 
Snatchers 3: The Dead Don't Cry

By

Shaun Whittington

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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
Wait! There's been a slaughter here.

Celebration of the Lizard by Jim Morrison

It's amazing how fast the world can go to from bad to total shit storm

Columbus, Zombieland (2009)

SNATCHERS 3: The Dead Don't Cry
Chapter One

June 23rd

The four pairs of feet pounded the earth as the dead had taken them by surprise whilst they slept. Jade Greatrix was put on watch for four hours, and even that had proved a hard task for the sleep-deprived, twenty-five-year old.

It was nearly five in the morning when a hand grabbed Paul Parker, who was startled and released a shriek—a shriek that woke the rest of the group and pumped adrenaline quickly through their veins. They were awake for a matter of a second or two when they quickly got to their feet.

Pickle was the first to run and they all followed, like obedient dogs following their master. They didn't know how many ghouls were behind, to their side, or in front, and the darkness in the woods did not help to ease their consternation or dilute their confusion. Even though the group followed the silhouette of their leader, they could see ahead that the forty-three-year-old was unsure where to go himself, as he occasionally banged into a tree and sometimes stumbled, as his weary feet would occasionally enter a ditch or a small hole.

Over a period of time all four had been carrying a thick wooden branch each for protection, but amidst all the panic and confusion, and also only having a second or two to find their bearings, Karen Bradley was the only one out of the four that grabbed her club when they were rudely awoken. It was an automatic reaction to grab that thick branch that had been lying to her right, next to her thigh—the other three branches had been left where the group had slept.

They had been in the woods for three nights and they had spent their time walking, sleeping, and eating what had been taken from the sports centre. For the last couple of days, their sleeping arrangements consisted of being snuggled together by a tree, as the cold wind was becoming bitter during the night, and blankets were something they did not possess.

Not one Snatcher had bothered them over the days, until now.

"I can hear a stream," Pickle bellowed to the group.

He ran into the direction of the stream that could be faintly heard among the heavy breathing and snapping of twigs, and veered to the right. Karen, Paul and Jade followed him and were now confident that the docile creatures had been outran and were many yards behind, but the darkness in the woods still fuelled their paranoia and wouldn't allow them to relax. The freaks from behind may have been outran, but what was to the left or the right of them? What was waiting for them up ahead? The darkness meant that their vision had been disabled.

The stream could be heard up ahead more clearly, and despite the cluster of trees, the full moon had shone down on the water, creating a little light. Pickle stopped in his tracks and could just about see a man-made set of stepping stones that would allow them to cross to the other side without dampening their feet.

As soon as the remaining three got to the bank of the stream, he slowly made his way across the other side. He knew that the running water in these woods weren't deep, but he also didn't want to unnecessarily dampen his shoes and feet if he could avoid it. Wet shoes meant eventual decay of the footwear, and spare footwear was something that they didn't have. They didn't have much of anything else either.

The last one to get to the other side of the stream was Paul Parker. Once he stepped onto the bank, he copied the rest of the group and bent over to catch his breath.

"Three days." Pickle shook his head. "Three days and we haven't seen a single one o' them, and _this_ happens." He then turned to Jade and scrunched his eyes and slurred, in his usual manner, "How come yer didn't hear them comin'?"

"I don't know." Jade shrugged her shoulders. She felt useless to the group as it was, without admitting that she had fallen asleep. She was on guard and had the lives of three other people in her hands for four hours, but she still fell asleep! Keeping guard was a simple task to do, and she couldn't even get that right.

"You didn't hear a snap of a twig or nothing? That is strange." There was huge scepticism in Karen's voice, but Jade chose to ignore it.

"Let's just keep moving." Paul sighed and placed a comforting hand on Jade's shoulder. He was pretty sure—they _all_ were—that Jade had fallen asleep, but it wasn't as if she had done this on purpose. Pickle was calm about the situation; Paul was more sympathetic towards Jade, but Karen was certain that this young woman could be a very big thorn in their side. Karen thought that Jade's negligence could eventually lead to someone's death.

Without uttering a word, Pickle began walking up the bank and made slow steps into the deep, blackness of the woods; the group followed. He quickly held his hands up to halt the group from progressing any further, and they all adhered to his silent command. Karen whispered into the darkness, "What's up?"

Pickle never spoke at first. His eyes remained looking ahead into the woods, and then he shook his head, and spoke, "There's something up ahead; something had caught ma eye slightly to the right o' me."

All four stared into the darkness until a solitary figure could be just about seen stumbling its way, unknowingly at first, towards the group. Pickle took a step back and squatted to the floor, feeling for something to use as a weapon.

Karen placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "It's okay. I've got it."

They had no idea what it looked like, but could see that it was wearing some kind of dress to suggest that the thing was, or used to be when it was human, female.

It got nearer to the group, only five yards away now, and Karen approached it, her thick branch being held with both hands. She brought the club up, as if she was waiting for someone to pitch, and swung the thing to the side of its head. It fell to the floor immediately with a noisy thump, and released a groan to suggest that it wasn't quite finished yet. Karen brought the club down three more times on its skull. The group could not see the damage that had been created, but they certainly could hear it. The cracks, the splinter of bone and a squishing sound was heard.

Karen had pummelled it to death.

"I hate doing that." Karen began wiping the bloody club onto the grass.

Pickle nodded in agreement. "It's pretty risky, that's for sure. When yer bludgeon these things, there's more of a chance o' mess. If any o' that blood gets in yer eye..."

Pickle allowed his sentence to trail off and immediately thought of Thomas Slade. He then thought about Jack. Karen also thought about Jack once Pickle had mentioned the 'blood getting in the eye' comment, and asked no one in particular, "I wonder how he got on?"

Paul sighed with sadness, "I just hope it was quick, whatever way he went."

"He might not be dead." Jade provided the only positive remark amongst the group and began to follow them as they started walking through the woodland once again.

Added Pickle, "Yer didn't see Jack's eyes before we left, Jade. _I_ did." Pickle then turned to Jade and rested his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "He's gone. He'd given up. He'd lost everything and had given up."

The thought of Jack's demise placed a blanket of melancholy over the group as they trudged silently through the woods. Four sets of eyes scanned the darkness of the condensed area that was capable of hiding these things, although what worked in the groups' favour was that stealth wasn't the Snatchers' strong point. These things could be heard from a distance with their dragging feet, and the environment of the woods wasn't the best for such creatures. They were killers, but they weren't predators in the sense that they were capable of some kind of ambush.

Five minutes later, Paul was the individual to break the silence.

"I'm knackered." Paul's feet dragged along the ground and was making enough noise in the woods for the four of them. Pickle could see that this wasn't Paul Parker being petulant and that he was doing this on purpose; he genuinely looked exhausted.

The dark blue sky that sat above their heads suggested that daylight wasn't far away. Pickle stopped and looked around. It was time for a change, he thought to himself. Dwelling in the woods was going to have to come to a close eventually. They had no vehicle, no weapons, and the food was now running short. The group were going to have to leave the place and head for different surroundings, because if they didn't soon, starvation and dehydration was going to draw them out eventually anyway.

Seeing that daylight was forcing its way through, Pickle stopped by a cluster of bushes and suggested, "Let's have a wee rest here, now that we can actually see our faces. I'll keep guard."

No one argued with him, and all members of the clan sat on the floor and tried to sleep. Karen placed her hand in the bag she was carrying. It was nearly empty. She pulled out a protein drink and took it down in one.

Karen then looked at Pickle. "Just have an hour on watch. I'll do an hour after you. Then we need to try and find a way out of here."

Pickle nodded in agreement and looked around the woods. "Yep, it was good for a while, but we need to stock up on some food and get some kind o' liquid inside our dry bodies." He then shook his head and rubbed his stubbly chin.

Karen looked to the side of her and asked, "What is it?"

"I don't know how long I can keep this up. I'm fucked. Even if we had plenty o' food and drink, the sleep deprivation's killing me." Pickle stood with his hands on his hips and took a long breath in, puffing out his chest, and released it quickly. "This is our last day in these woods. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Karen nodded, then looked over to Paul and Jade to see that they had already passed out. Jade and Paul were sat up against the same tree stump, their heads resting against each other.
Chapter Two

Johnny Jefferson looked around on the ground floor of the warehouse he had been living in for more than a week, and released a deflated sigh, which was something he had done many times before over the last week or so. He thought back to his Saturday nightshift back on the 9th June. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Johnny was due to have a few days off, but agreed to do overtime with one more shift so that the car-parts company could get their order out for Monday morning. There were five of them in all, and during the week, with a full house, the company employed over two hundred people doing alternative shifts in the specially-built building.

During their Saturday overtime, one of the forklift drivers was outside and found a solitary person walking along the industrial estate. This was unusual as their company was based in Fradley, which was four miles from Rugeley, and there was nothing in Fradley apart from a dozen companies and a few residential houses. The person looked drunk and appeared to be staggering a little, which confused the forklift driver even more as there was no nightlife at all in Fradley. So where had he come from?

The forklift driver was then caught in two minds whether to climb the secured gate, that led to the company's building and car park, to see if the man was injured in any way. It was normally controlled by a security man during the week who would check deliveries, but it was always closed on a weekend as overtime and deliveries were very rare, and the key to the gate was carried by the supervisor in charge whenever there was overtime. The forklift driver called after the lost soul, but there was no response, so he climbed over the gate to see if the loner was okay.

A few minutes later Johnny saw the forklift driver stumble into the building, claiming he had been bitten on his hand and told him the short story about the man that was alone outside. The man had gone for him, but he managed to push him away and climb back over the gate, despite his injury.

