Snatchers (Book 9): The Dead Don't Scream (18 page)

Chapter Thirty Five

Once he reached Fair Oak School, Paul Dickson turned left and decided to avoid the main road and cut through the Etching Hill area of Rugeley. With his clammy hand, he pulled out his knife once he saw two of the dead staggering out of a street. He blew out a breath, knowing that he had little experience dealing with these things, and marched forwards towards them. He knew that in order to get where he wanted, he needed to get by these 'obstacles' that were in his way.

Side-by-side, the two male ghouls shambled over in Paul's direction after spotting him. The one on the left already had its arms outstretched, ready for its meal, whilst the other kept its arms by its side. Paul blew out another breath, trying to steady his nerves and looked ahead to the left side of the terrible twosome.

There looked to be a sufficient gap for him to squeeze through, and if he ran fast enough he'd be able to get through without being grabbed by the pair of them.

He waited for them to get closer, heart beating out of his chest, and could feel a pain in his stomach as if he was about to have diarrhoea.

He then burst into a sprint, running straight at them. He quickly veered left and ran through the gap without even being felt by the two dead. He was too quick. He continued to sprint along the road and left his admirers trailing, then came to a small crossroad.

He had no idea where he was.

He could see a large football field to his left, and to the right was a place he had heard of: Etching Hill. Going up Etching Hill wasn't the plan. Following the road round it
was
.

The road around the Etching Hill beauty spot would eventually take him to the Rugeley Road, and that was the way he needed to go to get to Wolseley and finally Little Haywood.

Walking around the beauty spot was unproblematic for Paul Dickson, until he hit the incline. His feet were on fire and his boots felt like they were made of lead, but despite these negatives he was determined to keep going. He wasn't far away from leaving Rugeley, and even then he'd still have just under three miles to go. He wasn't even halfway to his favoured destination.

Once he reached the peak of the road, his legs welcomed the trudge downhill. Two hundred yards and he would be on Rugeley Road. Side streets were to his right, as he made the descent, and a field was to his left. Passing Daywell Rise, Paul pulled out his bottle and drained the remainder of the liquid. He wanted to save it for later, but the heat and his dry throat had persuaded him to drink it now.

He kept the empty bottle and placed it back into his pocket, the knife was in the other, and was thankful, and a little perplexed, that there had been very little sign of the dead on his travels.

There were many on that horrific night at Sandy Lane, so they were still out there in great numbers ... somewhere. But where?

It wasn't until he reached the junction that he decided to stop for a while. He sat on the grassy bank and took his boots off, trying to get some air to his sweaty socks. He put his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them for a few seconds, feeling the heat of the sun burning the back of his neck.

He remained in the same position for a minute, until his ears picked up a sound.

He lifted his head, as he heard the sound of feet coming towards him, and went to stand up, feeling giddy as soon as he did so. He staggered a little. He saw a woman walking towards him. She was in her fifties, a fine-looking woman in her day, and she was in tears.

"You've gotta help me!" she yelled. "I haven't eaten in days. I haven't drank..." She cried and threw herself at Paul, her arms wrapped around his back. He was baffled by this, and although he felt for the woman, he slowly pushed her away.

He tried to explain, "I'm sorry for what you're going through, but I need to be somewhere." Paul Dickson sat back down on the grass and began to put his boots back on.

"But you've got to help me." She sobbed, crouched down and tried to put her arms around Paul for a second time, but he pushed her away once again.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have to do anything for you." He finished tying his laces, stood, and tried to walk away, but she grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"I haven't eaten in days!" she screamed. "My poor mum died of a heart attack in the second week because of what's happening—"

"Wait, wait." Paul interjected.  "Why are you telling me all this? If you're hungry, thirsty, then go out there and do what most other survivors are doing. Go and get it yourself."

"But..."

"But what?" He didn't have time for this; the woman was beginning to get on his nerves. "You want me to be your personal waiter? To go away and bring you stuff? Doesn't work like that, lady. Now, I wish you luck, but I need to be some place."

Paul Dickson strolled away from the woman and could hear her moaning.

"Wait," she called out. "Where are you going? I need you."

"What you need is a butler. It's a dog-eat-dog world now, lady. Time to start feeding yourself."

"So, is that it?"

