Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray (21 page)

Chapter Forty Three

Vince Kindl kicked out at the first advancing beast and stabbed at another. His fourteen-year-old companion waved her crowbar around, putting down anything that came her way. But she was tiring, and the crowd in front had grown in numbers. This, in itself, was a concern, but also the creatures from the woods on either side were getting closer, and the ghouls from behind were just thirty seconds away from tearing the two of them to pieces.

Vince grabbed the hair of another and stabbed it twice at the side of the head. Vince didn't have time to dwell on each kill, and stabbed another in the eye as a mass of rotten hands began to grab him.

Oh shit. Please don't make this too painful
.

Vince was exhausted, looked to the side of him and saw Stephanie ram the crowbar into the head of a female Snatcher. She removed it, turned it around and embedded the curved end in the top of the head of another. She struggled to remove the bloody tool, and watched as Vince stabbed another in the forehead. He pulled out the knife, but the blade had broken.

He was seconds away from death, she knew it, and tears filled her eyes as she was certain that her own demise wasn't far away either. Tired, she kicked out at another, forcing it to stumble, and she managed to get the crowbar free and swung the heavy tool that smashed its head like a melon. Dark blood flew out as the crowbar made impact. The bow remained on her back. There didn't seem any point in using it. She couldn't use the bow with the things so close, and she didn't have enough arrows anyway.

The groans became louder, but the louder they developed, the more it sounded like engines belonging to vehicles.

A screech of tyres could be heard behind the dead horde in front of Vince and Stephanie, and they could hear the sounds of people getting out and yelling. Vince and Stephanie continued to kill what they could in front of them, but they could now see large blades moving about and the dead in front dropping to the floor.

They were being taken out from behind by four males, and this gave Vince and Stephanie a sudden adrenaline rush. Three were left, and they could now see the faces of the four men with large knives that were helping them. Two of the dead were removed by the men by the same method that their companions had died: Stabbed in the back of the head. One left, and Stephanie removed it by ramming the metal into its face and through the forehead, two inches of the steel appearing out of the top of the skull. Vince fell on his backside with fatigue, and Stephanie removed the metal. She was bent over, panting, still clutching her bloody crowbar. The four men stood by them, all holding bloody blades.

"We don't have time to rest," one of the men spoke up, and pointed. Vince and Stephanie turned around to see dozens of the dead behind, and some of the ones from the woods spilling out onto the road.

Both tired individuals were put into the back of a van with no protest, and the van and the Mazda drove away.

They were in the back of the van for a mere four minutes, then the vehicle came to a stop. Vince and Stephanie had no idea where they were, as the back of the vehicle provided no windows, but they could hear voices from outside. They heard a man's voice being told about a horde from a mile away, and he ordered someone to keep a watch on them to see if they were going to be a danger to their area.

They heard more voices and Stephanie asked, "What's going on? When are they letting us out?"

Vince shushed her and placed his ear to the door for a better listen. From what he could make out, the men who turned up and saved Vince and Stephanie's arses were initially out to make a short run. They wanted to see if there was anything left in the Wyevale Garden Centre that was opposite the Wolseley Arms pub.

Letting the information sink in that the arrival of their saviours was simply a lucky coincidence, Vince shook his head. "Shit."

Asked Stephanie, "What is it?"

"We should be fucking dead."

The van's doors opened, and the light temporarily blinded both the exhausted individuals who had hardly slept the previous night. Vince and Stephanie shielded their eyes briefly and then looked at a young man, no older than twenty. He was an obese young fellow and had a second chin that hung down. The rotund gentleman smiled, but it wasn't a welcoming smile, it was an unusual, unnerving smile.

If Vincent had the energy to grab the fat shit and wipe the smug smile off of his face, he would have done. But he didn't even have the energy to stand. His legs were like steel and he still wasn't fully recovered from his episode of being swept away in the River Trent a few days ago, swimming for his life, trying to stay afloat, and desperately trying to get to either bank. That was bad enough, but swallowing gulps of the foul water during his struggle, and then contracting stomach pains and diarrhoea also added to his woes. If it wasn't for Stephanie, who found him, fed him, and cared for him, he'd be dead by now. He owed her ... big time.

"Where're you from?" the smarmy young man asked. "Speak up."

"Rugeley," Vince answered reluctantly, "well, actually Brereton."

