Snatchers (Book 7): The Dead Don't Yield (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

"Vehicle coming!" Simon Benson called out.

On the barrier watch with Simon was two others, including Pickle who volunteered to do another stint for an hour. Pickle almost put his hands over his eyes to get a better look. It was a murky day, but there was still a bit of a glare that irritated his vision.

They could all see now that a white transit van was heading towards the barrier.

"It's Lee!" Pickle yelled. "Thank God."

The van pulled up a few yards from the HGV and Lee and Sheryl stepped out. Their faces were glum, and Pickle could see that there was two persons missing.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Simon Benson stated.

"No shit," murmured Pickle.

While the other guard, Kirk Sheen, remained where he was, Pickle and Simon stepped down off of the HGV's cab and went to meet both Sheryl and Lee.

"I'm not gonna ask yer a load o' questions," Pickle began. "Just tell us what happened, from the beginning."

Simon scanned the area and asked, "Where's Luke and Bentley?"

Sheryl and Lee gazed at one another; no words fell from their mouths.

"Simon!" Pickle scolded. "Let them tell us in their own words."

Simon lowered his head apologetically and he and Pickle waited for either Sheryl or Lee to say something. Both Sheryl and Lee leaned against the front of the van, they looked exhausted, and Lee was the first to speak while Sheryl's head had dropped.

"We ran into a bit of trouble," Lee began. He looked at Sheryl, but her head remained lowered and there was no response. "We got to the industrial estate, but me, Luke and Sheryl were caught by two men while Bentley was checking out another place. They shot Luke. He's in the back of the van."

"Dead?" asked Pickle.

Lee nodded the once.

Lee tried to explain, "Sheryl was attacked by these two men..."

"But we managed to get out," Sheryl intervened, lifting her head. "We got some weapons. There's a few sawn-off shotguns in the back as well as other stuff."

"But we lost Bentley," added Lee. "He's not dead. He's just...lost."

"Lost?" Pickle ached for an explanation. He didn't have to wait too long.

"Those dead cunts came out of the cafe." Sheryl scratched at her short black hair. "We ran into the van and Bentley distracted them. He went over the side."

"The side?" Pickle queried once more. Pickle had no knowledge of the area that they had visited, so their story was confusing in parts.

Sheryl added, "This industrial estate is on a hill. A big hill. There's a fence surrounding the edge. Bentley went over the edge to distract them so me and Lee could escape."

"Shit." It was now Simon's turn to speak up. Despite Pickle's comment about trying to let Sheryl and Lee speak, it appeared that both men—Pickle
and
Simon—couldn't help themselves. "How do you know he's not dead?"

"We heard two gunshots as we left in the van," Sheryl said. "He wasn't dead when we left him. And I don't think he's dead now."

Lee James spoke, stroking his dark beard, and said, "Bentley told us he'd meet us back at the camp. If he's not here by the morning..."

Pickle nodded. He knew what the end of the sentence was going to be that Lee didn't finish. If Bentley wasn't back by the morning, then a search party will be going out to look for him, first thing.

"How many people do yer need?" enquired Pickle. "I've known Bentley since ma prison days. I'd like to come along."

"We know where he is, as long as he stays in that area," Lee sniffed. "He's in the woods, but there's a long way round to get there which we're gonna use, rather than going down that drop again. Besides, I don't know if many more of those freaks are gonna be there. Some fell down the drop after him, but we won't know if all of them did unless we get back to the industrial estate. I'd rather not take the risk. Personally, the long way around would be the safest option."

"Right," Pickle began. "If he's not back by the morning, we'll take blades with us, but I'll give you a quick crash course how to use those sawn-offs as well, without firing them. It's not rocket science."

"I've already used one," Sheryl spoke up, looking at Lee.

"We better get the van in." Lee moved away and went back to the driver's side. Sheryl took a step to the side, out of the way. The other guard on top of the HGV went into the cab to reverse the vehicle, allowing a sufficient gap for Lee to get the transit van in, and Pickle and Simon also moved out of the way once the engine was switched on.

"We'll get this van emptied," Pickle spoke to Sheryl, "and take care of Luke's body."

She never responded. She simply walked behind the white transit van as it slowly drove though the gap.

Simon nudged Pickle. "It's okay. She's quiet because she's in shock."

"I'm not in shock," snapped Sheryl.

As soon as the van and people were behind the barrier, Pickle and Sheryl jumped into the van. Lee drove to the Lea Hall building and stopped at the side. They went into the back and carefully carried out the corpse, placed Luke's body near the pile and was going to sort him out later. Lee then jumped into the van on his own, and drove it twenty yards to the entrance of the building with Sheryl and Pickle walking behind. Lee got out, opened the back of the van and told the man on guard there, Jon Talbot, to give them a hand putting the weapons and other gear upstairs.

