Snatchers: Volume Two (The Zombie Apocalypse Series Box Set--Books 4-6) (64 page)

Chapter Sixteen

The seven-year-old scratched at his strawberry blonde hair, wondering if he should go inside the house or not. After walking through the long grass and not finding his furry friend, Kyle Dickson was at a loss what to do next. Beyond the farm was a main road, and was certain that the rat hadn't gone that far. If it had, then it would have crossed the road and went into the other fields. There was no way he was going to find him then.

He was now on the grounds and was staring at the house, the main door was left ajar. To his right was a small hut and the place was eerie, silent, and the farmhouse looked devoid of life, as if whoever used to live there had fled.

He took small steps towards the main door and placed his little hand on the door handle. He knew that his rat could have gone inside, and decided to check it out. He was aware that these things were seen as vermin to most, but he would love some kind of pet. If he managed to somehow bring it back to the camp, he could feed it and look after it. He would call it Brian.

He then checked his pockets. He had dropped his packet of nuts somewhere.

"Oh, biscuits," he snapped.

He decided to go in anyway, and pushed the door wider so he could get a look in the reception hall before entering the house. He knew that there could be a monster inside, but was cocksure that he could outrun one easily.

Kyle noticed the steep wooden stairs. He had no intention of going up there. Brian was too small and unable to climb such a steep flight anyway, even if he wanted to go up there.

Kyle checked the living room first and could see that it was a bit messy, as if someone had made a spontaneous decision to leave—unless it was a decision they were forced into. He then began whistling, trying to beckon his friend. He got onto his knees and looked under the couch, but could see nothing. He then tried looking behind it, then began scanning the rest of the room. He was certain that his friend wasn't in here as, apart from the couch, there wasn't anywhere else to hide.

He placed his hands on his hips and released a puff of air.

Where else could he be? The kitchen?

Kyle left the area to check the final room on the ground floor: the kitchen. He began opening cupboards and saw a few large tins. He opened up the first tin and could see that it had old batteries inside. Unimpressed, he placed it to the side of him and began opening the other tin that looked to have been a collection of biscuits originally. Inside the second tin was all kinds of crap: pens, a box-cutter, a necklace, and some old coins.

Kyle opened the final tin and saw a cloth. But there was something inside the cloth. He picked it up and placed it on the kitchen floor. He sat down and put his hand inside and pulled out a black revolver. He had never seen a real gun before, let alone hold one, and before he could explore it further, he jumped out of his skin when his name was called out.

Kyle turned around to see Pickle, his dad, and a young boy standing at the entrance of the house. His dad barged past Pickle and grabbed his son. "What the hell are you doing? I was worried sick."

"I'm sorry, dad. I was...looking for my rat."

"What?"

"He came to the camp. He's my friend."

Paul then noticed that Kyle was holding a revolver, took a quick step back, and exclaimed, "Jesus!"

Pickle quickly went over and took the old-style Smith and Wesson off of the young boy before his father could, and took a gander at the old thing. David smiled and went over to hold it himself, but Pickle nudged him away and told the youngster that it wasn't a toy. "Where the hell did yer get this?" Pickle interrogated the young boy.

"In the cupboard." Kyle shrugged his shoulders. "I was looking for my rat."

"Forget abou' yer stupid rat. Yer should never leave the camp like tha', do yer understand?"

Kyle then broke down and sobbed, "I just wanted a friend—somebody to play with."

Paul was on the verge of tears himself, and immediately forgave his boy for his silly action. "Oh, big chap. You can't leave the camp, especially without telling anyone. And you can't go befriending rats either. They're vermin."

"I miss my friends."

"I know, son. I know." He then looked over to Pickle and added, "Mr Branston didn't mean to shout. We were all worried, that's all."

"I'm sorry, Kyle." Guilt was eating away at Pickle for the way he had spoken to the seven-year-old. "We were concerned."

Pickle checked the revolver. He was no expert in guns, but knew that it was an old one. He checked to see that only two bullets remained inside it and guessed that it had been a while since it had been used. However, it did baffle him that if the owner had a family, he felt that it was a touch negligent to put a gun in a cupboard of a kitchen of all places. Or maybe it had been moved there once the outbreak was announced in case anything untoward came to the door. Why didn't the owner take it with him or her?

