Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) (61 page)

Chapter Nine

Karen Bradley and Sharon Bailey were in their caravan, and were having a spot of lunch. Sharon drank her water, washing down the jam sandwich, and told Karen that Robin Barton wanted her on hedge-duty for the afternoon.

"Did Pickle order this?"

Shaz shrugged. She wasn't bothered about hedge-duty. It was sunny outside, it was a walk in the fresh air, and it allowed her to daydream. She liked hedge-duty.

"I don't mind," Shaz finally answered.

"That's not the point!" Karen exclaimed. "Vince left Pickle in charge, so Robin shouldn't be barking orders at anyone."

There was a rap from behind them and both Karen and Shaz looked at the frosted glass of the caravan's main door. They couldn't see clearly, but knew the image outside of the place was Robin Barton.

"Speak of the devil," Shaz tittered.

Karen huffed and went over to open the door and rudely greeted Robin with a, "Yes?"

"Hey." Robin brushed his white hair to the side with his left hand and added, "Just seeing if Shaz is ready."

"And who made you boss?" asked Karen. "Isn't Pickle supposed to be in charge?"

"He is, but there's nobody on hedge-duty, and Pickle has decided to do another watch this afternoon, so I need to do something. He tried this morning, but he didn't last too long." Robin then eyed Karen up and down and asked, "So how are
you
today, sugar muffin?"

"Oh, please.
Sugar muffin?
What next?" Karen laughed mockingly. "Angel cake? Sugar tits? Sweet cheeks?"

"Just trying to be friendly."

"Yeah, well
don't
."

"Sorry."

"And one more thing."

"Anything, cherry pie."

Karen sighed, but Shaz could be heard giggling in the background. "You and your friend need to stop leering at me and Shaz whenever we're out walking. It's disgusting. You're older than my dad," snapped Karen. She then shut the door in his face, turned her back, and went over to the kitchen to get herself a cup of water.

"God, what's wrong with you?" Shaz half-laughed, amused but shocked that she was so rude to Robin Barton.

Karen drank the water, left the kitchen area, and went over to lie on the musty-smelling couch. "Forget it."

"Is it your hormones?"

Karen closed her eyes and began doing some breathing exercises. Shaz watched her friend, as her chest went slowly up and down, and could see a tear escaping from her friend's right eye. It slowly ran down the side of her cheek, but she never made an attempt to wipe it away.

"Karen?" Shaz probed again. Concerned for her friend, she asked, "What's wrong? You was fine earlier on."

Eventually, Karen spoke. "It would have been my mum's birthday today."

Shaz walked over to her friend and placed her arm around her. "You don't even know if she's dead."

"I do."

"If she has your feisty character," Shaz tried to make a little light of the situation, "Then she has a chance."

"Maybe."

Chapter Ten

After having a power nap in his caravan, Pickle was confident that he could manage the watch this time without falling asleep.

Sitting in the Vauxhall, he remained in the driver's seat with the engine off. The windows were down and the peaceful setting, despite the sight of bodies in the distance, relaxed Harry Branston. The peace reminded him of the hours he would spend sitting on Cardboard Hill, when he and Karen used to stay at Wolf's cabin.

The feeling was the same.

He dropped his head for a few seconds and lifted it once he had finished muttering his short prayer.

He gazed at every house in the street, individually, and decided to stretch his legs. He exited the vehicle and began walking slowly along the street, machete tucked in his belt. He stared at every living room window that he walked past, but all were covered by closed blinds or curtains. All main doors of the houses were closed, except one. As soon as he reached halfway down the street, he turned on his heels and headed back to the truck, the sun now behind him, burning his neck.

He stopped in his tracks and could hear a noise coming from behind him. He slowly peered over his shoulder. He could see the back of a little girl walking away from the street, and it seemed that she had come from the house that had the opened main door. It was the only explanation. Where else could she have come from?

Pickle walked towards the little girl with long strides, but was certain that she was one of
them
. Her sloppy walk suggested that she was one of the dead, but he just needed to make sure.

From the back, he guessed that she was no older than eight, judging by her height, and her dirty matted hair could have been blonde six weeks ago.

"Excuse me," he called out.

The girl stopped walking and turned around, slowly.

As he had guessed earlier, she was a Snatcher, a Rotter, a Grabber, a Biter, a Deadhead, a Lurker, a Monster, a Killer, a Moaner, a Groaner—whatever people called these things, she was now one of
them
.

