Snatchers (Book 11): The Dead Don't Knock

  Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

  By

  Shaun Whittington

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author uses UK English

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  “And so, Lord, where do I put my hope? My only hope is in you.

  Psalm 39:7

  Snatchers 11: The Dead Don't Knock

  Chapter One

  August 18th

  He had managed six and a half hours of sleep. It was a personal record for Terry Braithwaite since June, and felt refreshed as he swung his legs to the side of the bed as soon as he sat up.

  He stood up, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts that had seen better days, and shuffled over to his bedroom window. He stroked his ginger beard and peeked from behind the curtains, letting out a sad moan.

  The street was clear.

  The only person he could see in the street was Stephen Rowley, with his bat in his right hand. It was rare to see Stephen at the gate. It was usually Terry, Stephen Bonser or James Thomson that went on gate duty, with the Fergusons doing the nightshift. Sometimes Gareth Broadgate would also do a stint during the night.

  Terry pulled back the curtains, a little too forcefully, and opened the window, dressed in only his shorts. Spotting him straightaway, Stephen Rowley waved at Terry with his right hand, the hand still gripping onto the bat, and roared 'Good morning' to him.

  Terry smiled and raised his hand, acknowledging Stephen, and was about to disappear, but Rowley bellowed, “Are you on guard duty today, chap?”

  Terry couldn't be bothered with Rowley, but he didn't want to be rude to Stephen. Stephen was a nice fellow, unlike that Paul Dickson bloke.

  Terry called back, “Not sure! What about you? How long you got left?”

  “Another hour, chap.”

  “Nothing to report?”

  “A couple of grey squirrels scurried by about half an hour ago,” Stephen laughed. “Apart from that ... not a lot.”

  “Non-stop action, isn't it?”

  “Oh, Pickle and Danny are gonna go out later on, with the two new blokes.”

  “Again?” Terry shook his head. “Hasn't Danny had enough experience now? A bloody waste of petrol, if you ask me. I don't know why Pickle and Danny don't go on foot. I mean—”

  “Actually, they are going on foot,” Stephen interrupted Terry's mini rant. “They're going to go over to No Man's Land. I think Pickle is hoping they come across some strays. More practice for Danny and the other kid.”

  “Oh.” Terry looked to his left and glanced at the vehicles that were parked up, all four of them. The black Range Rover, the red Ford Focus, the silver Vauxhall Zafira and the motorhome hadn't seen any action for a while.

  Terry smiled and told Stephen that he was going to get dressed and that he'd see him later on. Rowley twisted his neck, grunted, then looked up at Terry and playfully saluted him.

  Terry walked away from the window, leaving it open, and put on clothes that he had worn the day before. The clothes were strewn in the corner of the room, and he bent over to pick them up, groaning as he did this. He sat on the edge of the bed as he put on his white dirty socks, followed by his creased grey V-neck T-shirt and his black combats.

  His throat was dry, and he knew that the temporary cure for the dry throat was sitting in his kitchen: a half-litre of water in a plastic bottle. He put his boots on and stood to his feet.

  It was time to go downstairs.

  Terry descended his stairs, rubbing his hairy chin, and stopped once he was at the bottom. He gazed at the front door and released a heavy sigh. He was bracing himself for another mundane day.

  Finally moving away from the door, he progressed through his damp-smelling hall, passing his living room and into his kitchen. He could see the plastic bottle of water, went over and grabbed it and downed the liquid within a minute. He needed more, but knew that he'd get more once Beverley did her morning water rounds.

  The water had been collected at the Trent the day before and had been purified during yesterday evening. It had been the same routine since the community had been set up, after the death of Jason Murphy.

  Ideally, a solar powered pump or even a wind powered pump at a well or water hole would have been ideal, but the Trent was the nearest place to get water. Carrying and transporting water was a pain in the arse, but he knew that they were better off than most folk.

  Terry decided to go out into the street and get some air. He could see from his kitchen window that the day looked murky; a whole blanket of grey clouds covered the sky above him.

  He went through the hall and heard a sound that forced him to stop in his tracks. He looked to his right, at the cellar door, and listened out for anything else. He heard another noise from down there, from behind the door, and hesitated on what to do. He slowly slid the bolt back, but he paused and held his breath.

  He lowered his head as if he was praying, took in a deep breath, and then opened it. He took a long peep down the concrete steps and walked down into the dusky cellar, having only the light from the hall to guide him; he went down with wary feet.

  He was greeted by snarling as usual, and said with sadness, “Morning, princess.”

  His reanimated daughter had rope tied around her waist and the other end was tied to a beam. She had freedom to move, but she couldn't move far. She was still dressed in the clothes that she had on when she was first bitten, and Terry had noticed the smell was getting worse as the weeks went by.

  But she was all he had left.

  He wasn't stupid. He knew she was dead. He knew she was gone, and the real Kayleigh wasn't there anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to kill her.

  He stared at her rotten face, her milky eyes, and knew that a light bulb would reveal the true horror of what her face truly looked like.

  It was her birthday last week. She would have been eight years old.