"I'm afraid so."

Paul picked up his speed and created larger strides. The sooner he got to Little Haywood, the better. He took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure that the stressed-out woman wasn't following him. She wasn't, thankfully. He then faced forwards and continued with his walk.

"Fuck you then!" she began to scream. She had gone from pleading to attacking Paul verbally within seconds. "I hope you fucking die slowly. Call yourself a man? Do you? I've seen bigger balls on a mouse, you fucking chicken shit."

"Jesus," Paul had managed to laugh at the abuse he was getting. "You're one crazy bitch."

Chapter Thirty Six

She had crossed many farmlands to get where she was, and came to the conclusion that staying in the countryside was safer for her than being in a residential area.

She walked through a barren farm, her senses on high alert, walking by machinery that hadn't been used in months, and ended up on a long dirt path that took her off the premises. She was now on a long stretch of road. It appeared she had walked full circle.

She looked to her left and saw a white 'Welcome to Rugeley' sign with black lettering, and over the road a sign stated that she was now on Hednesford Road.

She decided to cross it and went up the steep lane that appeared to be surrounded by the woods the further she progressed. She passed some carnage to her left, and stepped onto the lane that led upwards to ... she had no idea. She wasn't from round these parts.

There was an old road sign to her left. It had seen better days; it was written in yellow lettering—maybe it was white when the sign was first put up—and was printed on a green background.

She decided to make the steep walk. Being in the woods and also on higher ground surely must be good from a safety point of view. She had lived in the woods before. She could hunt, she could filter water, she could use the facilities that the woods had to offer: animals, berries, mushrooms and edible leaves. It wasn't something she could do for months on end, but after the last few days that she had had, she just wanted a few days without an incident, if that was possible.

Fields were to either side of her, as well as bodies from weeks gone by, and as she passed by the Stile Cop Cemetery she looked up to see the steepness of the road. It was an uneven road, full of bumps, and probably hadn't had a facelift in years. It was an intimidating sight, especially when on foot, but the female soldiered on and increased her speed. It was going to be back-breaking work to get to the top, but felt that getting there would benefit her, especially once she entered the woods.

She looked up and heard a vehicle in front of her. She couldn't see it. It hadn't made itself visible yet, but it was definitely coming her way.

She decided to temporarily abandon her idea of reaching the top of the hill and ran to the cemetery instead. She threw her bag over the steel gates, then climbed over them and landed on the other side, picked her bag up, and ran over to the end of the area and hid behind one of the graves. Her trust in people wasn't great, and she was aware that bumping into survivors these days was a gamble. Some were good, but some were bad.

She could see the vehicle now. It was a van, and it was descending down the Stile Cop Road a little too fast. It suddenly came to a stop and a male passenger got out and ran to the side of the road to throw up. With the passenger door wide open, she could hear the sound of laughter coming from inside the van because of the man's unfortunate predicament, and the people began to exit the vehicle themselves.

There were three males in all, including the individual that had threw up, but they were too far away for her to hear their chatter. One went to the side for a piss and the other two, including the guy that had threw up, were now standing against the van and sharing a bottle of something. It appeared that they were having a break, so she decided to leave the cemetery by going over the railings.

Once she was off the grounds altogether, she entered the woods, but instead of going upwards, she decided to walk across and give her feet a break from all the hard walking.

She wiped her sticky forehead and looked around at the beautiful greenery. It was a joy to see, but it was so condensed that it felt warmer than a greenhouse. The last thing she needed was to lose more water from her body.

She decided to move on, hoping she'd find an open area. An open area in the woods provided wind and, with a bit of luck, some kind of flowing water. A stream, maybe.

She walked for a further three minutes, now with her poncho off, and stopped once more when she heard a sound that was a delight to her ears. It was the sound of running water. With the excitement and adrenaline running through her, she jogged in the direction of the noise. Her jog was at a slow pace, as she knew there was still a danger that she could run into trouble, but the excitement of getting her lips and throat wet was too strong for her to be cool about the situation.

She had reached an open area of the woods and could now see the running water, but something up ahead made her jump behind a tree. She crouched down, behind the tree, trying to make herself invisible.