The injured forklift driver was then taken to the boardroom by the supervisor and fell asleep. An hour or so later, two colleagues told Johnny that they were going to the boardroom to see how he was doing, as it had been a while since they had heard anything.

Johnny was on a forklift truck when he saw three of his colleagues coming out of the office. Two of them were holding their injured arms, whilst behind, Ian David, the forklift driver that had been taken to the boardroom, stumbled behind, but he looked different. He looked awful, drunk ... dead!

The two that were attacked told Johnny that Ian had attacked the supervisor in the boardroom and had fallen down the stairs after them. The dead Ian David continued to pursue the men around the factory floor; there was no letting up, until suddenly the dead Ian David tripped and impaled his head on the corner of a pallet. He had stopped moving and they all came to the correct conclusion that he was dead ... again.

All three were shocked at what they saw, and decided to call the emergency services, but they were constantly engaged. Then the other two colleagues began to feel unwell, and at this point Johnny was getting nervous and also was wondering how the supervisor was keeping. He went up to check on him and saw that he had been bitten, had locked himself in, and refused to come out of the boardroom.

Johnny went back onto the shop floor, turned on the radio near one of the works stations, but it was playing music as normal. He had heard over the last few weeks that there had been reports of biting incidents and thought it was a new teenage thing like when 'happy slapping' first came about.

His colleagues went into the canteen to have a sit down and a drink of water, and Johnny already knew that his two colleagues were beyond help; he wasn't stupid, he had seen the movies before. When he peered into the canteen a few minutes later, he saw that the two men were unconscious. He knew he couldn't leave them in there with the door unlocked. If this was anything like the movie he had seen the other week, these colleagues were done for. It seemed ridiculous, but they both had injured, bitten arms, and he was certain that it was only a matter of time that his colleagues were going to turn.

He had been watching the news over the last couple of weeks. He had heard about the attack in Newcastle's Research Centre, the attack at Birmingham Airport where two baggage handlers were bitten by a rogue being, and a week after, the riots in Mansfield that saw twenty-eight people arrested, where eleven officers were injured with bite wounds and were transported across hospitals all across the north of England. What confused Johnny when he watched the riot was that it seemed different to any other riot he had seen, and wondered why this hadn't been picked up by the media.

In normal riots the crowd would be throwing missiles at the police and running away from the water cannons and tear gas, rather than walking briskly towards the riot team without a care in the world.

He continued to go to work as normal, but stocked up his house with food and water in case of the unbelievable.

It had been two weeks since those events had happened, and had spent two weeks of living at his workplace. For now, his plan was to bide his time and allow the country to get itself back on its feet whilst he hid in the building.

From the offices, he had peered from the first floor window every now and again and was pleased that there was nothing around. When he first did this, his paranoid head would twist to the right to make sure that the supervisor, that Ian David had attacked those few weeks ago, didn't get through the boardroom window. Since Ian David had bitten the supervisor, the supervisor had reanimated in the boardroom, but fortunately the creature never worked out how to unlock the door of the room. It appeared that these things were capable of ripping a man apart, but a simple task like opening a door was beyond them. For Johnny's own piece of mind he also kept the canteen locked.

What irked Johnny, however, was that the supervisor was the guy that opened the factory, which meant that he had the majority of the keys to the place. The supervisor also was in possession of a set of keys that would have been perfect for Johnny, if only he could drive. The set of keys was for the supervisor's black jeep, and would have come in handy if Johnny could actually use a car, but he couldn't.

Even if he had the keys in his pocket and needed to escape, he would still be forced to go on foot. Driving cars had never interested him; he had never taken the driving test at all and had never taken a lesson in his life. He thought they were too ridiculously-expensive and relied on lifts to get to work and back, as the bus service in a village like Fradley was pretty dire.

The boardroom was locked; there was a solitary window, but with a thick pane. Every time Johnny went to the first floor, the former supervisor would get excited and stand near the office window, clawing at it. But Johnny was used to it now. He never flinched anymore. It wasn't June 9th anymore; it was June 23rd, and Johnny had become accustomed to living in fear and alone in the factory. What worried him the most was what he was going to do once he ran out of food and water.
Chapter Three

Pickle rubbed his hairy chin which annoyed him. He had never had a beard and was always a clean-shaven individual. His grey jogging bottoms and his black T-shirt were days old now, and he wondered when he was going to get himself a new set of clothes. For three nights they had slept in the woods, and they were now on the brink of starvation. Their stomachs were empty and now they had to leave the area and venture somewhere where food was available.

The woods were reasonably quiet and the original plan was for the group to stay in there for as long as possible. The more days passed, the less chance there would be of those things to deal with, or so they hoped. But the hunger was now drawing them out.

Karen sat down and the main unpleasant experience of the woods wasn't the fear of the Snatchers, but the fact that they had to do their business with no toilet roll for the last three days. Leaves were all they had, and the twenty-three-year-old former nurse was paranoid about picking up infections.

Karen watched as Paul and Jade were standing ten yards away, giggling to one another as if it was a private joke. The pair of them had become close over the last few days, but it was innocent, especially as far as Paul was concerned as his wife, Jocelyn, and his two-year-old daughter, Hannah, were constantly talked about by the thirty-one-year-old.

She put her head in her hands and Pickle asked what was wrong. "I'm thirsty," answered Karen.

"Tell me about it. I haven't drank water since the sports centre, just a coke and a bottle of vimto."

"I've been in and out of the woods for the past fortnight. I could murder a cup of tea and a hot shower."

Pickle laughed, "A cup of tea would be great. I've even thought about breaking back into my old prison."

"Seriously?"

Pickle shrugged. "There should be a generator o' some sort to keep the place goin' for a few weeks, but I suppose it'll be overrun with those things now. Either that, or some gang have claimed it."

"Probably," Karen said, then winced with the pain in her head.

"What is it?"

Karen looked over to Paul and Jade who were standing ten yards away, and seemed to be involved in their own conversation. Karen put her forefingers to her temples and winced again. "It's nothing. Just a headache." She then cupped her right hand, sharply breathed into it and took a sniff of her cupped hand. "My breath smells like shit."

Pickle smiled. "Don't worry about it. We all stink."

For the last three days the four individuals had been trying to stay low, but the lack of food was beginning to entice them out. The group, after living off rations of crisps and juice, were finally running out of food, and Pickle knew that staying in the woods was not practical unless they came across a stream of pure water and a field of animals. This, of course, was nothing but a pipedream, because for the last three days they had remained in the woods, they had no idea where they were. They never had a plan; they just wanted to stay reasonably safe and away from roads and general population.

Their thinking had now changed. They needed to be hydrated and have food in their bellies.

When they left the sports centre, the goal was to somehow find sanctuary, because all Pickle, Karen and Paul had done since the beginning of the outbreak was to run away from those damn things. Even though being in the woodland made them less vulnerable to predators, they were also hidden from any chance of being picked up by a rogue driver or any other kind of help. They didn't know how many miles they had walked over the last three days, but it was becoming clear that the woods were thinning out and appeared to be coming to a halt, which now pleased them.

Wordlessly, they all stepped out onto the edge of the area onto a country road. They were out in the open and it felt good. Being in the woods was the safest option, but the heat was stifling and it was good to feel the cold wind on their sweat-stained shirts.

They were all desperate for washes; their mouths were rank with the stench of not brushing for days, and they seemed to itch all over from a concoction of the dirt and the heat. Throughout the nights, they had all slept on the grass with one keeping guard.

Jade had estimated that she had probably had seven hours sleep over the nights, if she was lucky. Her body was sore; her mouth was as dry as sand paper; her teeth ached from the neglect, and she stunk. She had become used to this as the rest were also stinking; it seemed to be something that was just accepted now. Jade Greatrix was still a nervous wreck, even after three days of being outside, and Karen was still irked by Jade's presence and had hardly said a word to her over the three days.

Jade was the first to speak whilst the rest of the group had their eyes closed and looked up to the dull sky, enjoying the breeze that caressed their frames.

"So what happens now?"

Nobody answered her straight away.

Eventually Pickle spoke, "Not sure. I think we should have a wee sit down and discuss what our next move should be."

Jade was the first to slump onto the grass bank at the edge of the road. Paul did the same and began moaning about the smell that was coming from his body. Paul Parker lowered his head and thought about Jocelyn and Hannah. He hoped they were okay, but he also knew that they may not be alive anymore. He realised it was pointless and now too far and dangerous going back to his house, but it was still killing him not knowing where they were or how they were doing, or if they were even still breathing.

Pickle squinted his eyes. He was lost in thought and threw his head to the right, then to the left, looking down the country lanes.

Noticing his confusion, Karen asked, "What's up?"

His eyes narrowed, furrowing his brow, and began scratching his head. "I think I recognise this place."

Karen coolly nodded her head. "That's because we've been here before."

"What?" Pickle looked bemused. "When?"

"We've practically walked in a circle. Don't forget, I've lived in this area all my life. This road..." Karen allowed her sentence to trail off and paused, until Pickle's raised eyebrows urged her to continue with her sentence. Karen cleared her throat. "This is the very same road where KP got out of the van."

Pickle's face was emotionless, but he could feel a sick feeling in his stomach; his hand rubbed his thin beard in thought. "So ... we're back at Stile Cop?"

"More or less. It's just round that corner and up the hill. Do you think we should check it out?"

The forty-three-year-old never answered her straight away; he was lost in deliberation. He stared down at the road and suddenly felt his body sway; he widened his eyes and looked back up to re-focus his blurry eyes. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out. "I don't know," he finally answered. "The last time we were there, we were swamped with the things. Don't yer remember what happened to Jamie and Janine?"