Pickle said, "If Bentley isn't here by the morning, we'll do a quick demo before we leave."

Vince Kindl could be seen strolling towards them and gave Lee a wave.

Lee yelled out, "I hope you've come to give us a hand!"

Vince began to jog over and said, "Of course. How did it go?"

"So-so."

Vince looked around and asked, "Where's Bentley and the fat bloke?"

"His name's Luke," snapped Sheryl. "He's dead."

"What?"

"Vince," Lee huffed, reaching into the back and throwing a bag of shotgun ammo over his shoulder, "Help us get this stuff up the stairs and I'll tell you what happened later on."

"Bentley's missing," Pickle informed him. "If he's not back by morning, we could be going on a little run tomorrow."

"Well, I hope that includes me," said Vince.

Lee and Pickle gaped at one another. "Of course," said Lee.

"That suits me." Vince then clocked Jon getting into the back of the van and throwing bags of weapons out onto the floor from inside the van, while the other three were now away, carrying gear to the next floor in the building.

"Be careful with that stuff, will you?" snapped Vince.

Jon Talbot turned and gave Vince a dirty look. "You're not the boss."

"No I'm not." Vince stood with his arms folded. "But if you carry on running your mouth off, son, I'll go to your house and give your wife something to hang her towels on."

Jon Talbot lowered his head sadly. "My wife's dead."

Vince gulped, "I didn't know that."

*

Bentley's eyes were stinging.

The darkness still provided paranoia, despite him knowing that nothing was inside the shack with him. The slapping of hands was still occurring from outside, but not as loud as it once was. It was as if the numbers had dwindled a little.

Were they distracted by another presence? Had some left because they were simply tired of waiting? Or were they still out there in their numbers, but weren't as excited than they were before? He had no idea, but he knew that once he tried to open the door in the morning, and they were still there, he was going to have to run through them, if that at all was possible.

However, there
was
another way out of this mess.

With tears in his eyes, Bentley caressed
Glen
and pulled the slide back, chambering a round. He pressed the cold steel of the barrel against his temple, and closed his eyes. He didn't know why he closed his eyes. It was that dark that there was no need, but he did anyway.

Hands continued to slap all around him and he bit his bottom lip as he caressed the trigger. Is this what Laura would have wanted? Was things so desperate that it had come down to this? Maybe he could run through them in the morning. If he was taken down, then he may have time to put a bullet in his head before they ripped him to pieces.

But what if he didn't have time?

It wasn't the way he wanted to go.

Maybe they wouldn't be there in the morning.

His head was a mess.

Still caressing the trigger and pressing the barrel against his temple harder than before, Bentley wondered that if he did squeeze the trigger, what would his demise be like? Would it be
so
quick that it would be like flicking off a switch? Or would he have to endure one or two seconds of immense pain as the bullet penetrated his brain?

He blew a breath out and lowered the gun. He placed it by the side of him and began to cry for a few seconds, sobbing into his right forearm. He cried for Laura mainly, but the UK as a whole had lost children, and his thoughts went back a couple of weeks when he and Paul Dickson was at the supermarket car park and Bentley had to put Paul's reanimated wife and little girl to sleep in that Renault Clio.

Pulling himself together quickly he cleared his throat; he noticed that the smacking of the cabin had become quieter, but there was still at least five or six sets of hands that hadn't given up yet. He turned his head and placed his ear against the door of the shack, still sitting on the floor, and could hear a succession of shuffling and groaning.

Something was happening outside, but he didn't know what.

Thuds, as if some of the dead had fallen over, was also heard, and the sound of squishing only enhanced his confusion. He was dying to take a look, but knew that that could turn into a catastrophe.

Bentley tried to blank out what was happening, and told himself that he'd soon know once he finally opened that door the next morning. With his eyes still closed he dropped his head, and fifteen minutes later he felt brave enough to stagger to the corner of the hut for a piss.

He went back to the bolted door by feeling his way around, and sat back down to his original position. Bentley released a sigh filled with melancholy. He was certain he wasn't going to sleep tonight. But he did eventually drift off, albeit for just a few hours.

Chapter Twenty One

July 22nd

Karen Bradley had been awake for nearly an hour, but couldn't seem to move off the bed. Her mind was racing, but her body was refusing to get up. She closed her eyes and listened to Pickle pottering about downstairs. She didn't know if he was doing it on purpose or her ears were sensitive, but he was making a racket. She then heard footsteps heading upstairs and heard a gentle knock on her bedroom door.

"I'm awake," she sighed.