Pickle took a few steps further on, drew his machete and put her down with ease. He picked up the poor thing and placed her on the pavement. He then walked over to the opened door, knowing that this was something he shouldn't be doing.

Pickle remembered the treatment Trevor Barkley received from Vince for sleeping on a watch, so for Pickle to actually go in a house and leave his watch should have resulted in similar treatment if ever he got caught.

He knew that wouldn't happen.

He was Pickle, and Vince worshipped the man, maybe even feared him a little. Six weeks ago Vince was a sad, single middle-aged man driving a forklift truck for a minimum wage. Whereas Harry Branston was a drug baron, who had been involved with violence for decades and was worth a fortune.

That was only weeks ago. Both men had adapted to the new world, but they hadn't changed that much in character. If push came to shove, Vince knew that Pickle could kill him with his bare hands.

As he approached the front door, he hesitantly peered inside. His main concern was that there could be someone in there, possibly a child, who could be hiding in a cupboard or an attic, waiting to be rescued. Going back to sit in his car for hours, knowing that there could be a miniscule chance that he could save a life, was something that he couldn't do until he checked out the place.

The other houses were okay. They were shut and blocked off. This told Pickle that people were still inside, trying to survive, but not quite ready to face the new world yet. Or, they had killed themselves, or had turned and couldn't work out how to get out.

He entered the reception area and once he took a look upstairs and along the hall, his first room to inspect was the living room. The door to this area was shut, so he placed his hand on the knob, ready to twist and push it open. Bringing the machete back, he did just that.

The door swung open to reveal a man standing in the corner of the room. The world was surreal enough, but noticing that this thing was wearing a bright green curly wig did nothing to quench the weirdness of the situation.

"What the fuck is going on?" Pickle whispered.

Pickle then clocked the rest of the attire the thing had on. It was wearing white silky baggy trousers, and a silk shirt and a colourful waistcoat that Pickle wouldn't be seen dead in. The irony was that this thing
was
wearing the waistcoat and was also dead.

It made more sense once Pickle released a sharp whistle to get its attention. It turned around, caked in make-up, and wearing a huge red nose.

A clown. But it was a clown of the dead variety, and Pickle froze, even when it quickly strolled towards him.

Shaking off his lapse in concentration, Branston suddenly swiped the machete at the thing, hitting it in the neck. The Snatcher was still trying to claw at him, grab him, while Pickle was trying to free the blade that was halfway into its neck. Its dead eyes, bright red nose, stupid green wig, and white make-up that covered his face, only enhanced its hideous features.

Pickle had killed many of these things, but this one incident was one of the most frightening episodes he had experienced. He had always hated clowns at the best of times. They may well be fun at parties during the day or at a circus, but Pickle always used to joke that the fun factor of a clown wears off if you see one at midnight, drunk, and waiting for a bus.

Finally removing the machete, he front-kicked the beast in its stomach. It bounced off the living room wall and went for the ex-inmate once again, the bounce giving it some momentum. This time it received a fatal blow. The blade entered the right side of its head, and was so deep that it stopped just above the nose. The clown fell, and Pickle held onto the weapon as it hit the carpet.

"Well, yer don't see tha' everyday."

His mind began to wander and thought about the scenario that had just occurred. He bent down and went through the man's pockets.

Nothing.

He wore an ID badge, clipped to his breast pocket, and Pickle took it off. Pickle didn't know whether to laugh or not at the situation. He read the ID badge: "Jimmy Page. Children's Entertainer."
I thought he was a guitarist
.

The outbreak occurred over the weekend, so it made sense a little that there was a clown here, maybe for someone's birthday. But where were the kids? The parents?

Pickle heard a thud upstairs and left the room to climb the stairs to the first floor. The bathroom was quickly checked, but he knew that the bedroom on his right was where the noises had come from when he was on the ground floor. He checked the other bedroom to make sure, and then turned his attention to the one to his right. He tried the door, but it appeared to be locked, unless it had been barricaded.

Pickle gently knocked the door and said, "If anyone can hear me, say hello."

He heard the shuffling of many feet and then hands slapping the door, making him jump. He tried once more. "Is there anyone human in there?" The slapping continued and the things behind the door began to growl. "I guess not."

Pickle could just imagine the scene inside the bedroom.

He guessed that it was kids and parents that had locked themselves in, and maybe the clown, Jimmy Page, was attacked, fell into a coma for an hour, then turned and began attacking the party members, some fleeing outside and others running upstairs. Now they had turned and were still in their party clothes, still with their face paints on, probably.

Pickle shook his head. He didn't have a clue.