  His eyes remained transfixed on the person that used to come to his side of the bed and in for a cuddle whenever she had a nightmare.

  There were no tears. He knew the real Kayleigh was gone, she had been gone since June 9th. If his wife and son had reanimated on that day, he was pretty sure that his feelings would be the same, but his son and wife were eaten so much that they had died because there wasn't much left of them too reanimate.

  In the beginning, in the first week, he had informed his concerned neighbours that he would 'take care' of the injured Kayleigh and told them all to leave his home. He announced later that his wife and son, who were already wrapped up by some of the neighbours, had been buried and Kayleigh had also been buried with them after he had put her out of her misery.

  In truth, he buried what was left of his wife and his son, but couldn't bring himself to kill his little girl. He just couldn't do it.

  When she had slipped into a coma, on that mad June weekend, she was tied up on the bed. Once she turned, Terry dragged her body gently downstairs and into the cellar. The rope was then untied and he placed it around her waist, whilst she was face down and he was kneeling on her arm, then he tied the other end to the beam.

  He glared as she continued to gnash and snarl, then turned his back and released a heavy sigh. “My baby girl.” Terry left the cellar and went up the steps, muttering, “My beautiful baby girl.”

  Terry shut the cellar door behind him, and once again the little girl was drenched in darkness.
>
  Chapter Two

  Vince Kindl was minding his own business and sitting on the kerb. He had seen David MacDonald hanging around the house he was staying at. He looked lost and bored, so Vince urged the youngster to sit next to him and have a chat.

  Vince had known David for weeks. At first, Vince didn't like him when he was at Sandy Lane, especially the way he and Charles Pilkington treated little Kyle Dickson at the beginning, and his dad, James MacDonald—or Jimmy Mac—was detested by Vince and most of the others.

  But David had redeemed himself, especially after Kyle's death, and Vince had warmed to the fourteen-year-old since he had been found at the side of a road.

  David strolled over to Vince, produced a thin smile, and then sat on the kerb next to Kindl.

  “It's a weird kind of day, don't you think?” Vince looked up to the heavens, then gazed at the youngster.

  “Weird?” The fourteen-year-old shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat. “In what way?”

  “Just...” Vince hunched his shoulders. “Dark, murky ... apocalyptic-looking.”

  “We are in the apocalypse, aren't we?”

  “Alright, smart arse.”

  David looked up to the heavens with a squint, “If it starts to get wet, I'm going inside.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” Vince joked, then immediately held his hand up, realising that David was just a minor. “Shit, sorry. Did I say that out loud?”

  “It's okay.” David MacDonald gave off a rare smile. “You wanna hear the stuff that used to come out of my old man's mouth.”

  “I forgot myself for a minute.” Vince cackled and shook his head at himself.

  “I hear some of the guys are going over to No Man's Land later on.” David nodded in the direction of the six-foot concrete wall.

  “That's right. Four of them. Pickle is taking Danny, and Craig is taking Jez.” Vince ran his fingers over his grey hair and felt a little drizzle of water coming from the clouds above. “Danny and Jez need a bit more practice killing the Rotters, especially if we're gonna start sending them out on regular runs.”

  David huffed, “I wish they'd take me.”

  “I think they should.” Vince turned to the side to look at the young man. “I think your age is irrelevant, but Lincoln has a bee in his bonnet because you're a minor. At least you're volunteering.” Vince looked around the street and saw Gareth Broadgate sitting on his lawn, and to the left were the two women from number twenty, Lynne Smithers and Sandra Roberts. “Unlike some.”

  “Not everybody wants to do it,” David spoke up.

  “It's not something that gets me hard, killing those freaks, but it has to be done sometimes.”

  A silence enveloped both males, but it wasn't something that made them feel uncomfortable. They gazed out for a minute and seemed lost in thought. Vince called it gouching. Kindl turned and looked at the youngster and could see his eyes filling.

  It wasn't surprising.

  David MacDonald was fourteen. He had lost his mother before the announcement, and his infected dad was put to death by Sheryl Smith, by ramming her blade through his right temple. And his only remaining friend, Charles Pilkington, was no longer around. It was a lot to cope with for the young man.

  David released a sad breath out and Vince asked what was wrong.

  “It's nothing,” said David.

  “Tell me,” Vince urged. “You might feel better getting things off your chest.”

  “Do you think about the people that you've lost?” asked David. “Even the ones that you didn't know very well?”

  “Yes, I do.” Vince said with zero hesitation. “I think about the people and miss some of them. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't miss your dad.”

  “That's alright.” David MacDonald smiled. “He wasn't the best father in the world.”

  “But he was still your old man.”

  David nodded. “He was. He slapped me about a bit, but he was the only family I had left.”

  “I suppose I miss Rosemary the most, and, of course, Lisa.” Vince lowered his head and sighed, “I know I dick about and say silly stuff, but I think about them all ... almost every day.”

  “All?”