"Don't forget Davina," Karen chipped in. "Anyway, that was nearly two weeks ago. These Snatchers ain't gonna hang around if there's no ... well ... food about, are they?"

"Yer reckon the place could be empty?"

Karen made a face as if she was unsure what the outcome would be if they went back there. "Won't harm to check it out, then we'll take it from there."

"We're gonna have to eat ... soon," Paul spoke up and began walking towards the pair of them.

Both Karen and Pickle nodded in agreement. Both their stomachs were beginning to grumble with dissatisfaction of the lack of action they'd been getting since yesterday. "I know there's a supermarket not far from here, but there might be fuck all in there now," Pickle half-scoffed.

"We could always try and go back into Rugeley," Karen said, "after we've checked out Stile Cop."

"Didn't yer tell me the town was swarming?"

"A while back, yes. But who knows what could be happening? We could be hiding in the woods while the Rugeley residents have ... I dunno ... kinda taken control of their town. Maybe it's been quarantined by the army."

"Or..." Paul smiled sarcastically at Karen's positive attitude, "maybe ... there's no one left, because they've all been ripped to fucking pieces."

Pickle and Karen looked at one another whilst Jade picked her teeth with her little finger. She was in a world of her own, and never reacted to Paul losing his temper. Both Pickle and Karen never responded to Paul's angry outburst either. They knew he was still unsure whether his wife and daughter were alive or not, and put his fury down to frustration.

"Well," Pickle began, "food and drink isn't going to fall into our laps sitting here, is it? Something has to be done. We'll go to Stile Cop first, it's on the way anyway, see what's been occurring, then we'll go to Karen's hometown and see what we can get."

"A set of wheels would be good." Paul spoke as if he was in a daydream. His eyes were wide. He looked like he was a million miles away, and his short-lived anger had begun to evaporate.

"A set o' wheels would be great, but let's see what's about." Pickle investigated the inside of his mouth with his tongue and could feel the wrinkles in the roof. He was dehydrated. He knew he was dehydrated because his head was pounding and he hadn't shat for two days. "If any o' yer lot come across any thick branches, pick them up. I'm not going into that town unarmed. It's only Karen that's armed now."

"I'm sure we can outrun those things, if there ain't too many," Karen piped up.

"It's not just the Lurkers that we need to worry about," Paul spat; it sounded like he was becoming emotional; his voice shook as he spoke. "My friend, Gary, was raped and killed by two men," Paul looked over to Pickle, "in that very same supermarket you were talking about. I'm going nowhere, unless I'm armed with something."

"Well yer better find somethin' then," Pickle snapped.

This kind of talk did nothing to breathe confidence into Jade. What happened to humans pulling together? she thought. She sighed, and thought about her lonely existence, being stuck in the sports centre. But at least she was safe, and had possibly another week left before supplies would have ran out.

"Okay." Pickle clapped his hands together in a futile attempt to rally the troops. "Are we ready?"

Dejected and sleepy, Paul and Jade managed a tired nod and began to follow Karen who was already five yards ahead of them. Jade looked at the back of Karen Bradley and scowled. Jade knew that Karen disliked her, and the feeling was mutual, but nevertheless, she knew that Karen was a tough individual and that she would rather have her on her side than be against her.

She walked with Paul, their conversation was non-existent. Their feet dragged, their clothes were filthy and their morale was rock bottom. The two in front, Pickle and Karen, walked with more energetic and confident strides. They turned left at a junction to find a vacant road, which made them relax a little; there was no sign of life at all. Their strides continued, whilst Paul and Jade did their best to catch up.

"Nearly there," they heard Pickle say to no one in particular. A minute later, the two in front stopped and Paul and Jade did the same. Pickle looked to his left and nodded with contentment, whilst Paul and Jade eventually caught up and stood next to them.

They were at a crossroads and could see a few dead bodies to their right, whilst to their left, the road that led up to Stile Cop, there were even more bodies further up. There were two particular ghouls that were still active and at the side of the road. Their legs were crushed, and it was apparent that they had slowly crawled their way to the side. They didn't look to be a threat, and their presence was ignored by the group.

Jade released a smile and immediately said, "Somebody's been here," she half-laughed. "The army, maybe."

Pickle shook his head, which was noticed by an unhappy Jade. She was annoyed that any little hope she could grab onto was being wiped away by Harry Branston.

"What are you shaking your head for?" she asked with fury in her tone. "Who else could have done this? Who else could have killed these things?"

Karen gawped at Jade and said, "I hate to shit on your cornflakes, but _we_ did this. Just over a week ago."

"What?"

"We got attacked one night." Pickle decided to clear things up and eliminate any confusion and false hope. "We lost a couple o' people. Anyway, Karen created a diversion so me and ... KP ... could escape with the van. The van killed a few on the way to meeting Karen back here," he pointed to the floor where they stood, then pointed at Karen, "then Wild Bill Hickock here began shooting a few."

Karen lowered her head, and thought back where she had a rush of blood to the head and unnecessarily shot the two ghouls, when she should have quickly jumped into the van.

"Shall we go?" Karen stared at Pickle.

They all began to walk up the steep road, stepping over the rotting corpses that even the crows had refused to eat. Another fifty yards and they'd be by the Stile Cop entrance, which they used to block off with the prison van not so long back.

Pickle looked over to Karen and winked. "This brings back memories."

"Yeah." She nodded her head in agreement. "Bad ones."
Chapter Four

Johnny took a walk around the desolate building, and stared at the huge aisles that were there for the cranes. The cranes would be used to go to ridiculous heights so certain car parts could be picked by the operator and then brought back to the ground floor, packed up, and then sent to its destination across the waters.

He sighed and thought that maybe the factory would never be used again, but he had more things to worry about. He had to admit it. His job didn't exist anymore, he knew that, and survival was his only goal now.

In the beginning of the outbreak, he would get into one of the cranes and go right to the top part of the aisle, and that's where he'd go for a sleep. The last time that he tried that was on Tuesday. When he woke up in the cab, fifty feet above the factory's ground floor, he went to use the control panel to bring the crane back to the ground as he was peckish and needed the toilet. The crane wasn't budging, in fact, the whole factory was dim because of the lights above were not working anymore.

The power had finally gone, and Johnny had to perform the nerve-wracking task of climbing down the aisle without breaking his neck.

He snapped out of his self-hypnosis and puffed out his cheeks. The monotony was killing his brain, but he knew he was luckier than most folk. His experience with these things had been short and isolated, and knew that it was a lot worse out there, which was the reason why he had stayed behind. He was sure that if he had a family to go home to, the situation would be a lot different. But Johnny had no family, and for the first time in his life he was thankful for that.

He walked past the empty stations on the ground floor, that would have been buzzing with workers filling pallets full of parts and the aisles would be busy with forklift trucks, and he walked through the door that led to the canteen and toilets, and a staircase was to his right that led to the first floor such as the boardroom and other offices.

He walked through the gents toilets and relieved himself. Once he was done, he placed his ear against the locked canteen door. Those things were mooching about; he could hear it. He had spent the last week or so raiding his colleagues' lockers for food, and the canteen was closed on Saturday. He knew that if he wanted to continue hiding in the factory, the canteen was going to have to be opened sooner or later, as the place had food and also two vending machines. But that meant he was going to have to kill his two colleagues.

Just out of interest, and total boredom, Johnny took the stairs to the first floor. Walking past the boardroom and ignoring the thuds from the reanimated supervisor from inside the office, Johnny released a strident yawn and took a sip of the can of diet coke he was holding in his left hand. In the past, he was always wary of drinking diet drinks because of the aspartame the companies put in the products, but now he had more things to worry about than aspartame.

He glared out of the window, and his eyes watered whilst he peered out into the country lanes that the factory was surrounded by. Although a nightmare to find for delivery trucks, the place had been saving a fortune over the years because it was out of the city and towns where the rent was extortionate.

Suddenly, his eyes clocked a figure stumbling out of the woods and onto the main road that was situated opposite the works' car park. Johnny gasped, but his increase in heart rate was temporary once the figure saw him looking through the first floor window and began waving at him with both arms.

It's human!

The man looked exhausted, almost drunk-like, and Johnny guessed that he was probably severely dehydrated and starving. For the first time he had been cooped up, Johnny ran down the stairs and opened the door into the secured car park and was welcomed by fresh air for the first time in a long time.

He ran over to meet the man and beckoned him over with his hand. "Over the fence," Johnny cried excitedly. "Climb over the fence."

Johnny saw the man stagger towards the wiry, six-foot fence, and he wondered if he was going to have the strength to make it over. Once the figure reached it, he stumbled on the grass and fell into the fence. He looked like his energy levels were at rock bottom.

Johnny took hold of the wiry fence to stop it from wobbling too much once the man had mustered the energy to attempt the climb. The man began to climb, and his arms and legs shuddered. His face was filthy; his hair was dark with grey at the sides, and he had a few days growth on his face.

Once the stranger had managed to get his arms over the fence, he pulled himself over with, what looked like, the last of his strength. Once he was over, he allowed his exhausted body to drop and land hard on the grass, on the other side.

Johnny winced when the stranger hit the grass. It sounded like a sore one. He took a look at the dishevelled man and shook his head. Johnny said, "Let's get you inside."

He helped to get the man onto his feet, placed his arm around his shoulder, and walked him back to the only door that led inside the factory, now that the shutters were down and secured.

Once they both got inside, the man collapsed onto the floor. Johnny helped him and sat him up against one of the wooden pallets that was filled with car alternators, waiting to be lidded and shipped to Jakarta. The man began to moan and was drifting in and out of consciousness. Johnny could see that the man's lips were dry and there was a little white gunk at the corner of each side of his mouth, suggesting he was severely dehydrated.

