Snatchers (Book 9): The Dead Don't Scream (22 page)

Chapter Forty Four

John Lincoln poured a cup of water from a plastic bottle and looked in his cupboard for something to eat. There was a half-box of cornflakes which he grabbed, then grabbed the water. The rotund Lincoln walked through his living room, water in his left hand, box of cornflakes in his right, and trudged his heavy frame up the stairs to his first floor.

He approached the closest bedroom door, nearest the bathroom, and put the cornflakes under his arm so he had a free hand to knock the door. He gently knocked it with his middle knuckle and heard a soft female voice telling him to come in.

He went inside and smiled at the pale-looking woman.

Karen Bradley was under the cream duvet and looked shattered.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" enquired John.

"Yes," Karen spoke honestly. "It's okay though."

"Sorry. I know you've had a crappy sleep during the night, but I thought you could do with some refreshments then try and nod back off again. I don't want you spending today feeling like shit."

"I feel like shit anyway."

"Course you do." John Lincoln went over and put the water and the box on the side-table. He smiled thinly at the woman, cocking his head to one side, making her sigh.

"What is it?" he chuckled.

"Don't give me that."

"Give you what?"

"That sympathy look," said Karen.

"I don't know what you mean."

Karen Bradley slowly sat up in bed, her back now up against the headboard. She rubbed her eyes and released a yawn. "Thanks for the... " She peered to her left, at the side-table, and could see a cup and a box of cornflakes. "...breakfast."

"You need to keep your strength up." John Lincoln went to leave the room, paused, then turned around. "I'm sorry for what happened."

"You don't even know me." Karen reached for the water and winced after two gulps. "Jesus, that tastes like piss."

"I wouldn't know." John pointed at Karen with a grin on his face. "I like you, Karen. You tell it how it is."

Despite her complaining, she drank the rest of the water and lay back down, ignoring the box of cornflakes.

"You lost a bit of blood last night," said John. "You're drained. You should eat."

"I don't want to eat."

"Please," John almost begged.

Karen turned on her side, away from John. "I only lost my baby a few hours ago, I don't feel like eating."

"Still..." Lincoln could tell that the young woman wasn't in the mood for talking, but decided to say his peace before leaving the bedroom. "You should still eat. I know it was traumatic for you, but life goes on.
Your
life will go on."

"Where's Vince and Pickle?" Karen muttered.

"Out for a bit." John Lincoln added, "Pickle and Vince did a great job cleaning up last night. You'll never see those sheets again. They both think the world of you, I can tell."

"Look..." Karen cleared her throat. "I didn't mention it before, but ... thanks for taking us in."

"My pleasure." John patted his large belly. "Your place will be ready soon. I hope you, Vince and Pickle didn't find staying here too bad ... well, despite your tragic episode."

"Every day is a tragic episode in this world." Karen cleared her throat and questioned John Lincoln, "Where did you put Sheryl?"

"Well, when you lot arrived at the gate, with Pickle and Vince carrying that poor girl's body, we took her away and put her in the middle of a field where we burn the dead. Is that harsh? Was she a close friend? If so, I could always arrange—"

"Doesn't matter." Karen sat up once more and looked around the room. John Lincoln was convinced that her loss hadn't sunk in yet. There wasn't a single tear in the girl's eyes, and she looked more confused than heartbroken.

"So how long has this been going on?" she asked.

"What?" John Lincoln was unsure what she meant by her query.

"You know. This place that you guys are running. How long?"

John Lincoln puffed out his cheeks in thought and sat his heavy frame down on the corner of the bed. "Nearly a month now. We've done okay, but we can do better."

"Are you in charge?"

"Kind of." John Lincoln seemed embarrassed and added, "When we were organising it I, kind of, fell into the role. I don't know why these people look up to me. I'm not fit enough to do runs, I can't even walk the length of myself." John stopped himself, realising he wasn't answering her question. She asked about the place. "The street you're in is called Colwyn Place. Initially, we decided to block it off from the rest of the village with cars and whatever we could because we only had a handful of people to begin with, but we do okay. And now with the concrete fence in place it's more secure."