"You don't seem sure," the heavy guy giggled. "Took a knock to the head, Scarface?"

Stephanie remained quiet throughout, and Vince asked, "And who the fuck are you, chubs? Are you the personal trainer?"

The overweight youngster lost his smile, and heard a voice from behind him, "You found out anything?"

The young man shook his head, glaring at Vince. What annoyed Vince was that if it was just the two of them, alone, the young man wouldn't be so brave.

"I've found out nothing," the rotund individual finally spoke. "In fact, the man seems to be quite hostile."

"Hostile?" the man bellowed from behind. He finally made an appearance, grabbed the boy's shoulder and dragged him back. "After saving his life?"

The middle-aged man stuck his head inside the van, clutching a bloody machete in his hand. Vince looked at the weapon, and correctly assumed that he was one of the four individuals who had helped them bring down the horde. Vince was thankful for what they did, but he would gladly boot the fat youngster in the balls for his cheek.

The man then smiled from ear to ear and pointed at Vince. "I know you." He then looked at Stephanie, who he didn't recognise, and looked back at Vince. "Don't you remember me?"

Vince was certain that it was a case of mistaken identity. "My old window cleaner?" Vince tried to joke. "I think I still owe you for doing my windows on the second day of June."

"Do you know where you are?" asked the man, ignoring Vince's poor attempt at humour.

Vince shook his head. He was too tired for all these fucking questions.

"You're in Little Haywood," the man said excitedly and added, "Wait till John hears what I've got for him." He then turned around to an individual that was out of Vince's vision and ordered, "Tell John I've got a surprise for him. Go and tell him. Now!"

Stephanie looked at Vince and her facial expression wanted to know what was going on, but Vince hunched his shoulders and had no idea what was happening. They waited and waited, then finally the John guy turned up. He peered into the back of the van and stared at Stephanie. His eyes then moved and clocked the scarred face of Vince Kindl.

The John guy began to laugh, a proper belly laugh. Some of the guys in the background were wondering what was wrong with him, and one man asked if he was okay.

"There's nothing wrong with
me
." John continued to cackle. "Far from it."

"Then what is it?" Vince recognised the young voice querying John. It was the portly kid.

"Ladies and gentleman," John announced and pointed at Vince. "May I introduce ... The Murphy Slayer."

As soon as Vince heard those words he knew who John was. He recognised him now. He was a man Vince had bumped into on the way back to the Sandy Lane camp. At the time, Vince had just shot Kevin Murphy and his father. He had Lisa in tow with him, who had been found tied up to a bed.

Vince smiled. He and Stephanie were in a safe place.

"Come on," The fifty-five-year-old John Lincoln beckoned the two tired individuals out of the van. He adjusted his spectacles and added, "You two look like you need a good wash and a good sleep. You both look exhausted."

"We didn't sleep very well last night," Vince announced.

John smiled and told them both to follow him. "You can rest in my house for as long as you want, Murphy slayer, and your young pal" he snickered. "Mi casa es su casa."

Chapter Forty Four

"How's Paul doing?" Pickle asked Karen once she had returned. She had stayed with him for a while, but he had hinted that time alone was what he wanted.

Karen shrugged and appeared upset.

Pickle smiled delicately and patted the seat next to him, urging Karen to sit down. "Stupid question, I know."

Karen sat next to Pickle and sighed. "I'm not sure he's gonna get over this."

"O' course he won't. It'll get easier, as time goes on, but he won't get
over
it."

"I'm scared to leave him on his own."

"Isn't Lisa with him?"

Karen shook her head. "Rosemary has her. She thought it was better for Paul to be on his own, and being around him would be too upsetting for Lisa anyway."

"He'll get through this," Pickle tried to reassure his concerned friend. "He won't do anything daft, if that's what yer worried about."

"Won't he?" She didn't look so sure. "Remember the family in that attic, in Heath Hayes?"

"I remember everything," Pickle said sadly.

"And Helen Waite and her dad? Her and the old fucker decided to end it all."

"The old fucker?" Pickle gave Karen one of his disappointed-father looks. "Don't be so disrespectful."

"Well..."

"Yer still blame him for Shaz's death?"

"He was partly responsible," she huffed. "As well as that David Watkins, who brought all those cocksuckers back with him. In hindsight, I should have left the old man in his toilet where he was hiding."