"Wait there," Johnny said. He didn't really know why he said this, as the man was incapable of going anywhere in his condition.

Johnny returned with a bottle of apple juice and a cereal bar. As soon as the weak man spotted the drink that Johnny was unscrewing, he grabbed it off of him and drunk it in one.

"Just be careful," Johnny cautioned. "Try not to drink and eat so fast." He then handed the man the cereal bar and went away to find another drink. He returned with a half-litre bottle of flat lemonade.

"There _is_ more," Johnny spoke. "But it's in the canteen."

"Great." The man raised a smile and now took a swig from the bottle of lemonade.

"No ...you see, the thing is," Johnny was trying to find the right words to explain his predicament, "there's two of those things in there."

The man's eyes widened, but Johnny tried to appease him straight away.

"It's okay," Johnny added. "I've locked them in."

"They can't get out?" The man's voice was hoarse and he loudly cleared his throat, which echoed through the factory.

"No. They can't get out." Johnny smiled.

"Okay," the man was clearly exhausted, but spoke with calm. "I'll sort them later, once I've slept."

"You'll sort them? Once you've slept?" Johnny was wondering if he was hearing things. "Look, I don't think you know the situation out there."

"Oh, I know," the man guffawed falsely. "What do you think I've been doing for the last two weeks? Not hiding in a factory, that's for sure."

Johnny then realised someone like this man must have killed one or two of those things in order to survive, but why was he outside and why was he not at home with his family? Was his family dead? Johnny then thought that, like himself, maybe he didn't have a family. It wasn't the sixties or the seventies anymore when you were classed as some kind of weirdo if you wasn't a man with a job, a wife, and two or three children.

Johnny asked, "What's your name? I'm Johnny Jefferson." He held out his hand.

The other man shook Johnny's hand and finally revealed his own name. "Jack."

Johnny snickered, "Surname?"

"Slade."
Chapter Five

Karen Bradley, Harry Branston, Jade Greatrix and Paul Parker were nearly at the Stile Cop beauty spot. It was a different scene compared to the last time Pickle and Karen were there, as it was now barren—peaceful.

They walked up to the beauty spot and could see tyre marks. Since their leaving, it appeared that more people had used the place as some kind of safe haven and had left on their own accord, or were forced to move from bandits or the Snatchers themselves.

Apart from the bodies of the things that lay dead on the sandy surface, the place seemed normal and devoid of life, and the picture of them coming through the woods on that early morning replayed in both Karen and Pickle's mind. They explained to Jade and Paul what had happened on that night and the people they had lost. It brought back bad memories, but it wasn't affecting them as much as they thought it would.

"I wonder where they went?" Pickle spoke.

"The dead?" Karen queried.

Pickle nodded.

"Everywhere." Karen shrugged her shoulders, unsure what the real answer was. "Once we left in the van they probably went the same way. Most seem to follow one another; they move in packs. Probably skulking about in the woods."

"It must have been a scary time for you both." Paul joined in on the conversation.

"It was." Pickle nodded his head. "Yer see what happened when we tried to leave the house in Heath Hayes, and the time when we tried to flee the sports centre?"

Paul nodded. Of course he remembered; how could he forget?

Pickle added, "It was worse than that. No disrespect to Lee Hayward and young Oliver, but we lost _three_ that night. Ma lover and the two officers that released me from prison were killed. If it wasn't for them, I'd still be in ma cell, dying o' starvation." Pickle looked around and puffed out his cheeks. "Anyway, I don't really know why I insisted on coming to the beauty spot. To get to Rugeley we need to walk down the Stile Cop Road. Do yer lot wanna rest for a while?"

Karen was the only one that responded; she shook her head. Her body language suggested that she wanted to get to the town as quickly as possible.

"Right then. Lets go." Pickle left the beauty spot and returned to the road, with his small group in tow. They all looked down the steep, decline of the hill and saw a couple of bodies lying motionless in the distance, but nothing was moving, nothing that could attack them. Ahead of the bodies was a smashed car that was still on its four wheels, but had slightly veered off the road and was halfway up the grassy bank.

Their eyes were everywhere as their progression reached halfway down the long road, and to their right they could now see Stile Cop cemetery. It was the same cemetery that Karen had to climb over when she was being chased by some of the ghouls after she had been carjacked.

"Remember," Pickle spoke up as they passed the cemetery, "if we see a horde o' them, we run back where we came from. We shouldn't take any unnecessary risks."

They continued with their speedy walk, the decline helping their momentum, and saw a dead body to the left side of the road. Karen looked over to Pickle. "Remember that guy I told you about; the pervert that attacked me?" She pointed at the body as she casually walked past. "That's him."

"Is that the Oliver Bellshaw character?"

Karen nodded and walked past another two bodies that looked like Snatchers that had been dealt with. One had suffered damage to the head, whereas the other looked like it had had its eyes gouged out.

Pickle looked up and saw a solitary crow sitting on a fence, minding its own business. He then looked back at the bodies that they were walking away from. "Even the birds don't wanna eat these things," Pickle mumbled under his breath.

All four had now reached the car, and neither one could ignore the green Citroen. They all peeped inside to see two adults in the front seats. Both had turned and were struggling to get out, because they both still had their seatbelts on and weren't intelligent enough to unclip themselves or open their door.

Jade took a step back as the driver snarled at her from inside the car. Jade put her hand over her mouth. She could feel her body quaver and a single shudder went down her vertebrae. "What do you think happened?"

"I have no idea," Paul Parker answered.

"Poor souls," Pickle sighed. He lowered his head and said a silent prayer for them and then walked away from the sad scene, as the two inside writhed and struggled as their potential meals were walking away from them.

"Do you think we'll get a vehicle when we get into Rugeley?" Jade asked nobody in particular.

"More than likely," Karen sniffed. "Depends on how many of those things are in the town."

"Maybe we could go back to your house." Pickle suggested to Karen.

Karen ignored him. She would rather they didn't return back to her house. She had a feeling going back to her house would bring all the memories flooding back, memories of how life used to be when everyone and everything was normal. She wasn't sure she could handle going back to her place, besides, she was certain that Gary was still in there.

"Wait!" Paul cried out.

Jade asked, "What is it?"

They all looked at the bottom of the road and saw a pick-up truck leaving Draycott Park and turning onto the Stile Cop Road, heading their way.

Paul raised his black eyebrows at Pickle. "So, what do we do now?"
Chapter Six

"What time is it?"

Jack Slade never received an answer from Johnny straight away, as the thin, bald man was walking around the floor and trying the remaining lockers by opening them with a crowbar. Jack used to have a watch, but whilst he stayed in the woods, it had died on him, just like everything and everyone else.

Jack asked him again, but Johnny wasn't wearing a watch and shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares?" he called over. "Doesn't mean shit anymore. Who's bothered about being punctual nowadays?"

"You'll need to know the time once you're out there."

"What for?" Johnny had successfully forced another locker open. He pulled out some clothes and, more importantly, a sandwich box and a two-litre bottle of water.

"It gives you an idea how much daylight you have left."

Johnny didn't seem to be listening to Jack, so Jack refrained from speaking and looked around the factory. Johnny walked over to the forty-year-old man and opened up the sandwich box. "The bread's stale, but it'll do."

"No thanks."

"Please yourself," Johnny said with slight petulance, almost as if he was hurt that his guest didn't take the food he'd 'worked' for by prising open a stubborn locker.

To Johnny, Jack had a vacant look about him. His eyes and his demeanour were almost ... psychopathic. _If this is what it does to you, being outside, then I'm happy to remain indoors._

Jack glared at Johnny and eyed him up and down.

Noticing this, Johnny asked nervously, "What's wrong?"

"Those overalls and those boots; where did you get them from?" Jack was referring to the blue boiler suit that Johnny was wearing and the steel toecaps on his feet.

He shrugged his shoulders and added, "It's just work clothes. There's probably some spare in the lockers. Want me to have a look?"

Still feeling weak, Jack gave a solitary nod of his head and watched as Johnny walked over to the locker area and went through the lockers he had busted open earlier during the week.

"What boot size are you?" he shouted over.

"Nine," responded Jack.

After searching through his fifth locker, Johnny returned with a pair of boots in his right hand and a set of overalls under his left arm. Jack had managed to thank Johnny for his kindness, and the factory worker was pleased that this outsider hadn't forgotten all of his manners that he should have been taught by his parents.

Jack slowly took his rotten shoes off and threw them into a nearby pallet. He took a look at his dirty and holey socks and shook his head.

Without uttering a word, Johnny walked back over to the locker area and went through the lockers again. He returned with a pair of thick black socks and handed them to Jack.

Jack inspected the new boots and checked them from the soles to the laces and knew with his old socks, the boots would cut his feet to ribbons if ever he needed to go back outside in the long-term.

Jack wondered why a worker would have a spare pair of socks in his locker, and noticing the small confusion on his face, Johnny explained. "Sometimes the guys would do eight to ten hours a shift, and when you work for that length of time, your feet tend to get a little smelly. So once the shift is over, we'd go into our lockers, change our shoes and socks, and go home without our feet smelling like a monkey's armpit." There was no response from Jack, and Johnny sighed with exasperation at his anti-social guest. "Fine."

A silence enveloped the pair of them and although Johnny's guest seemed content to just sit and stare into space, Johnny wanted to know more about this stranger. "I bet you've seen some mad shit out there, haven't you?"

"I suppose," Jack sighed, "but you get used to it."

"Used to it? How?"