She watched for a while and smiled when a deer scampered through the greenery. She had no idea if someone or something had startled the animal, or her own presence had been sensed and had spooked the sensitive creature. She hoped it was the latter.

Minutes had passed, and she was beginning to relax. She went through her bag and took out a jar, which had the necessary ingredients inside it to filter water. She looked around and decided to leave her bag where it was, as she had decided that that was where she was going to sleep, and took the short stroll to the stream.

She filled the jar first, then took off her boots and cooled down her feet in the ice cold water. After she had splashed her face a few times, she decided to go back over to where her bag was. It had been a tiring and stressful day, and her body craved sleep. She had no cans to hang on the trees to warn her if the dead were coming, or wire long enough to surround her and create a tripping device, so she hoped that she didn't fall into too much of a deep sleep. If the dead did come, she was sure that she would wake up. She had spent most of her time practically sleeping with one eye open.

She looked around the floor and found a thin branch. She snapped the branch in four and was at the beginning stage of setting up a wire trip for a trap. It was something she had done many times over and now having four sticks, she had a trigger-stick, a hammer-stick and two stake sticks. She had some string in her bag, which she took out, some rope, a knife, and then looked round for something else. She found a small rock. It was exactly what she wanted.

She walked many yards from where she was going to sleep tonight and found a place that'd be perfect for a trap. She set up the trigger-stick, followed by the counter-weight and tripwire. She made the noose and tied the trigger-stick. She pulled on the noose-end of the rope, whilst at the same time lifting up the counter-weight end of the line until the trigger-stick dropped down.

She grabbed the trigger-stick with one hand, whilst still holding the counter-weight end with the other, and placed the trigger-stick in the notches in the tree and the notch in the stake. She slowly released the rope with the other hand and allowed it to tighten up. Once it was all set, she tested it out with a big branch.

Now this was all set, she left the trap and went back over to the place where she was going to sleep. With her body cooled down, the young girl emptied her bag, screwed it up and placed it next to the trunk of a tree. She was going to use it as a cushion, and was certain that sleep was going to be achieved. Her eyes were already becoming heavy, and now that her temperature had dropped and she wasn't sweaty and irritable, she felt more relaxed than she was before.

Her throat was dry, but she decided to save her jar until the morning. She licked her arid lips, lay down and stared up at the dark blue sky. She guessed that it was around eight in the evening, and knew that if she fell asleep now, she may wake up in the early hours of the morning.

But she had to listen to her body. And her body craved sleep.

Chapter Thirty Seven

As soon as Paul Dickson reached an old-style road sign, he decided to take a break from walking along the tiring and monotonous Rugeley Road. He guessed that he was a mile and half away from the village and could see the Wolseley Arms in the distance. The road sign was a grey colour, made of concrete and was two feet in height. Paul sat on its top and guessed that the archaic sign was probably made back in the days of the horse and cart. He remained sitting, resting his weary legs.

He spent minutes sitting on the concrete stump, his mind wandering, then decided to get back to his feet. But before he could make the remaining mile and a half, it was time to drain his bladder before returning to a place he hadn't been to in just over three weeks.

He walked into the woodland, progressing a few yards in, then stood facing a tree and began to piss against it. It was a long one, and he threw his head back and moaned once he was coming to the end. Paul began to zip himself up and was startled when he heard a voice from behind, "Looks like you needed that."

Paul span around and was facing a person he had never seen before.

"What are you doing, sneaking up on people like that?" Paul look angered, but was also embarrassed that he had been given a fright.

"I meant no harm." The man was hunched over, possibly in his fifties, and he reminded Paul of the character Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. "I don't see many folk round these parts, then suddenly I get a wave of people in one day." The man held out his dirty hand. "I'm Jim."

"Paul." Paul placed his hand on his chest and decided not to ask the man any questions; he never even shook his hand. He just wanted to leave and be on his way.

The hunched man seemed excited by Paul's presence, and insisted that he should sit down with him and join him for dinner.

"I've already eaten." Paul could understand that the man had probably been starved of company, but now he was only a mile and a half away from his destination. He just wanted to hit the road and get his journey out of the way.

"At least have a drink with me," Jim insisted.

His manner unnerved Paul, but Dickson decided to give in to the man's demands. He had a feeling that this individual could turn nasty, and didn't want to get into a fight and get injured, especially being so close to his destination.

