like me and my deceased wife, as we were a lot gentler by nature.
I continued to run along my street and saw a hundred yards away, Jeremy Islington, who lived six doors down from me, stumbling out of his front door. All that he had on was a pair of boxer shorts and his body was half-saturated with blood. As he fell to the floor onto the pathway, I could see his wife and two children exiting the front door of their house and even from that distance, I already knew what was occurring. I knew that they had turned and Jeremy was trying to escape them, but it wasn't to be. He already looked wounded by his attack, and if they never devoured most of him there and then, he was going to turn anyway.
I don't know why I did it, but I stood and watched the whole horrific episode and allowed my eyes to see Jeremy being ripped, bitten and devoured by his own wife and his two daughters who were both under the age of ten. My watching of the macabre incident could have cost me my life when I now think back, just the same when I stopped and looked into the Radisson foyer. All it took was one of those things to sneak up behind me and tear into my flesh, but while this horror was unfolding before my eyes, everything else seemed oblivious to me.
I think you have to remember that it had only been a matter of hours since the news of this epidemic/pandemic was sent to my brain, so I think on my part it was delayed shock, maybe a realisation of what was happening. When I first switched on the TV and the information was slowly being soaked up, my body went onto autopilot, and my only goal was to see if my daughters were safe, especially Kelly, as she was younger and had been out for the night.
In the space of a few hours, I had ran to the city centre and back, witnessing all kinds of terrible and surreal images, then I was attacked myself and now seeing one of my own neighbours being eaten by his family. Without putting any light on the subject, it certainly was a different scenario to my usual Sundays, and after snapping out my self-hypnosis, I realised that standing in the middle of the street during a nation-sweeping virus was probably the wrong thing to do.
I went to my front door, opened the key with my shaking hands and shut it behind me, locking the door and leaving the keys in. I released a long exhale and then the nausea hit me. I ran upstairs to the bathroom and released whatever was left in my stomach, which wasn't a lot. I grabbed some toilet roll and blew my nose, grabbed some mouthwash off the sink and took a swig. I spat the contents into the sink and sat on the toilet and took a look at the smarting that was coming from my right ankle and saw a couple of tiny cuts where the attacker's nails had sunk in when I was on the bridge. My heart galloped a little harder when my eyes saw the diminutive scratches.
Did this mean I was infected? I was unsure.
Unknown what was going to happen to me, I decided to switch on my PC and it was then that I begun to write exactly what you are reading now, although if I had my phone, a video message probably would have been better, especially for my daughters.
I don't know why, but I primarily wanted my daughters to read this and know about my last hours on this earth—if these are to be my last hours—if not, then fine, I'll still let them read it anyway.
After four hours of writing, I started to get throbbing headaches. It was now late Sunday afternoon.
Now, I've never been a man that has suffered migraines in the past, so with these headaches and the scratches on my right ankle, my panic had increased. I ran downstairs to get myself a glass of water from the bottle sitting in the fridge, and took a handful of painkillers from the medicine cabinet. Then I thought about my nausea after returning to the house. Was my nausea really related to what I had seen in the street, or was it related to me being infected. Then I remembered that on TV they said it took roughly an hour, maybe longer, to turn. I had been scratched four hours a go. Maybe I was the 'maybe longer' statistic.
I sat back at my desk, threw my head back and began to cry. I don't know where it came from. There was no build up; it just happened, but I didn't try and stop myself as I thought that in my position, there was nothing wrong with what I was doing. Crying was a great stress reliever.
Before I started re-tapping away at my keys on my laptop, I decided to get to my feet and walked to my bedroom window. I heard sirens in the background, but didn't see any emergency vehicle in my street. It had actually quietened down since I went inside. There was no high-pitch screaming, people packing up cars, etc. It was quiet, and the only thing that ruined the serenity of the view was the seven infected that walked around the street, and one of them was timidly slapping on someone's front window as if they had seen movement inside.
I shook my head at the scene and decided to barricade the house before attempting to write anymore. They seemed harmless in pockets, but in numbers, it could be a whole different story.
***
Okay; it's now the late afternoon and it has taken me nearly five hours to write this journal, and as far as I'm aware the situation has got worse, not better. The last time I looked out of my bedroom window was ten minutes ago and it's now impossible to count how many are out there. I've barricaded the house the best I can and fortunately they still haven't managed to get in yet.
It's time to save this piece of work onto my USB and put it into a place that'll be hopefully found one day if I don't make it. I've tried to call my family over the last few hours, but to no avail. My daughter is no longer picking up or texting back so I can only hope she's somewhere safe. I still have had no contact with my daughter from a previous relationship when I was twenty-one years old. Her name is Karen, and although our relationship is far from close, we keep in contact now and again and I just hope that she has managed to come through all of this unscathed. She's a nurse in Stafford hospital, and I have a feeling these places are possibly the worst places to be in with this kind of outbreak—any kind of virus outbreak for that matter.
My nineteen-year-old daughter had been born in only the second year of my marriage. And although our relationship is very close, it has become even closer four years ago when my wife, and her mother, had passed away.