Added Jack, "It's like everything." Jack nodded over to a forklift truck sitting by one of the shutters. "Can you drive that vehicle?"

"Sure."

"Right," Jack continued. "How did you feel when you first jumped onto that thing?"

Johnny couldn't really see where Jack was going with this, but decided to answer him as honestly as he could anyway. "I was nervous, obviously."

"And are you still nervous when you jump on it now?"

"Of course not. I've been driving those things for years. I'm used to it now."

"Well, that's how it is out there. When you first smash one of those skulls in, you panic, you become nauseous, you freeze. Now, it's just normal, something that you have— _need_ to do. Like sex; the more you do it, the less nervous and the better you become at it."

"I don't think I want to get used to that kind of life."

"Well, you'll have to." Jack was cold with his voice. He wasn't being threatening or trying to frighten Johnny, but the factory worker had been hiding since the virus had broke out. Jack thought that he needed a reality check. Jack added, "You can't stay in here forever; and if you freeze out there, you'll be dead within a day."

"You ever thought about doing stand-up?"

"I'm serious," Jack continued, ignoring Johnny's attempt at humour. "I spent the last few weeks on the run, and I've lost count how many heads I've had to pulverise in order to survive."

"Is it that bad out there?"

Jack nodded and added, "Think of your worst nightmare. Times it by ten, and you're not even close."

"Well, that's hardly the confident-boosting response I was hoping for, but at least you're honest." Johnny blew out his cheeks and wanted out of this nightmare. But what Johnny Jefferson didn't know was that the quandary he was in would only get worse once the days ticked by.

Jack began to put his boots on and Johnny decided to give him some advice.

Johnny said, "I usually find it easier to put the overalls on first, _then_ the boots. It's just that I find it hard to get the legs of the overalls _over_ the boots."

Jack stood to his feet and asked, "So how much food is in that canteen?"

Johnny raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks in thought. "In the actual canteen itself, I don't know if there's anything worth eating, because I don't know if the food is off. The vending machines should be okay. Nothing will be cool anymore now we've lost power, but there's still bottles of juice, crisp and chocolate."

Jack seemed lost in thought and finally shook his head. Keeping his new boots on his feet, he nodded over to the boiler suit. "I'll put that on after."

"After?" Johnny began to scratch the top of his bald head. "After what?"

Jack walked over to the crowbar that Johnny had used to prise open the lockers, and picked it up. He then took a pair of plastic goggles from a works station and put them on.

Johnny had no idea what was going on and what was going through this man's mind. Where was he going? Surely he wasn't going to the canteen?

Johnny questioned with angst in his voice, "Where are you going?"

Jack walked away, dressed for 'battle'. "The canteen."

"The canteen?" Johnny scowled in confusion. "Didn't I already tell you that two of those things are in there?" Johnny had now ran over to Jack and was now briskly walking alongside him.

"Yes you did," Jack Slade finally answered the man, "but I fancy a coke."

Johnny ignored his 'coke' remark, looked at the insane man and asked, "And what are you going to do when you get inside?"

Without breaking his face, Jack told Johnny. "I'm going to walk in and give them both a Swedish massage."

"No," Johnny sighed; he placed his right hand on his forehead and waggled his head in frustration. "I mean, seriously."

"Oh, seriously?"

Johnny nodded.

"I'm gonna smash their brains in with this crowbar."

Johnny gulped and his voice was full of consternation. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

Both men had arrived outside the canteen door and Jack turned to Johnny. "Watch and learn. You're gonna have to do this yourself, one day." Jack held out the crowbar.

"It's okay," said Johnny. "I've got a key for the canteen."

Johnny unlocked the canteen with the key, his juddering hands making the task harder than it should have been. Jack said, "As soon as I go in, you keep well back."

"I think I can manage that."
Chapter Seven

All four waved their arms frantically at the pick-up truck that was getting nearer, and all looked at one another and smiled once they saw it was slowing down. They needed information on the town they were about to enter.

The vehicle pulled up alongside the group and they were greeted by a middle-aged couple. A man popped his head out of the window and said, "Don't go to Rugeley Town."

Paul Parker asked, "Why not?"

Beside the middle-aged man sat a woman about the same age. Both individuals were very heavy and the woman added, "It's mental in there. Houses are on fire, people are beating up one another for food, and those ... monsters are everywhere."

"A lot of people are leaving now," the man continued. "It's alright the radios telling us to stay barricaded in our houses, but why? There's no one coming to help us and we haven't eaten properly in two days," he patted his large belly, "believe it or not."

Pickle went into his rucksack and pulled out a few mars bars. They were a bit melted, but still edible. "Yer can have these if yer give us a ride somewhere. I've got some water as well."

"It's okay." The man's eyes were full of kindness. "We have a few things in the back for when we're _really_ desperate, but we'll give you a lift anyway. You seem like nice people. Where do you wanna go?"

"Well, now the town is out o' bounds, we have no idea." Pickle looked at his group then turned back to the driver of the truck. "Where are _you_ two going?"

"We're not entirely sure." The man then gaped over to his wife; they both smiled and held hands briefly. "We really want to go to Skelmersdale, to see our only son."

"That's miles away," Karen spoke, the negativity in her tone almost diluting the excitement of the couple's dream.

"I know." The man nodded, and even _his_ face suggested that Skelmersdale would be a risky mission that could end in abject failure, costing their lives. "Our son's there. He said that his village is safe and has been cordoned off by the villagers themselves. If we arrive, he promises that they'll take us in."

"Well," Pickle began. "At least yer got hope. We've been runnin' round in circles for the last couple o' weeks and still have no idea where to go and what to do."

The woman said, "We just want to go somewhere where it's safe, where there's some kind of order. We heard about a place in Armitage, but we want to be with our son."

The man added sadly, "In our street, bandits broke into the end house, looted the place and then set fire to it. "

Karen shook her head in exasperation. "Why would people do that? What's the point in that?"

The man looked down at his chest, sadly. He was appalled the way some individuals were behaving after just weeks of this mess. "There _is_ no point."

"Anyway." Pickle clapped his hands together and looked at his three companions, then back to the male driver of the truck. "We appreciate the lift." Pickle then urged his three friends to jump in the back of the truck. He was surprised that the back of the pick-up truck was reasonably empty. There wasn't much food; there were a few bottles of juice and carrier bags of tins, and that was it. There were no clothing or anything else.

Once the group were in the back, Pickle told everyone to sit down in case there was a danger of falling out.

Karen was initially unsure of going back to her hometown, but now felt a little disappointed that she was only a quarter of mile away from Rugeley, and now it appeared that she was definitely not going back. It would have been interesting to see how the old place had managed to cope over the last couple of weeks. She then thought about her old house. If she somehow got back into her own place, if the street was safe enough, there was still the problem of removing the fiend that was once her fiancé, Gary. If he was still trapped in the house, it would have been an awful sight to see how he had decomposed over the few weeks that had passed, and the smell...

Maybe it was just as well that Rugeley was now a no-go area. Wasn't all populated areas? It was only a town of thousands and she wondered how the likes of Cardiff, Edinburgh, Birmingham and London were coping with this nightmare. It was only a few months ago that Gary and Karen had stayed in Edinburgh for the weekend, at a place in Cockburn Street, just yards away from the Royal Mile. Karen managed a small smirk when she remembered that Gary had joked that 'Cockburn' sounded like an STD.

She snapped out of her emotional daydream as the vehicle started to move and her body jolted forwards, along with the rest of the group. The truck continued to move and the group could see down the road, in the distance, more vehicles leaving the town, but going straight along the Hednesford Road, rather than turning left onto Stile Cop Road where _they_ were.

The vehicles were probably heading to other towns like Hednesford and Cannock, Karen thought.

As they passed the Stile Cop beauty spot for the second time, the truck went straight across the crossroads where Karen had met Pickle and KP during that terrible, early morning when they escaped the ghouls that appeared through the woods in their hundreds at the beauty spot.

It appeared that the middle-aged couple were heading for Upper Longdon.

It was a place that was very exclusive and had a few mansions in the area. Karen knew the couple would eventually be heading for the M6, and had no idea where Pickle was thinking about getting off, so she asked him. "Do you have any idea where to go?"

"I haven't a Scooby," Pickle admitted. "But I want away from these woods. I'll be glad if I don't see another tree again."

Karen chuckled and placed her arm around the ex-inmate, whilst Paul and Jade sat silently, staring at their shoes, exhausted.

"There're a few mansions around here." Karen looked at Pickle for a reaction.

"And?" Pickle stared at Karen. "A mansion is fine and dandy, but it also makes yer a target for bandits and looters. And what happens if yer break into the place and it's already inhabited? I don't wanna get shot, Karen. The emergency services are now defunct, and I don't want to be walking around for the rest o' ma days with a severe limp."

"Like Jason Bonser?" she teased.

"Yeah, well." Pickle shifted his bum to get comfortable. "That fucker deserved everything he got."

Another two minutes had passed as they went through more country lanes. It appeared that they were coming to the end of Cannock Chase, which meant that the nearest place was a town. Pickle had been told by the male driver that once the group found a place or an area where they wanted dropping off, he should hit the roof a couple of times to let the driver know when to stop the truck.

"Oh no." Paul Parker's announcement forced them to look at what _he_ was looking at.

Jade couldn't really see properly and asked Paul, "What is it?"

Paul peeked at Karen and Pickle, then he turned to Jade. "Keep your head down. I think there may be trouble ahead."

Jade placed her hands on her head and cursed under her breath, "Now what?"