"Okay," Paul sighed, and although nervous in this man's company, he tried to act like he could handle himself. He puffed his chest out and stuck up one finger, inches away from Jim's face. "One drink. Then I'm going."

"I've got a fire going," announced Jim. "Just over there."

"I can smell it." Paul nodded. "A bit warm for a fire, isn't it?"

"I was cooking," he snickered. "Follow me."

"Okay," Paul said with reluctance in his voice, but Jim never took the hint.

Jim walked through the woodland and Paul followed behind. The apocalypse had thrown up some bizarre scenarios in just a matter of hours of being out in the open. Paul had met a nice man who still had his family with him, then there was the crazed woman who practically demanded to be waited on, and now this strange individual.

Paul could now see the fire. There was some meat on a wooden spit, hovering over the yellow flames. The smell of meat was making Paul hungry again.

Paul asked, "What drinks do you have?"

"What do you fancy?" Jim sat down by the fire and Paul purposely sat opposite him. "I got a bottle of diet coke or a can of orange Tango. Or water from the Trent."

Paul screwed his face in disgust. "Water from the river?"

"Yeah. It's been filtered." Jim turned to his side and picked up a jar of water that was a rusty colour. "Look."

Doesn't look too good to me
. Paul didn't want to seem ungrateful, so he smiled politely. "The orange Tango would be great."

Jim laughed and threw the can over the fire. Paul caught it, but had to sit it down for a minute because it had been thrown, otherwise he'd lose half the drink once he opened the can.

Both men looked at one another from over the yellow flames, and neither one had made an effort to start a conversation. More seconds of silence forced Paul to think of something to say.

"So how long have you been in the woods?" Paul decided to make his small stay as pleasant as possible, even though the strange Jim didn't sit right with him.

"Not long." Jim took a swig of the rusty-looking water, saving the diet coke for another time, and made an unusual sound when swallowing it. "I've been here for a few days. Before that I stayed here, there and everywhere. Scrounging for food." Jim shrugged his shoulders. "You know how it is."

"No family?"

"Dead," was Jim's short answer. "My wife and daughter were killed in the first week."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Jim took another drink, gulping noisily. "They're better off dead."

Paul was surprised by his blunt comment. He tried to shrug it off and asked another question, pointing at the meat on the spit. There wasn't much of it left. "How on earth did you manage that? You some kind of hunter or something?"

"I just got lucky." Jim pointed at the meat. "Help yourself. I've had my fill."

"I'll try a bit." Paul picked up the can of Tango and opened it.

Jim stood and picked up a knife that was lying by the side of him. He carved a generous portion and told Paul to put the palms of his hands together as he had no plates. Jim grabbed the meat in his left hand, went around the fire and plopped it on Paul's hands and went back to his original sitting place.

Paul knew that Jim's hands were dirty, but the meat did look good, so he tried to block it out of his mind that this man probably hadn't washed his hands in a long while. Paul began to chew at the dark meat, making his mouth salivate, and Jim watched with a smirk as his guest devoured the high protein meal.

Jim asked Paul if it was good.

"Fucking beautiful." Paul's mouth was full when he answered, and Jim could just about make out what he said.

Jim asked, "What about you, friend? What's your story?"

Still chewing the overdone meat, Paul held up his hand, telling Jim to give him a few seconds so he could swallow it. A few more seconds of chewing and Paul hurriedly swallowed what was in his mouth with the help of a mouthful of orange Tango.

"Sorry," said Paul. "What was the question?"

Jim chuckled, "I asked you what your story was, but it'll have to wait." Jim stood up and stretched. "I need a piss. Won't be long."

"Okay."

Jim nodded at the spit and said, "Take more, if you want. You can just rip it off with your hands. I don't mind. I'm done."

Paul watched as the strange man hobbled to his left, hunched over, and was swallowed up by the condensed trees as he walked further in. Paul decided not to take another bite. He had stayed long enough. He was going to finish the remainder of the can, then say his farewells to the strange individual.

Paul felt a strong wind filter through the trees and then heard some rustling to his left, convinced it was Jim relieving himself. Paul began to pick the meat that was lodged in the gaps of his teeth with his tongue, then winced when he scratched the tip of his tongue with one of his sharp back teeth. He heard another rustle in the trees and was wondering what was taking Jim so long. He shrugged it off, rubbed his eyes and went to pick his can up and take another gulp of the warm, fizzy orange drink.