Pickle had no clue, and refused to let it infect his mind and wanted to just get back to the camp, fix the hole in the hedge, and get some dinner.

"Let's go," announced Pickle.

Paul picked his son up, forgetting how heavy he was—he wasn't a toddler anymore, and carried him out of the house. Kyle wrapped his chunky legs around his dad's waist, and lay his head on Paul's shoulder.

Pickle took one last look at the revolver and put it back in the cupboard.

"You not taking it?" David Watkins asked eagerly.

Pickle could see that the youngster was dying to handle it, but didn't give him the pleasure. "No point."

"But—"

"It's practically an antique, and it only has two bullets in it anyway. Not even worth putting it in yer pocket."

David's hands were itching to hold it and spoke up, "I'll take it." He reached out to grab it, but his hand was slapped away.

Snapped Pickle, "No yer fuckin' won't."

"Why not?"

"Because yer a kid," answered Pickle with no hesitation.

David almost became teary and begged, "Please. I'll look after it."

"You're fifteen years old, David. Yer couldn't look after a brush."

David stood and glared at Pickle, fury was evident on his face, but Pickle just grinned at the youngster and waited for him to move so he could go outside.

He didn't move, so Pickle pointed behind David and said, "That way, son. Move it."

David never budged.

"Now!"

Reluctantly, David did what he was told and felt angry towards the toughest man on the camp. He was living in a dire situation, and being denied of something that could protect his life made him furious. He was a kid, but he had done a lot of growing up in the last few weeks, and thought that one day those two bullets inside that revolver could just save his life. He would never know now.

All four went back through the long grass and headed for the gap in the hedge. Paul was still carrying Kyle, Pickle was behind them, his machete tucked in his belt, and David Watkins trudged through the greenery behind all of them. He kicked the ground occasionally, and was acting like a spoilt brat that had been told that he couldn't have an ice cream.

Pickle turned around and noticed that David was lagging. "Come on. Me and you have got a hedge to fill up."

David glared at the back of Pickle once he had turned back round, and decided that he was going to take the gun anyway. Pickle wasn't permanently in charge. He wasn't his dad. David could make his own decision if he wanted to be in the possession of a gun or not.

And he did want it.

Desperately.

Chapter Seventeen

His steps were slow, and once he arrived in the living room Vince was greeted with an empty room. He lowered his gun and jumped when he saw Jason Murphy step into the living room from the kitchen. Vince brought his gun up and Jason fled into the kitchen. Vince ran after him and saw that Jason had escaped through the back door.

Jason Murphy had been quick, and Vince knew that aiming and firing at him would have been a waste of a cartridge from that distance.

He lowered the gun and cussed. Then he wondered where Kevin was.

Trying to keep quiet, he walked around the ground floor and checked the kitchen. It was empty. Maybe Kevin had left as well. Vince was now baffled and his heart rate speeded up. Scanning the room, he scrunched his eyes in confusion, but then suddenly noticed a door in the hallway that he hadn't seen before. He guessed correctly that it was a toilet, and behind the door was Kevin, humming a tune.

The door was shut, and Vince was unsure whether Kevin had heard the slight melee. The humming from inside the toilet room suggested he hadn't. This guy was in a world of his own, and had no clue what had just happened and that his brother had left him in the shit.

Vince took in a deep breath, expanding his chest, and waited patiently. At this point he could hear a car starting outside, and he took a quick peep out of the living room window to see that Jason was escaping and leaving the street.

This didn't bother Vince. It was Kevin he was after.

Another minute had passed, and the foul smell coming from the room confirmed what Kevin was doing in there. Finally, the door opened. Vince took a step back and raised the shotgun.

Kevin walked out and raised his head. He looked shocked, and froze with fear, but Vince was certain that he didn't recognise him.

He slowly raised his hands and was perplexed why this badly scarred man was in his house, and where had his brother got to?

"What do you want?" Kevin finally spoke.

Vince snarled, "Justice."

With his arms still raised, Kevin crumpled his forehead while trying to think, and responded by saying, "I...I don't understand."