The pick-up truck that they were in, was beginning to slow down.
Chapter Eight

Once the two things in the canteen had been killed, Jack Slade had returned to the factory floor with a shocked Johnny in tow, who walked behind him, dragging his feet. Jack placed the crowbar on top of a pallet, removed the safety goggles off of his head and asked Johnny, "Whose is that car outside?"

Johnny, still trying to shake off the image of Jack pulverising the heads of those things, snapped out of his self-hypnosis and gawped at Jack, blankly. "Sorry, what?"

Jack continued, "The canteen's window looks out onto the staff car park. There's a few cars outside, and I noticed that there's a black jeep."

"The cars belonged to the guys I worked with. I can't drive myself; I came here with Terry."

Jack turned to Johnny. "Who's Terry?"

"The first guy you smashed up in the canteen."

Jack looked confused. When he stormed into the canteen he swung the crowbar so much he pretty much put them both down almost at the same time. "Was that the one whose skull fell away?"

"No." Johnny gulped and shook his head at the surreal conversation that he was having. He swallowed hard, trying to keep down whatever was left in his stomach. "That was Martin. Terry was the one that collapsed into the wall."

"Did he have a beard?"

Johnny nodded.

"Well," Jack exhaled hard, "if I was you, I would have stolen one of their car keys and driven out of the place ages ago."

"Well, like I've told you before," Johnny sighed, exasperated that he wasn't being listened to. "I can't drive, and I wanted to stay in here anyway, 'cos it's safer."

"Anyway. The black jeep. Whose is it?" It was clear by his face that Jack had no interest in what Johnny had to say, and after witnessing Jack putting those things down, Johnny refrained from moaning about his rudeness.

"The supervisor's car," Johnny finally answered.

"And where's he?"

"Boardroom. He's one of them. He locked himself in as soon as he was bitten. It was almost as if he knew."

Jack checked his clothes and inspected his old rags. He could see they had fresh blood on them, to add to the old dried-in ones from the last couple of days. Most of the bloodstains were mainly from the episode when he was trying to escape the sports centre, swinging the kettle bell as if his life depended on it, which, of course, it did.

He finally took his boots off and removed his clothes. Once he threw the rags into a pallet, the same pallet he had disposed his shoes, he put on the boiler suit and then put the steel toecaps back on.

"We'll see what there is in these vending machines." Jack began to scratch at his hairy neck and groaned. He badly needed a shave, on his neck _and_ his face. "I'm guessing that we'll be lucky if the food lasts us a week."

"What about Martin and Terry?"

"Who?"

Johnny sighed. _Are you not listening to me at all?_ "The men you killed in the canteen."

"I don't think they'll be eating anything," Jack commented, without cracking his face.

Johnny glared at this strange man and wondered if he was serious or not. Trying to ignore his early remark, he said, "Are we just gonna leave them in there? That's what I mean."

Jack nodded. "Yes, we are."

"What if you're right about the food that's left?"

"I _am_ right." Jack seemed confident in what he was saying. "Look, you're not gonna like this, but we need to be out of here, soon."

Johnny nodded in agreement, reluctantly. He knew Jack was right. "And go where?"

"Somewhere where there's food. Somewhere safe ... ish."

"I suppose it removes some problems now that you're here, someone that can drive. We can now get a set of wheels from the car park."

Added Jack, "But it also opens up other problems, like being carjacked. Me and a few other guys went into a supermarket to get food and only two of us made it out. It's not just those _things_ that are a danger; there's some bad, desperate people roaming around."

Johnny's eyes widened and didn't want any more details about the short story that Jack had just announced. "Look, my place is about eight miles away. I'm already stocked up."

"Eight miles? That's too far. We'll never make eight miles without running into hordes, bandits—even getting a puncture puts us at risk."

"When are you thinking about going?"

"I think we should gather what food is left and then go in the morning."

Johnny's eyes widened with surprise at Jack's announcement. "Seriously? That soon? I've managed alright so far."

"True, but now the food's short. We can either stay in here and go until the food has gone, then go on the road while we're hungry. Or—"

"Go on the road _with_ food."

Jack gave Johnny a mocking wink as if to say; _You're catching on, buddy_. "We're gonna have to do it sooner or later."

Johnny smiled, but Jack could see the sadness in his face. Jack got to his feet, still with the safety goggles attached to his head, and walked away from Johnny and picked up the bloody crowbar lying on one of the pallets.

"Where're you going now?" Johnny called out.

"I'm off to get a set of car keys for later."

"Try the trousers of one of the guys in the canteen."

"Nah; I want the jeep. I'm off to the first floor, boardroom." Jack then stopped and picked some corrugated cardboard, ripped a piece off, and tucked it down the front of his overalls like a bib. He could see that Johnny was giving him a look as if he had lost his mind. Jack laughed and then explained, "Don't wanna be messing up my new overalls so soon."

*

Jack got to the first floor and the first thing he clocked was the supervisor, whose name he didn't know. Through the blood-smeared boardroom window, he looked at the thing inside. It was just what Jack expected; it was rotten, diseased and ... dead!

Jack sauntered over to one of the windows that looked out onto the car park. He really wanted that jeep. From a safety purpose, this vehicle was the best option compared to the rest of the cars that sat on the car park.

Then he saw it!

There were two of the things loitering around the main gates to the factory. "Shit!"

Jack knew that where there was one, or in this case, two, more could follow. He didn't want to wake up in a few days to be surrounded, but he also didn't want to leave now and drive off into the early evening. It was hours away from becoming dark and he knew it would be suicide to go now. He decided not to release this information to an already-nervous Johnny, as he thought it might keep Johnny inside due to fear.

He turned around to gawp at the thing in the boardroom once again, and clenched the crowbar in his other hand.

He prised open the door, adjusted his goggles and walked in. He shut the door behind him, and now it was just him and the contaminated supervisor in the room. Jack snarled at the ghoul that was ten yards away from him.

Man, he fucking hated these things.

He grabbed the goggles that still sat on top of his head, and as the excited ghoul stumbled towards Jack Slade, he put the goggles over his eyes and walked forwards, away from a desk and a screen that was probably used for power-point presentations.

With no hesitation from Slade, the crowbar came crashing down; blow after blow was used, until there was nothing left of the head. Twelve strikes had managed to decimate the creature, and there wasn't much left from the neck up.

Ignoring the debris scattered all around the office's walls and carpet, Jack took the car keys from its pocket and placed them in his own. He glared at the headless corpse and spat at it before walking away. He left the boardroom, removed his 'bib' from the overalls and glared outside once again.

His eyes looked lost, gone.

The old Jack had been replaced with something a lot more sinister, fearless even. Some who had known him for years may have come to the conclusion that he had now lost his mind. Had the new world finally made something snap inside his head? Had he past caring? He was still trying to live, so that was something, wasn't it?

Jack puffed out his cheeks, and then went back downstairs. If they didn't leave in the morning, in a few days the whole factory was going to be surrounded sooner or later. And if that happened, if escape was an impossibility, the only thing they would have to look forwards to would be dehydration and starvation.
Chapter Nine

The pick-up truck came to an eventual stop, and unless the couple floored the gas pedal and rammed its way past the two Ford Focus cars that blocked the road, they were going nowhere for now.

In front of the blocking cars that were parked adjacent to one another, were four men, all stood with their arms folded. Pickle was the first to peer from the back of the truck and could see from left to right, a tall man, wearing glasses; another tall and skinny gentleman that looked like a nervous wreck and didn't want to be there, followed by a man of average height who seemed to be the leader of this rabble. At the far right was a rough, dirty-looking man; his hair was almost black, long, tied back in a greasy ponytail, and he had a scruffy dark beard covering half of his face.

Pickle had just noticed that the leader, Average, had an old-style farmer's shotgun by his side. It wasn't a patch on his Browning that he had lost, but it was still enough to do some damage, if need be.

"Okay, guys." Average looked at the driver in the truck, and was the first of the four that spoke up. "Leave the vehicle, and you won't get hurt."

The middle-aged driver of the pick-up truck wound his window down and popped his head out. He nervously begged, "Listen, boys. We don't want trouble, but we need to get past, please. We're off to see our son in Skelmersdale."

"I don't give a shit, fat boy. We want your truck, and more importantly, we want your fuel. I want you all walking back that way in _one_ minute." Average pointed at the road behind the truck, from where they had just come from.

"Please," the driver begged once more. "We're just a harmless couple."

There was a silence that covered both sets of groups, and Pickle hated these kinds of people: bullies. Pickle only used violence for business; he never hurt people for sadistic pleasure or for greed. These men already had two cars; they didn't need another set of wheels.

In prison, there'd be some cowards that would strut about, and would spend their time picking on the younger remands to enhance their own reputation. But one newcomer, who must have been wet behind the ears, eyed Pickle up one day in the canteen queue, but Pickle ignored him. Seeing this as a sign of weakness, the inmate went for Pickle to enhance his own reputation, and Harry Branston grabbed his attacker and bent his little finger back so much that the inmate collapsed to the floor. Once Pickle walked away from the scene, two of Pickle's men then stabbed the bully half a dozen times with toothbrushes that had been sharpened, whilst the inmate lay on the floor, and the guards were miraculously busy with 'other things'. The inmate survived.

After a minute of nothing, just staring and head-scratching, Average spoke up once again. "Look. I ain't gonna tell you again. We're having that truck. Now, get out, or we'll use force!"

Pickle stood up from behind, jumped off the pick-up truck, and Karen, Paul and Jade followed suit.

"Ain't gonna happen," Pickle announced.

"Oh really." The mangy-looking man with the ponytail had now spoken and revealed a macabre grin; the two front teeth were missing.

"Yes." Pickle nodded confidently.