Pickle was about to mention the fact that it was Kyle that had made the hole in the hedge to begin with, but for the people that knew about it, nobody blamed the youngster for the massacre at the caravan site. It was David Watkins' fault and his daft obsession with the revolver that was back at the farm.

"I'm trying to think o' the people that have taken their lives since we've met."

"This is cheery," Karen tried to joke.

"Too many to count," Pickle spoke with sadness. "Helen and her dad, KP..."

Karen flashed Pickle a look, which he noticed straight away.

"What is it?"

"About KP..." Karen shifted on her bum, the nerves making her limbs shake. She had no idea why she was nervous. He wasn't going to hit her if she told him the truth. He had only hit her once, but that was
her
fault. She'd struck out at him on Cardboard Hill as they were about to bury Wolf's wife, Grace, after they'd dealt with her in his cabin. Pickle was mortified as soon as he retaliated and palmed Karen, and that was before he knew she was pregnant.

Pickle tried again. "What
about
KP?"

Karen took a noisy intake of breath before speaking. "Remember when you both said your goodbyes?"

"How can I forget? O' course I remember."

"He left the prison van to shoot himself, and you thrashed the van to drown out the gunshot—"

"Karen? Why are yer tellin' me stuff that I already know."

"Daniel was showing me round the Lea Hall building the other week, and had some ... I dunno, trophies that he had picked up on runs that he did. One of them was a 9mm hi-powered Browning. He told me that when he found it, there was a round in the chamber. How many people do you think possess that kind of weaponry in this area, in the West Midlands? In the UK?"

"Not many," Pickle said softly, still taking the news in. "So are yer telling me that it's the gun
I
gave KP, and he didn't shoot himself?"

"It's possible. The round in the chamber was probably the bullet that he asked me for, you know, before he left the van to kill himself. Daniel also said he found the gun near Stile Cop."

Pickle dropped his head in his hands. "Why didn't yer tell me this before?"

"I didn't see the point in making you even more upset." Karen began to choke. "I'm sorry."

Pickle slowly got to his feet and seemed unsure what to do with himself.

"Sit down," Karen pleaded.

"Nah, I need to take a wee walk." Pickle ran his fingers through his dark hair and asked, "Any other secrets yer keeping from me?"

She never answered and added, "You'll find the gun in the first drain, at the other end of Burnthill Lane. I took it from the building, in case you came across it."

Pickle nodded. "I'll take a look." He went for the door, but Karen stopped him from moving when she apologised once more.

"Don't be sorry." Pickle said, trying to hide his annoyance. "I understand why yer did what yer did."

"You want me to come with you?"

"No. Yer okay. I'll go on ma own." Pickle headed towards the front door.

"Are we good?"

He turned, smiled and winked at Karen. "We're always good, Karen."

*

Harry Branston walked down Sandy Lane with tired feet, and headed towards the barrier that was near the Globe Island roundabout. He turned left once he neared the barrier, and went up Burnthill Lane. Karen said that the gun was in the first drain, but never specified what side of the road he would find it.

He came to a drain on the left side of the road, stopped, and crouched down to lift it, but paused. He turned around and sat on the kerb of the pavement. Was there any point in retrieving the gun and taking a look if it was one of his? He couldn't use it again as there was no ammo available, and it was probably damaged being down there. Even if it was the gun that he had given to KP, it didn't matter anymore. Whether KP had shot himself or had turned, he was still dead, and it was nearly two months since that awful incident up at Stile Cop.

He stared at the road and drifted away, thinking about the past, when the world used to be in its old state. It was still a fucked up world back then, but it was a world he would gladly go back to, even if it meant spending his days in prison. At least he would have KP back. Being released from prison hadn't made him a free man. He was cooped up on the Sandy Lane camp; before then it was the caravan site, Wolf's cabin, a sports centre, a house in Heath Hayes and Stile Cop beauty spot. Wherever he went, he was still incarcerated to a certain degree, with the exception of going out on runs.

"Pickle!"

Pickle jumped once his name was called, and he craned his neck to see that a woman called Jenny Goldsmith was standing by him. She was a large lady with short grey hair, and was nearing her sixties. She was a woman he hardly knew.

"What is it?" he asked.

She looked anxious and her hands shook. "Something's happening on Sandy Lane. Come quickly."

Pickle stood to his feet. "What now?"