"I know you don't."

Kevin then lowered his arms and gave Vince a smile. "I think you may have the wrong man."

"I have the right man, that's for sure."

"Dad!" Kevin began to panic and called out. He had desperation in his voice.

Vince began to snicker. It was a mocking, unnerving giggle that made Kevin Murphy's vertebrae shake with fright. Vince said, "Call out as much as you want. Your dad's dead, and your brother has fucked off."

"What?"

"It's just you and me."

"What do you want?" There now seemed to be pleading in his voice. "Water? Food?"

Vince sighed, "I told you what I want. I want justice."

"I..."

"Do you have a coin?"

Kevin nodded. "There's change on the side, but money's useless now."

Vince kept the gun pointing at Kevin Murphy while he stepped backwards and reached for an ornament that was full of loose change. He emptied the ornament with the one hand and pulled out a two pound coin. He looked at the coin and smiled. It reminded him of the old world.

Vince glared back at a petrified Kevin. He was now teasing his prey. "Heads or tails?"

Stammered Kevin, "Wh-what? I don't understand."

"Let me explain to you the rules of the game," Vince spoke, making it up as he went along. "Guess correctly and you lose a hand. Guess incorrectly and you lose the ability to walk."

Tears streamed down Kevin's face and he cried, "What's this all about?"

"I think the options are generous, considering what you put my son through. And God knows what you would have done with that girl upstairs, once you became bored. Killed her probably."

Kevin smiled nervously and said, "Look, if you want the girl for yourself—"

"Don't you suggest such a thing, you sick cunt!" Vince screamed. "I'll ask once again: Heads or tails?"

"What's this all about?"

"Heads or Tails?"

"Tails!" Kevin cried, unaware what the outcome was going to be.

Vince tucked the gun in his right arm and flicked the coin with his left hand. He watched as it landed on the carpet. Vince looked down. "It's heads."

Vince raised his gun and Kevin cried out as the first blast hit him in the right knee. He fell to the floor, screaming in pain, blood spewing out. Vince pointed the gun at the other knee and pulled the trigger.

He walked away and went back upstairs for Lisa, whilst reloading with two more cartridges from his pocket. He snapped the weapon shut and tried to ignore the screaming from the crippled man from downstairs.

Chapter Eighteen

"We're low on gas," Karen announced. "I'm gonna ask a guard to see if they can give me more."

"Can they do that?" asked Shaz.

Karen nodded. "Vince said that if you ask, they put one by the caravan in the late evening, and it should be sitting by our door when we wake up."

"You'll have to get Pickle to swap the canisters. I can't lift those things on my own, and you're not lifting anything."

Karen passed Shaz a cup of tea and sat down next to her friend. The mundane day was almost coming to a close and Shaz could see something was bothering Karen. She plonked her cup down by her feet and sighed, "Okay. What is it? It's not just your mother's birthday you look sad about."

Karen didn't even bother pretending that everything was okay; there was an air of melancholy around her and she gazed at her shoes, taking a while to answer Shaz's query.

Shaz tried to speed things up. "Is it the baby? You worried about the future? Family?" Shaz scratched at her dark hair and added, "Pickle?"

Karen looked.

"So it
is
Pickle." Shaz smiled and widened those big glorious blue eyes of hers. She pressed further, "What's he done? Have you two had a falling out?"

Karen took a noisy slurp of the tea, and winced a little. The water tasted funny, but she didn't want to complain and upset her friend. "I may as well tell you," Karen finally said. "By the time we wake up tomorrow, it's gonna be all around the camp anyway."

"What is?"

Karen puffed out her cheeks and began, "I was getting some hassle off Chatting. Pickle came around the corner, then Robin turned up, and Pickle just went mad. I think he was having a bad day anyway, but he kicked fuck out of both men. I mean, he
really
kicked the living daylights out of them. I thought he was going to kill them. I don't know how Vince is gonna handle this when he comes back today—
if
he come back."

"Still no sign of him?"

Karen shook her head. "There's still plenty of time, plenty of daylight."