Seeing that Pickle was the leader of this rebellious group, Average looked at Mangy to his left and they both burst into hysterics. Average looked to his left and beckoned Specks and the wiry individual to walk over to Pickle and sort him out.

If you remove the leader, the rest of the pack will fold.

Wiry was reluctant to do anything that involved violence and said to Average, in a voice that was overheard by Pickle and his friends, "But the man's fucking huge."

Average sighed, went into the boot of one of the cars, took out two baseball bats and handed them to Wiry and Specks.

Mangy snarled at Wiry and Specks, "The only reason you've been eating for the last week is 'cos I killed that farmer. You ain't done nothing for the group yet; time to prove your worth."

Both men reluctantly walked over towards Pickle, and what unnerved the men was that the big man from the pick-up truck didn't seemed remotely bothered about the pair of them heading the short distance towards him.

Karen stepped forwards by Pickle's side, but Pickle ushered her back. "It's okay," he said. "I'll take care o' these little puppies."

They were five yards away from him, and Pickle could see that they didn't have it in them to perform such violence. He had no idea why these four men ended up together, or, if any of them had a family. How have they survived? Were their stories even more horrific and dangerous than theirs? Were they good men back in the old world?

Specks was the first to strike, whilst Wiry lagged behind, purposely. Pickle grabbed the bat with two hands and booted Specks inbetween his legs, then took him down completely with a sidekick to his left kneecap. Specks fell to the floor, screaming in pain, and Wiry made his cowardly strike whilst Pickle had his 'hands full'. Wiry caught him on his shoulder, but Paul Parker quickly intervened and took out Wiry with a punch to the throat.

Both of the assailants were now on the ground with their bats, and Pickle could see Average raising the shotgun, but his attention had been distracted when the frightened, middle-aged driver, with the engine still running, slipped his truck into reverse and quickly backed up.

Out of sheer panic, the driver had decided to abandon his four passengers and leave with just his wife.

Average, completely ignoring Pickle, Karen, Paul and Jade, ran to the truck and quickly put two cartridges into the windscreen. Pickle could see right away that both the man and woman were suffering with injuries and that death, due to blood loss, was a possibility.

Average then turned to Paul Parker and nodded to Mangy. Mangy then ran over to Paul and they began to wrestle to the floor and ended up tumbling to the side of the road. Jade went after them and landed a boot in the man's stomach.

"For fuck's sake!" Average snarled, and began reloading the shotgun with another two cartridges. "Get out of the way. I'll sort them out myself."

Pickle, who was standing on the other side of the road and was a fair distance from Average, ran over to Karen and pulled her by the arm. "Run!"

Whilst Pickle and Karen ran into the woodland at the left side of the road, Paul Parker was still wrestling with Mangy and was oblivious that Average was going to shoot him, once Mangy had managed to get off.

Average eventually said, "Let him go! I've got him!"

"Paul! We need to leave!" Jade screamed.

Noticing that Average had reloaded the gun, Paul staggered to his feet with Jade and they both ran into the woods to the far side of the road. Average tried to pull the trigger, but the gun didn't discharge. "Fucking antique," he snarled. He tried again and released a cartridge, only taking bark from some of the trees. Paul and Jade were too far gone now. By the time he swung the gun over in Pickle and Karen's direction, they had also both disappeared into the woods on the other side of the road, opposite to the direction where Paul and Jade had fled

Average sighed and helped up Mangy. "You lot are fucking useless."

Specks dragged himself back onto his feet and brushed himself down. "That guy must be army-trained, or something."

Average looked at Specks and Wiry and scolded, "You two dicks went down like a sack of shit."

Wiry sniped back, "Well, next time, _you_ fucking do it, instead of standing there, barking your orders."

"Don't forget, I've got a shotgun."

Specks laughed, "Yeah, but does it work?"

Average lifted the gun and pointed it at a nervous-looking Specks. "Let's see, shall we?"

Specks gulped hard and could smell the barrel of the gun that had already released a few cartridges.

Mangy casually walked over to the bickering group and looked over to the pick-up truck. "Okay, that's enough. We got what we wanted."

"What?" Wiry walked over and put both of his hands on his head, and then walked over to the shattered windscreen of the pick-up truck. "You mean this?" He pointed at the windscreen. "Is _this_ what we wanted? Two dead middle-aged people who just wanted to see their son."

Average said, "At least we've got the truck. Besides, they're not dead yet." He walked over to the pick-up truck and looked into the driver's window. The man and woman were in severe distress. The man had suffered wounds to his chest, whereas his rotund wife had injuries to her face and throat.

They both struggled, and Average stared at them for another minute and watched them both die in morbid fascination, before dragging them out of the vehicle, and leaving them at the side of the road for the birds.
Chapter Ten

June 24th

It was Sunday morning. After spending the night in the woods and having alternative sleeps, something that they were very much used to by now, Pickle and Karen rose to their feet, their throats dry and their bellies growling to be fed. They decided to walk through the woods that had managed to be Snatcher-free so far, and reluctantly drank a little by the nearby stream, then continued with their walk.

In hindsight, the group should have ignored the pick-up truck and continued with their walk to Rugeley Town, despite the potential dangers. They were dehydrated and hungry, and Karen knew that from the point where they were now, they could still get to Rugeley via the woods. Once the two came to the end of the wooded area, there'd be a gravel path to walk up to, which would lead them to the top of a hill called Cardboard Hill, where she used to play sometimes as a child.

Pickle never questioned Karen if she knew where she was going; he just followed her. The situation had become desperate. They didn't have a tangible destination in their minds. They just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, where there was a chance to eat, drink, and possibly have a sleep that lasted longer than five hours.

Although the couple in the truck had initially put the group off from going back to Rugeley with their stories of looting, violence and hordes of Snatchers, Pickle and Karen's options were scarce, and knew that just one vacant house with scraps of food and a bed, could keep their bodies alive for a few more days. And just because the electricity had gone a few days ago, it didn't mean that running water had ceased just yet.

The ex-inmate briefly thought about the sports centre, and was certain that it would have been perfect if they hadn't have already attracted those things. He felt for Jade, and knew she blamed the group for bringing the carnage to her; but they were on foot, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Pickle was confident that Paul and Jade had managed to flee unharmed, as it seemed to take an age for the gun to go off, and when it did, it was just the one gunshot.

The two survivors were casually strolling through the woodland and had not exchanged a word for the fifteen minutes that they had been walking. Their feet trudged through the greenery, and their necks twisted every time a rustle of a tree or a snap of a twig could be heard. Karen was the first to eventually break the silence. "So, where do you think they are?" Karen was referring to Paul and Jade who they had lost during the violent struggle. She sniffed and emptied each nostril onto the floor.

Pickle shrugged and answered, "Who knows? Probably miles away by now. It's amazing how much yer can run when yer attacker has a gun. They've ran one way, and we've gone another, so we could be a fair distance apart. No point looking for them; we'll just run into more trouble."

"So you've no intention going back for them?" Karen queried, and began inspecting the inside of her left nostril with her pinky.

Pickle shook his head. "It'd be like trying to find a needle in a haystack in these woods. Besides, they're not our priority; we're starving and our bodies need water more than anythin' else."

"Tell me about it. My mouth's as dry as a scabby cock."

Pickle threw Karen one of his disappointed-father looks, but Karen ignored it and asked, "What do you think has happened to those men?"

Pickle thought for a moment and guessed, "Probably had a good night's sleep, and are now off to rob someone else."

"Pricks!"

"I agree; they didn't have to shoot that poor couple, but those kinds o' people have got a better chance o' making it than people with families. I suppose _most_ people could be considered a threat now. People will do anything and everything to survive; it's just the way we are." Pickle ran his fingers through his thin, dark beard and released an elongated exhale of breath. "So where to now, Bradley? You know this place better than me."

Karen looked around and gazed through the trees. "If we keep walking, we'll get to the end of the woods and come to a dirt path that has a hill. At the top of the hill is a place where I used to go to as a child, called Cardboard Hill. I know there used to be some kind of shack up there."

"I have a feeling that that place would already be spoken for." Pickle smiled and released a chesty cough, like a forty-a-day smoker. _Christ, not another virus_.

"Maybe." Karen nodded in agreement. "But that's not the reason we're going that way. The top of the hill gives a view of the back of Rugeley. We'd be able to see what places were swarming, then maybe we could try the emptier streets and get a place for the night."

"Like the house in Heath Hayes? And look how that turned out." Pickle was teasing Karen a little, and waited for her sharp response.

"Yeah, but this time we won't have Jason Bonser leading them to us in their hundreds." She then looked at Pickle for a reaction. "What do you think?"

She could tell by Pickle's face that he was devoid of ideas and made a facial expression telling Karen that he would go with her plan, as there was nothing else he could think of. "What if this ... _hill_ is infested?"

"Why would it be? It's a hill; a steep fucker. You've seen those cocksuckers try and climb stairs; their legs can't take it. Not only that, but the hill should be clear of humans as well."

Now she had the ex-inmate confused and he responded with puzzlement, "I don't understand what yer mean."

"No mad bastard with a house is going to go and head for a hill and be exposed out in the open."

"If they see us, these things could still get up this hill yer talkin' about." Pickle reminded Karen, "Stile Cop, Heath Hayes and the sports centre—no matter where we go, these things usually find us in the end. Their determination should not be underestimated."

Karen did her best to convince Pickle. "We made too much noise at Stile Cop with KP shooting Davina and Isobel screaming. Heath Hayes was our own doing. If we had killed Jason Bonser, he would never have led a horde of them our way. And as for the sports centre: they were already heading for us in their dozens anyway. We didn't have much of a choice."