"That was the trouble with Sandy Lane." Karen spoke with a croak in her voice. "It was a great set-up, and they did well, but the place was too big, even for over a hundred people. I suppose some of them are dead now."

"Don't worry about other people." John leaned over and patted Karen's legs. "Just concentrate on getting better and maybe we'll move you into your new digs later on."

"Thank you."

John smiled and stood back to his feet. He adjusted his spectacles and said, "Welcome to Little Haywood, Karen."

Chapter Forty Five

An hour had passed and the door opened slowly. Harry Branston stuck his head through the gap between the door and the frame to check on Karen. She was awake, sitting up and eating out of a box of cornflakes.

"Yer awake." Pickle looked over and winked at the twenty-three-year-old female, before stepping into the room.

"There's fuck all wrong with your eyes," she said with a mouthful, then put the box back on the side-table and finished what was in her mouth.

Pickle smiled. He was certain she was hurting. He was certain she was putting on a front.

"Anyway," said Pickle. "I've brought yer a surprise."

Before Karen could ask what it was, Pickle widened the door and Paul stepped in.

Pickle then closed the bedroom door, to give the two some privacy, and went downstairs.

Karen's eyes enlarged and then she sobbed, "You made it."

Paul walked over to her and pointed at the side of the bed. He had been washed and clothed since his arrival, and asked "May I?"

"Of course."

Paul sat down and turned to Karen, who was sitting up, but before the pair of them conversed, Paul Dickson broke down. Karen didn't ask him what was wrong, she just put her hand on his leg and waited for the man to get it out of his system.

He apologised and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, furious that he had broken down, especially with the news that Pickle had given him a few minutes ago about Karen.

"Come here." Karen opened her arms and the pair of them embraced. She turned and kissed him on the cheek, then released herself from the clinch. She looked at the teary Dickson and stroked his face.

"I heard," Paul began. "I'm so, so sorry. Pickle told me that he and Vince were up most of the night cleaning up and..."

She said, "Take your boots off."

Without asking why, Paul did as he was told. Then Karen lay down on her back and turned on her side, away from Paul.

"Cuddle me," she spoke softly. "I need it."

Karen was under the duvet, but the fully-clothed Dickson remained on top of it, got close to Karen, then lay down on his side and put his arm around her.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered; she took a hold of his hand and kissed the back of it. "We don't know who got out and who..."

"I know that Bentley didn't make it. Stephanie, Rosemary, Lisa ... don't know about the rest."

"That's a shame."

"I'm sorry about..."

"It happened in the early hours of the morning." Karen then changed the subject and asked Paul, "Did Pickle tell you about the run-in we had?"

"Yes. He told me about Sheryl. Shame. I was warming to her."

"Me too."

There was a silence between the pair of them, and it was just what Karen wanted. She heard the intake of breath behind her and knew Paul was going to speak once more.

"I killed a man," Paul confessed, out of the blue.

"Jesus. What happened?"

"It was on the way here. I did it last night. He tried to choke me, but..."

"You don't have to go on." Karen patted his hand. "You can tell me all about it later on in the day."

"I had no choice, he..."

Karen shushed him, noticing in his voice that he was becoming upset again, and said to him, "Just cuddle me tight. No more talking. We can talk later."

*

"How's she doing?" John Lincoln was in his living room. He passed a cup of water over to Pickle, who had returned from upstairs. Pickle took the cup and thanked the rotund gentleman.

"Hard to tell with Karen." Pickle sighed and rubbed his face. "We just need a break. A week without an incident would be great."

"That was horrific last night." John took a sip of water. "I didn't even know she was pregnant. Thanks."

"Thanks? What for?" Pickle was puzzled by John's remark.

"For changing the sheets, the mattress—"

"I could hardly keep them the way they were." Pickle smiled, and said further, "Don't take this the wrong way, John. I did it for Karen, because I had to."

"Of course. Sorry." John stood awkwardly and said, "I saw Stephen earlier. Nick died. Blood loss."

"I'm sorry about that." Pickle said with sadness. "We thought the amputation would save him from turning. Where is he?"