"About Pickle," Shaz placed her hand on her friend's hands, knowing that Harry Branston losing it like that had shaken her a little, "He's a nice guy, but there's a dark side to everyone. He's lived with violence for years. Not only that, it sounds like that he was protecting you from those letches. He wouldn't purposely lash out at any of us, I'm sure of it. I know there was an incident when you were burying Wolf's wife, Grace, and he accidentally palmed you in the face..."

"That was really my fault, and Pickle felt terrible the moment he did it, but..."

"But?"

"Today, I saw a dark side to him that I never knew existed."

"He was a drug dealer, Karen." Shaz sat back on the couch and added, "Violence comes with the territory. He's always had it in him. Look at the way he handles himself against those ghouls."

"These were people. And the violence that he dished out was three times too much than what they deserved."

Shaz wasn't there and took Karen's word for it. She knew what rumours were like. She was sure that the story of Pickle's violent outburst would be exaggerated the more the story got passed around, but he was now a respected member of the camp, and Vince liked him.

Asked Shaz, "Did he explain why he lost it so bad?"

"He was protecting me. They also called him names." Karen chuckled a little, "But he said he had had a bad day, so I suppose that didn't help."

"Oh?"

"He'd killed a clown."

Shaz laughed and said, in order to lighten the mood, "Well, there you go. That explains it."

Karen took another slurp of her hot beverage and placed her head in her hands after the cup was back on the floor. "I just hope he's not losing his mind. That's what I fear the most. We don't have the drugs for people with mental illnesses, whether they're depressed, bi-polar, or...I don't know. We just don't have anything for it."

"This thing has messed people up in different ways. I think the best thing to do is to ignore it for now. Maybe Pickle will return to the man that we know, and those guys will stop pestering us."

Karen chuckled falsely, "I don't think that'll be a problem anymore."

*

"You still mad at me?"

It took a while for Paul Dickson to answer his son's question. The truth was that he was still furious with him for going off like that, but he knew Kyle was feeling bad about the situation and his father wanted to forget about it. Kyle was all that Paul had left, and if he lost him, his life would be over.

"Don't worry about it anymore, big chap."

"I wanted to see if I could find Brian." Kyle spoke in an emotional voice.

Paul was serving the pea soup, that had been given to him by an elderly resident, into two bowls and handed a bowl to Kyle. "Brian?"

"My rat."

"It's just a stupid rat," Paul tried to speak without allowing his anger to surface. "Rats look after themselves, they don't need looking after by anybody else."

"But I just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to."

Paul ran his fingers through the side of his dark hair, exasperation scrawled all over his face. He took a deep breath in and was trying not to lose it with his little boy. "Kyle, rats can't talk."

"What about Remy in Ratatouille?
He
could speak."

"That was a cartoon," Paul sighed. "I'm talking about real rats. Not Remy, or...Roland Rat."

"Who's Roland Rat?"

"Forget it." Paul took a mouthful of the soup; it was burning his tongue the moment he put it into his mouth, but swallowed it down anyway. He placed his hand on his chest as the burning became uncomfortable.

Seeing his dad in some mild discomfort, Kyle said, "You're supposed to blow it first. That's what you always tell
me
."

Paul ignored the cheeky chap and took another mouthful, blowing it first. He could feel Kyle's eyes on him, so he took a gander at his son and looked at how handsome he was.

Sometimes he would forget what a cutie he and Julie had created. With the help of medical science—Kyle was an IVF baby— they had done well. Paul stared at his son's plump face, his freckles that were scattered over his nose and cheeks, his strawberry blonde hair, and looked at his wonderful big green eyes.

"I'm sorry, daddy, for running off like that," Kyle blurted out.

It seemed that those words were difficult for Kyle to say, and had lowered his head as soon as he said them. Paul smiled and said, "Let's forget it ever happened. Deal?"

"Deal." Kyle began tucking into his soup.

"After we've had this soup, we'll take a walk around the camp for an hour and then get ready for bed."

"Daddy?"

Paul exhaled hard; Kyle was an inquisitive child, but Paul would love a few minutes with his son where he wasn't bombarded with questions—some of them pointless. "Now what?"

"Do you think a man can run faster than a giraffe?"

"Just eat your soup, son."