The door slowly opened and Pickle stuck his head out with a daft grin on his face. "I made yer breakfast in bed."

"Great." Karen said with little enthusiasm. "Breakfast in bed with my morning breath."

Pickle smiled at her ungrateful attitude. "Well, brush yer teeth first, then yer can get back to bed and dig in, yer miserable tart."

"What is it?" Karen began to sit up and yawned as Pickle stepped in the room and produced a cup of tea and two slices of toast on a plate.

"Oh shit," Karen gasped, a smile stretched over her features. "How..?"

"I went to see that Sheila woman, yer know, the one with the pedal powered bread-maker and the camping stove. So the toast might be a little cool, because I had to walk with it from her house."

"Is that the woman with the red hair?"

Pickle nodded, and put the tea and toast on the side table, next to Karen's bed. "I thinks she's taken a shine to me."

"Does she know about..?"

"No. I didn't wanna break her heart just yet."

"So you're stringing her along," Karen began to tease and mockingly shook her head at her friend. "You bad boy."

"Somethin' like that."

"So what's this breakfast in aid of?" Karen looked down and said with sadness, "I take it Bentley never showed."

"We're going out in a bit."

She reached over for her tea and took a noisy slurp. "Who's going?"

"Me, Vince, Lee and Sheryl."

"I don't really know Sheryl."

"She's a bit like you," Pickle smiled and placed his tongue in his cheek, "but she's not as charming."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Karen glared. "Have you been taking your cheeky pills?"

"Sheryl's alright." Pickle began, "I think she has a past that no one knows about."

"Didn't she already live on Sandy Lane before this happened?"

"Yeah, but it's a big area. If there were people that
did
know her, they're probably now dead or had left in the first week. No one knows anything about her. She just seems..."

Karen knew what he meant. "Cut off?"

Pickle nodded. "She's certainly a mystery."

"There's probably a broken heart in that body of hers. Everyone seems to have some kind of tragic tale. Look at Shaz."

Both became silent at the mention of Sharon Bailey's name, and it took Pickle to break the silent sadness. "Anyway," he took a step forward and nodded over to the toast, urging Karen to hurry up and eat before it was freezing, "this is me saying goodbye for a bit."

"You're going now?"

"Half an hour."

"So what's the rush?"

"I'm gonna give Lee and Sheryl a quick rundown how to use the sawn-offs, although I think Sheryl has used one recently. They only carry two cartridges at a time, so hopefully we won't be needing them."

"Are you
all
getting one?"

Pickle nodded. "Yep."

"Just be careful."

"Always am."

Karen took a piece of toast off of the plate and bit into it. It was dry, no butter, but she had a cheek to complain.

"I thought yer were going to brush yer teeth first," cackled Pickle.

"I can't be arsed to get out of bed," she said with her mouth full.

He walked over and kissed her on the forehead. "See yer later, Bradley."

"Bye." She watched as he left the room. She listened out, waiting for him to leave the house, and once he did she finished off the rest of her tea and toast and got out of bed.

She sat on the side of the bed, wrapped her arms around herself and felt sadness. She missed Gary.

*

His eyes opened but he couldn't see a thing. At first he panicked, then Bentley Drummle suddenly remembered where he was.

He was still in the cabin. But were
they
still out there? He couldn't hear anything, but he was sure that it was now morning.

He turned his head and placed his ear against the door. He could hear no sound. He moved his ear away from the door and sighed. He had no idea how long he'd been out for, if it was actually daylight outside, or if it was the middle of the night. One thing he was sure of was that he needed a shit. He continued to listen out for anything untoward from outside, but still couldn't hear anything.

He tried to remember which corner he had urinated in, then stood to his feet and moved his stiff legs over towards the opposite corner, at the other end of the cabin. Once he got to the other end of the place, the smell from his previous toilet activities grew stronger, but he knew this episode was going to be worse. He couldn't hold it in another minute longer.

Once he defecated, he walked away from the smelly pile, then took his socks off to wipe his backside. It wasn't a perfect scenario to be in, but it would have to do. Putting his bare feet into his boots, he tied his shoelaces back up and felt for
Glen
that he had left on the floor and put it in the front of his trousers. The walk back to the camp, if he was able to walk back, was going to be uncomfortable, but he would take a few blisters over waking back with shit all over his rear any day of the week.

He felt his way around the cabin, and once he could feel the bolt he knew he was by the door. He sat back down and put his head inbetween his knees, his mind plagued with decisions he was unable to make.

The smell was assaulting his senses terribly, and he had finally come to a decision. He took out his Glock that was sitting in the front of his trousers and although it only had four bullets left, the decision was made.

He couldn't stand it no more. The not-knowing what was out there was torturing his psyche.

He was going out.