"One of the guys has put him in the field with the rest. He'll be burned later on."

"Wow. Yer don't mess about, do yer?"

"We can't afford to, Pickle. The hospitals aren't open anymore, so we need to be wary of infections, viruses... If I die of a heart attack tomorrow, I'll be put in that very same field. And so will you."

There was a silence between the two men. John wasn't sure if he was a bit harsh, but he had to tell his guest how things were.

"You told me earlier that you used to live near here." John sat down in the armchair, opposite Pickle. "Where, exactly?"

"Other side o' the village. I spent most o' ma time inside. I came back here briefly when we first escaped, went into ma 'ouse and retrieved a shotgun and four Browning handguns that I hid under ma floorboards. That helped us out a great deal in the first two weeks o' this mess."

John Lincoln raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"I used to sell drugs," Pickle explained.

"Wow, you seem like such a good guy."

Pickle smiled. "I am ... most o' the time."

"I never set foot out of this village since the day it all kicked off," Lincoln confessed. "It wasn't just the dead that people were afraid of. The Murphy family made our lives hell." John Lincoln sat up straight and a huge beam stretched across his face. "Then Vince came along."

"Yer like him, don't yer?"

"He's a fucking legend," laughed John. "Pardon my French."

Pickle smiled and looked at the portly fellow. He seem mild-mannered and very approachable. Pickle had no idea why he was seen as some kind of leader. Maybe it was because of his age. He didn't look the type that could handle himself, but it appeared that the people respected him, despite Pickle being certain that the man never got his hands dirty. He confessed himself that he never got involved with runs. So what did he do?

"What about yerself?" Pickle queried. "What's yer story?"

"Lived here all my life, pretty much." John Lincoln's wide smile slowly evaporated. He began to scratch his large belly. "Been on my own for the last five years. The wife died."

"Sorry."

"And the kids left years ago. Got their own families now. Both moved to London."

"Did yer ever hear from them, in the beginning?" Pickle took a small sip of the water.

"I was in touch with them for the first few days. It was the weekend."

"And after?"

John shook his head. Pickle could now hear sadness in his voice. "From Monday onwards ... nothing. I assume they're all dead."

"Come on." Pickle tried to add some positivity to the conversation. "Yer don't know that for sure."

"Don't I?"

"Yer still alive, aren't yer?"

"I suppose." John Lincoln decided to change the subject and asked Pickle where Vince had got to.

Pickle said, "I think he's gone for a walk around the place. I'll get a tour later."

"Gonna have to get your digs sorted out as well. It needs cleaned, and we—"

"There's no rush." Pickle took another sip of water and stood to his feet. "It's been a while. I'm gonna check on Paul and Karen. See if they need anything."

"They're adults. They'll be fine." John urged Pickle to sit back down. "If they want anything, they'll give us a holler. I'm sure of it."

"I'll check anyway."

"Fine."

Pickle took a walk up the stairs and reached the landing. He gently knocked the door, but there was no answer. He tried again; this time he opened the door and popped his head in the room.

He could see that both Paul and Karen were lying on their sides. Karen was under the duvet; Paul was on top of it and still clothed, his arm was around Karen's front. It warmed Pickle's heart to see this and a big grin developed on his features.

He was glad that Paul Dickson was alive and that Karen had somebody else to confide in.

Pickle crept around Karen's side of the bed and bent over to kiss her head. Once he kissed it, Karen began to groan as Pickle crept away from the pair of them.

"You're not going soft on me, are you, Branston?" Karen moaned.

Pickle chuckled lightly and stopped moving when he was at the bottom of the bed. "I thought yer were sleeping."

"I'm
half
-asleep."

"I was just sniffing yer head. Thought yer could do with a shower later on, yer manky cow. Seem as though they have the facilities, yer better start usin' them."

"Liar."

"Need anything?"

"No." She laughed. It was a tired laugh. "Just bugger off."

Pickle snickered and said in a whisper, "Keep yer voice down, otherwise you'll wake Paul up. I'll see yer later."

Karen said softly, "I love you, Harry Branston."

Pickle smiled, shut the door behind him and headed for outside.