A snap of a twig could be heard behind him and Paul moved his head to see what the noise was. The burning sensation around his throat was immediate, and automatically Paul tried to grab what had been wrapped around it. It was a small piece of rope. And holding both ends, standing behind Paul, was Jim, trying to strangle the life out of him.

Paul panicked so much that he had pissed himself, and tried desperately to get free, but it looked like he was going to die today and he had no idea why. Did he piss Jim off? If so, what did he say? Or what did he do?

Feeling a pricking on his thigh, the forty-one-year-old was reminded that he was carrying a knife. He put his hand in his pocket, feeling for the handle, whilst Jim continued to snarl and pull on the rope. Feeling light-headed, Paul grabbed the knife in his pocket and had managed to pull it out. He swung it behind his back and the blade embedded itself in Jim's ankle, making the man scream out, releasing the rope.

Paul rubbed his throat, stood to his feet and turned around to see Jim on the floor, moaning and writhing in pain.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Paul tried to scream, but his voice was hoarse from his few seconds of strangulation. Faint ligature marks were on his neck, and it felt like his throat was on fire. "Why did you do that?"

Jim never answered. He was in too much pain to give Paul an answer.

Paul coughed and rubbed his throat, then went to walk back through the woods and onto the main road, forgetting about his knife, but something caught his eye. He stopped walking, scrunched his eyes and stumbled over to a place. It looked like a badly homemade tent, made up of three blankets.

It must have been where Jim slept, Paul thought.

He approached the tent to see old cushions inside of it, but what was around the tent made him suspicious. The smell was foul, but he still went round to investigate. His knees buckled when he saw a body of a young woman. She had been cut and carved up, and anger began to build in the pit of his stomach when he realised that Jim must have murdered the poor girl.

He then thought about the meat that he had eaten from the spit.
The meat! Oh God, the meat!
He took another look at the carved up woman.
Oh shit
. Paul began to gag once he was convinced that the meat he had devoured was that of a human being, the very same one that he was looking at.

Paul turned to the side and threw up violently and spat out the remaining chunks of puke that were lodged into his teeth. He then remembered that he had left Jim, writhing in pain, on the floor, a few yards away. He didn't seem to be moaning as much now.

Paul walked over to the man and could see Jim biting on his own fist because of the pain, the knife still stuck in his ankle. Paul bent down and grabbed Jim by the throat and spat, "Seriously? You wanted to kill me so you could eat me? After only two months, and it's already come to this for you?"

Jim never answered Paul. His eyes were full with tears of pain.

"Who was she?" asked Paul, his hands were still around his throat, the rage was taking over.

Jim never answered.

"Who-was-she?" Paul grinded his teeth together, and loosened his grip to allow the man to speak.

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "Just some young slag that lost her family. She was on her own, trying to survive. I bumped into her yesterday."

"And you killed her?"

Jim smiled through the pain, then shrugged his shoulders again as if it was nothing. "A man has to eat."

Paul shook his head at Jim with disgust, grabbed the knife that was in his ankle and pulled it out. Jim cried out, calling Paul a "fucking cunt," but his abusive words were ignored by Dickson.

Paul then grabbed Jim's hair and the rage took over. He stabbed him once in the throat, making Jim's eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and pain. Paul pulled the knife out and saw Jim's shirt, in seconds, immediately become drenched in his own crimson. Paul Dickson released the man, allowing him to fall to the ground, and stabbed him in the chest repeatedly, seven times in all. There was no need. Before the first stab to the chest, Jim was already dead from his throat wound, but a rage that Dickson had never felt before had engulfed the man.

Paul temporarily left the knife inside Jim's mutilated torso, stood to his feet with tears in his eyes, then straightened his back. He crouched down to the body and pulled the knife from Jim's corpse.

Covered in blood, dazed, Paul Dickson jogged away from the first human being that he had murdered. The killing of Lance Murphy was accidental, manslaughter in a court of law, but this wasn't. This was murder, whether the individual deserved it or not. It hadn't sank in yet.

It would take days for it to sink in.