He remembered a couple of days ago a story that Karen had told him. When Karen went to Fradley, looking for him, Vince and Shaz, she came across a few girls that had been on a hen night and had turned. She explained what a weird situation it was, but Pickle felt that he had now a weird story of his own, and this scenario could probably top Karen's story.

He lowered his head, whispered a prayer through the door for the poor young souls that were inside, and left the house.

Chapter Eleven

Paul Dickson was still waiting to be given a job to do. He had been at the camp for days, and Vince had told him that he would eventually be given something to do while Rosemary looked after Kyle.

He was still waiting, and was even contemplating on volunteering for the next run they went on. He knew that that would be a selfish thing to do, considering that Kyle had already lost his mother and sister, but living on the caravan site was mundane, and maybe father and son having a break from one another now and again would be a good thing.

Paul and Kyle were walking around the area. Kyle had a twig in his right hand, pretending he had a gun, and would sometimes run in front of his dad and behind a caravan, to then jump out at him. Paul would feign being shot, clutch his chest, then tumble a little. A few minutes of this and Paul Dickson's enthusiasm to play with his son was deteriorating, and he began thinking of his wife and daughter, stuck in that Renault Clio at the supermarket for all that time.

Paul's mind wandered back to that day he had found his girls, reanimated, and walking away from them while Bentley Drummle had taken care of them with his Glock.

What did he call that gun?
Paul scowled in thought, then smiled to himself.
Glen
.

"Daddy!"

Paul was dragged back to the present as his son stood ahead of him with his hands on his hips. He didn't look happy.

"What is it, big chap?"

"I was shouting you for ages, but you were ignoring me."

"Sorry son. I was miles away."

"I'm bored."

"Well, what do you want
me
to do about it?"

Kyle stood and thought for a few seconds. "I want another bag of nuts."

"So are you bored or hungry?"

"Both."

"They're in the cupboard, back in the caravan." Paul cussed under his breath, then added, "The caravan's already open. Hurry back, I'll wait for you here."

"Yay!" Kyle punched the air, and ran away, almost knocking over an elderly woman.

Young Kyle Dickson entered the caravan and took out another small bag. He looked at the front to see if they were the same kind, but couldn't really tell properly. He took them anyway, and headed for the part of the hedge where he had seen the rat. His dad would have to wait.

He grabbed a handful of nuts and sprinkled them by the gap he had created. He then walked a few yards away from the hedge and sat on the grass, near the shallow grave. After a few minutes of staring, he suddenly remembered that his dad was waiting for him and quickly got to his feet. But before he could move, his furry little friend appeared, forcing a smile over the youngster's face.

The rat began nibbling on the nuts, and was struggling, making Kyle laugh out loud. Kyle took a slow walk over to the creature, but Kyle's presence forced the thing to stop eating, then darted back under the gap.

"Hey, where're you going?"

Kyle ran over to the gap and stuck his face into it. He could see the rat scurrying through some long grass, and eventually being swallowed up by it. His eyes scanned the spot that was behind the camp, and wasn't familiar with this area. There were fields, and in the distance there was a house. Kyle guessed correctly that it was a farm.

Is that where his little friend lived? With the rest of the animals?

He looked over his shoulder, stuffed the bag of nuts into his pocket, and began crawling through the gap. He pushed away any twigs that poked him in the face and scraped against his body, and pushed the twigs in front of him so he could get through easier. Once he was at the other side, he brushed himself down, and began slowly walking through the grass. He whistled to beckon his friend, and was paranoid that he may accidentally step on him, so his strides were long and slow.

He spent most of his time looking down, searching through the long grass, and by the time Kyle Dickson had looked up, he could see that he was near the farmhouse.

Forgetting that his dad was still waiting for him back at the camp, the seven-year-old continued walking. He then stopped once he was near the farm, and wondered if there were any monsters inside. He was certain that he could outrun these things, but he'd prefer if he never came across one. He had only seen a few, and they scared the life out of him.

He bypassed a small barn by the left of him and stood staring at the front of the house. He hated farms. Although the houses of farms were big, he found them too smelly. This one was no different, and immediately placed his T-shirt over his nose. There was something wrong, however. He could smell animal faeces, but he couldn't
see
any animals.

He looked to the right of him and could see, in the distance, the back of the hedge that surrounded the caravan park. He turned his head to peer back at the house, and was undecided whether to enter it or not. His thoughts about his furry friend had diluted a little, and now his mind was being smothered with intrigue because of the mysterious house.

He took a deep breath in and decided to go inside.