  Vince nodded. “Even from my old camp at Spode Cottage. I think about Claire, Jack and Shaz. There was a young guy called Gareth Mason who I used to take the piss out of.” Vince laughed, looking up as he thought about weeks gone by. “He once asked me for advice about a girl he fancied, Jasmine Kelly. Both of them are now deceased.”

  “I remember her.” David nodded. “She came to Sandy Lane with some of your lot.”

  “There were others. Trevor Barkley. Man, he was a useless bastard. David Watkins. Now, he was the reason why my camp was invaded by the dead.”

  “What happened?” David asked.

  Said Vince, “He got obsessed with some revolver back at a farm and went out on his own to get it, bringing back a horde with him. I suppose little Kyle was partly to blame for making a hole in the hedge after befriending a rat.” Vince paused and tried to remember some others. “Henry Bowes, Gail Kelly, who was Jasmine's mum, David Chatting, Robin Barton. I even think about the old birds, May Worthington and Gina Harrison, now and again.”

  “What happened to the old ladies?” David queried. “Were they victims of the dead, when they got into your camp? You never brought them with you to Sandy Lane.”

  “They died,” Vince sighed, “but they weren't killed by the dead.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “When the camp was under attack, some dick, I think it was Geoff, panicked and shot a gas canister. Both of the old ladies burned to death in their own caravan.”

  David was taken aback by what Vince had told him. The Sandy Lane incident was bad enough, but Vince had now gone through it twice. David sighed and began to think about his short-lived friendship with Charles Pilkington.

  “I miss Charles,” he said with sadness.

  “Of course you do. Charles Pilkington was your friend.” Vince made a thin smile as he reminisced further. “Rick Morgan was a weird character. So was Sheryl.”

  David said, “I liked Bentley.”

  Vince nodded in agreement. “So did I. I miss Lee as well. No idea what happened to him. Dead, more than likely.”

  “I'm trying to think of others from Sandy Lane.”

  “There was Simon Benson, Kirk Sheen, Charles Washington, Helen and John Waite, Nicholas Burgess,” Vince paused, and then sniggered, “And who could forget Daniel? I think he used to go to high school with Karen many moons ago.”

  David MacDonald began to laugh and shook his head whilst still cackling. “Daniel. I forgot about him.”

  “Yep.” Vince's face went solemn and noticing this, David quickly regained composure and stopped cackling. “He’s also dead as well.”

  The drizzle from above was getting a little heavier, forcing David to get to his feet. He turned and told Vince that he was going inside his digs, at 7 Colwyn Place, a house he shared with Stephen Rowley.

  “How're you getting on with Stephen?” Vince asked the teenager before he had chance to move away.

  “Okay, I guess. I don't see him that much.” David pulled a face as if he was unsure whether to say the next short sentence. “He grunts a lot.”

  “Yeah, that does my head in as well.” Vince smiled.

  “But the nighttimes are the worst.”

  “He does it during his sleep as well?”

  David nodded. “I can hear him through the wall. It can be quite annoying sometimes.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Vince huffed and shook his head. “I'd be sneaking in there and putting a pillow over the twitchy bastard. Why don't you creep in there and punch him in the throat?”

  “It's crossed my mind, once or twice,” David laughed. He then held his hand up to wave cheerio to Vince. “I'll see you later, Vince.”

  “See you, kid.”

  Chapter Three

  An hour had passed, and by the
concrete wall stood Jez, Craig and Danny, all waiting for Pickle. All individuals had blades in their pockets, and on this particular trip Craig had decided to leave his hockey stick back at his new digs at 15 Colwyn Place. James Thomson lived there originally, but he spent so much time over at Stephen Bonser's, at number twenty, Lincoln decided to give the two male newcomers number fifteen.

  “Hurry up, Pickle,” Danny moaned under his breath. “I'm fucking dying of boredom here.”

  “Look.” Craig pointed up to Pickle's bedroom window and all could see the man waving at them. He then held up two fingers, telling them that he'd be down in two minutes.

  Craig gave him the thumbs up and turned to Jez. “You got a blade on you?”

  “Well, I'm not gonna be able to kill one of those things with my fingers, will I?” Jez was a little embarrassed that Craig was speaking to him like that, in front of Danny.

  “Well, actually you can.”

  Ignoring Craig, Jez turned to Danny and asked him, “For a roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings, would you have sex with a Freak?”

  Taken aback by his bizarre question, Danny Gosling stroked his dark beard and screwed his eyes at Jez. “A what?” Danny scratched his head. “A Freak?”

  “He means a Creeper,” said Craig. “Or a Snatcher. I think that’s what Karen calls them.”

  “What kind of a stupid question is that?” Danny asked.

  Jez said, “Just answer it.”

  “For a roast chicken dinner?” Danny looked up in thought, knowing that the silly question was to simply pass the time until Pickle made an appearance.

  Jez nodded.

  “For a roast chicken dinner ... I'd let one suck me off.”

  All three guys roared with laughter, which soon died down when Pickle walked out of his front door, dressed all in black, machete tucked into his belt.

  “It's the Milk Tray man,” Craig laughed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Pickle with a smile, taking the ribbing well. “I've heard it all before.”