I've just bathed my wound in tepid water and gave it a good clean, but according to what I've been watching on the TV, I don't really fancy my chances. If I had been bitten, I probably would have just done myself in straight away, if I had the time. But a scratch still gives me hope. Our bodies have white blood cells to fight off infections, so I'm just going to have to play the waiting game. I have taken another look out of my window and the situation is still the same. There are many walking around the street; there are no signs of any police, army, or any vigilantism where the neighbourhood have come together to beat these ghouls.
I think everyone is too scared. I don't know what's going to happen, but with one of my daughters safe, I can go to my bed with a more relaxed conscience. I will say a prayer for Karen and her fiancé, Gary—a man I've only met once, before I sleep.
***
It's now twenty minutes since I last wrote anything. About ten minutes ago I felt a funny feeling in my stomach, and when I hobbled to the bathroom, I threw up a dark tar-like liquid from the pit of my stomach. I don't know what it is, but I have a feeling it's not good news. The headaches are as throbbing as ever, and my vision has come to the point where I'm almost seeing double. I'm starting to be afraid. I'm absolutely exhausted, but fear that if I go to sleep, I will not wake up again.
I'm now going to log off once I've saved this; I'm giving in to my body and I'm going to try to sleep as I'm not feeling well at all. My headache has got worse and my cold sweats have increased.
God willing, I'll get through the night and write a bit more if there's anything to tell.
So for now, this is me signing off.
James Bradley. 45 years old.
Father of Karen and Kelly Bradley.
For information on the release date of
Snatchers 3: The Dead Don't Cry
, or any other future releases, click or press
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Author's Note
First of all, I would like to thank you for downloading and reading
Snatchers 2: The Dead Don't Sleep
. I'm humbled that anyone has decided to part with their money and dedicated some of their time to read something that I have written.
I hope that you think that this latest chapter is at least a welcome addition to the Snatchers series, which I intend to continue doing until I get tired of it, or if the readers get tired of it—I suppose it depends on the reviews and sales, and I promise that the third instalment will be bigger and better than the two you have already read so far, as this time I'm not going to put a deadline on myself. I'll release it once it's done, whenever that will be.
Once I promised numerous people that the sequel to Snatchers would be out by a certain time, a lot of hiccups began to occur. For example, my laptop dying on me, being in bed with the flu, blah, blah, blah, so this time I'm keeping my mouth shut and will let you know in good time once it's near its completion. (Hopefully by the end of the year, there or thereabouts).
With this book, it focuses on the relationship between Pickle and Karen. I keep on forgetting that these two main characters only met near the end of the first book—Chapter 41 to be exact—and I wanted to strengthen the friendship between these two people who, as far as their previous lives are concerned, are worlds apart and had met each other by chance, but now have been through so much in such a short space of time and have a general fondness for one another.
This book also originally had more detail about the characters at the Longdon Village Hall, where numerous conversations and arguments occurred, but I felt this part of the book was bogging the story down and that there was enough characters for the reader to keep up with as it was. I think a handful of people were also unhappy with the first book because I had dedicated a lot of words to the Pointer family, only to kill them off by the end, so I decided not to go down this road with the people in the hall. I decided to remove 16,000 words from the novel that was based around these characters, and hoped that it would improve its 'flow', so to speak, as I don't really like to 'pad' out a novel just for the sake of extending its length.
I made a decision to keep this one more action-packed than the last one. In the last book there was a climax at the end where they were all attacked and had to flee Stile Cop. In this book, I decided to give it
three
climatic episodes, one after the other. The first one: Escaping the house, after Jason Bonser had brought back a horde with him. The second one: After the van had a flat, and the group trying to get inside the premises of the sports centre. And the third: Trying to escape from the sports centre through the back, after the entrance gates giving way.
I think one of the hardest things to write about with this kind of story (and something I'm not going to do from now on) is the affect this disaster would have on children. Being a father of two, I take no pleasure in writing about the death of children, but I was pulled to the side by someone and was told: "This isn't no Disney story. Just imagine it
really
is happening. If you want to make it as real as possible; you have to mention certain things that will be shocking and sickening."
As for the first-person short story at the end; my original intentions was to write a novel from one person's point of view and release it on its own, but to be brutally honest, I got quickly tired of it and decided to put it at the end of this book. In the Snatchers' novels Karen Bradley mentions that her father and stepsister, Kelly, live in Glasgow, so I decided to write from the father's point of view and have him almost cross paths with Jack Slade as the narrator passes the same police station where members of the public were killed. In the original book, Jack Slade pulls up at the police station with the injured security guard, Robbie Owen, and sees the bodies of the public outside the police station.
There is also a scene where James Bradley is at the Blu Radisson Hotel desperately looking for his daughter, and he sees two men under the bridge on Argyle Street armed with utensils, 'taking care of' two of the ghouls. Those two men are Jack Slade and Robbie Owen making their way to the NCP car park, something that they did in the original book.
Snatchers 3
will be out at the end of the year (everything crossed). For the exact date feel free to follow me on Twitter or Facebook. Don't worry, I'm not one of those people that will bombard you with my inner thoughts, send you game invites, or beg you for positive reviews. You'll only hear from me when it's book related or if you've directly contacted me because of a query.
All the best and kind regards,
Shaun.