"I hope yer right."

Karen smiled at her companion and playfully slapped him on the back. "Shit, so do I."
Chapter Eleven

Jack woke up with a fright, and found that he was being shaken by Johnny.

Jack looked up at his skinny features. The blue boiler suit was almost hanging off him, and Jack widened his eyes in a way of waking himself up a little quicker. He then immediately thought that something was wrong and bolted upright, twisting his neck from side to side, scanning the factory area. "What is it?"

"Calm down. It's nearly ten 'o'clock," announced Johnny.

"What? Really?"

"You slept for nearly thirteen hours."

"Shit." Jack began to laugh and scratched the side of his hair where the grey was. He thought about the last time he had slept so well: Glasgow City Centre, at his four-star hotel. "We're gonna have to go soon." Slade then began to rub his forehead, thinking back to his sleep. "Man, I haven't slept like that since..." Jack allowed his sentence to trail off and Johnny could see wretchedness emerging on Jack's face. Jack then shook his head, angry with himself.

Johnny asked, "What's up?"

Jack lowered his head, tears forming around his eyes. "My son's been dead for only a few days and I'm laughing. That's not right."

"You have to laugh some time or another."

"A few days?" Forty-year-old Slade was annoyed with himself that any kind of positive emotion had managed to seep through only days after Thomas had had such a violent death. He thought to himself that if this was the old world, and he was caught by a relative, laughing, days after his son's death and before his funeral, they would be baffled and not impressed if he expressed such an emotion. He was supposed to be mourning the loss of his son. Or maybe he was just being too hard on himself.

Johnny put his hand comfortingly on Jack who was clearly upset. "I bet it doesn't feel like a few days, though."

"No, it doesn't." Jack rubbed his face with both hands moving up and down. "It feels like weeks, months even."

"Tell me about it." Johnny began scratching at his chest, his hand was underneath the boiler suit. "It feels like I've been in here for a year. It's just so boring. I even started telling myself jokes the other day. Trouble is, I've heard them all before."

Jack smiled and added, "You're a good man, Johnny. You didn't have to bring me in. I don't know how to repay you."

"Well," Johnny began to joke. "You can cover my back when we're out there, 'cos as soon as I see one of those things, I'm gonna be shitting a brick."

"You'll get used to it, trust me."

"You think?" Johnny looked around the factory, and although he feared what waited for him outside, he wouldn't miss the four walls that he had been surrounded by in the last couple of weeks. Added Johnny, "I was thinking about what you told me last night. I'm not sure I can handle it, to tell you the truth."

"Yes, you can," Jack scolded. He turned to Johnny and placed both hands on his shoulders and glared at him, not in a threatening way, but in a way to give him a boost. "Listen, I left Glasgow when this all kicked off. I travelled four hours on the M6, crashed the car, then took a motorbike to Rugeley and then Hazelslade, almost getting pulled off the damn thing by a horde of them. I then found my son. Then a good friend of mine was raped and butchered by two men, then I was picked up by a woman who took us back to a house, which then was invaded by hundreds of the fucking things. We struggled to escape; then the van got a flat and we ran into a sports centre; my son then died and I hung around when the rest escaped and the things broke into the place—"

Johnny tried to get a word in, "Look—"

"I also tried to hang myself," Jack continued, "but the belt loosened and I fell into the pool and tried to escape the crowd inside the centre. I then got outside and killed a few, before escaping over the fence in soaking wet clothes."

Jack then stopped, knowing he was getting carried away, and took a breath in.

Johnny cleared his throat. "I suppose when you put it like that, it makes my story look a bit bland."

Jack guffawed, "I'm not comparing. I'm just saying: it's not a holiday out there, but after a day or so, you kind of get used to it. I know that sounds a bit weird—"

"Just a bit." Johnny rubbed his hands off of his bald head and sighed, "I suppose I can either come with you, or eventually die slowly in this place."

"Not much of a choice, is it?"

"Not really." This time Johnny's eyes began to fill with tears. "But I _do_ want to live."

Jack then rattled the supervisor's keys in front of Johnny, and a wide beam emerged on his face. "Then we go as soon as we're ready." Jack was hoping that more of the dead hadn't materialised since he saw the two the other evening. It was information he still hadn't shared with Johnny.

Johnny nodded, but the fear was written all over his face, and his body quaked with the nervous adrenaline shooting through his body. "Okay."
Chapter Twelve

Karen Bradley and Harry Branston slowly trudged their way through the Staffordshire greenery and was relieved to have found a dirt path. Walking on the uneven ground and long grass was beginning to tire them out and make their ankles ache.

Karen announced, "I think I know where I am now."

Pickle cleared his throat and spat into the grass to the side of him. "Yer said that five minutes ago."

"I know, but I recognise this path. I've been up here once or twice." Karen then pointed to her left. "Stile Cop is that way, about a mile away."

Relieved that their journey through the place had been a quiet affair, they carried on and eventually came to the edge of the woods. Once they left the area, Pickle and Karen could see that they were now at the bottom of the hill that was nicknamed by the local residents of Rugeley as Cardboard Hill. There was a lot of shrubbery to walk through, but Karen told Pickle that once they reached the top, the other side of the hill was clear.

On the flat part of the hillside was a small section of woods where a cabin stood, but at that moment, they couldn't see it. Pickle twisted his neck from side to side and stretched his arms, almost pulling his back out. He made an exaggerated moan when stretching, and Karen reprimanded him for making such an unnecessary and strident noise.

Asked Karen, "Your back?"

Pickle nodded. "It's givin' me a bit o' bother." He then stood on one leg and began to stretch his quads.

"Your legs as well?" This time Karen was grinning. "You old fart."

"Don't forget, I'm twenty years older than yer, young lady," Pickle cackled; he then looked up to the hill and made a long whistling noise. "That's some walk. So Rugeley's on the other side o' that hill?"

"More or less. Why don't we rest a while, if you're getting stiff?"

Pickle agreed and sat on the grass bank and began to stretch his hamstrings, by stretching his foot back and reaching to touch the toes. He held the stretch for fifteen seconds, and did the same with the other leg.

Karen licked her dry, cracked lips and put her head inbetween her knees. "God, I miss my lip balm." She then looked at Pickle who was staring into nothingness. She gave off a warm smile and put her arm around him while she was still standing. "You're shrinking, Branston."

"What?" He slipped out of his daydreaming and turned to his partner in crime. "What yer on about?"

"I said: You're shrinking."

"Yer think I'm losin' ma muscle mass? I do feel leaner, but then again, we ain't eaten proper in days, 'ave we?"

Karen sat and snuggled up next to her friend, giving her hot feet a welcomed and deserved rest. She then produced a small smirk on her face and glared at him with a scowl. Noticing this, Pickle asked her if there was anything wrong. "You know," she began, "over the weeks, with all the shit we've been through, and all those hours of chats that we have had, I still don't really know you that well. I know you can handle yourself, and used to be a drug dealer, and you like men..."

"What else do yer wanna know?"

Karen shrugged. "I just feel you know more about me, than I know about you. You've told me a couple of stories, but most of the time when we talk it's related to survival, food and avoiding those things."

"Okay." Pickle was sitting down and was resting the palms of his hands on his knees. He said with a sly grin, "What do yer wanna know about? Ma childhood? Ma teens? What 'bout ma first kiss?"

Karen made a face as if to say that she wasn't sure. "Just tell me anything. Basic shit."

Pickle grinned and felt a tad embarrassed. He had no idea why she wanted to know more of his background. Maybe it was a woman thing, he thought. He tried to appease her and began. "Well, I'm not really into political parties. I hate politicians."

"Who doesn't? When's your birthday?"

"October twelfth."

"Wicked; that means you're a Libran, like me."

"Karen," Pickle guffawed, "that doesn't mean _anything_ to me."

Karen sighed, "Okay, mardy bum. Music?"

"U2, The Beatles, Zeppelin—that kind o' stuff."

"Nicknames?"

Pickle created a half-shrug and peered around to make sure there was no sign of a ghoul, ready to stumble out of the woodland where they had just exited. "Apart from Pickle? Just the one." Pickle then blushed, which gave a Karen a warm glow inside of her, as it looked so sweet that a man of his power could be embarrassed by something, anything.

Karen nudged him in the side, playfully. "Come on, Branston," she teased. "Out with it."

"Promise yer won't laugh?"

"Oh, I can't do that." Karen began to chuckle. She then saw that serious look off of him and she settled down. She coughed and asked him, "What was it?"

"In prison, they used to call me..." Pickle lowered his head and cleared his throat. "...The Horse."

Karen bit her lower lip, trying to stifle the laugh that was aching to be released. It eventually _was_ released and even Pickle smiled at Karen's hilarity that he hadn't seen before. It was good to see her laugh, even if it was at his expense.

"The Horse?" Her cackling continued and now there was tears streaming down her face. "You're making me cry."

Pickle looked at Karen wiping the running tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands. "Better for the water to run from yer eyes than down yer thighs, Bradley."

She had almost managed to compose herself. Confident that she could muster a sentence without it being interrupted with a giggle, she questioned, "Why did they call you that? Is it because you used to shit like one?"

"No, you cheeky bitch," he tittered. "Because I'm hung like one, of course."

"A sea horse?"

"Very funny." He feigned hurt on his features and added, "Back in my area I had quite the reputation."

"Oh, I could imagine," Karen continued to mock. " _Here comes Harry Branston, everybody. Quick, lock up your goats._ "

After the laughter had eventually subsided, they both began to sit in silence. Pickle drew in a breath. He cleared his throat and added, "On a more serious note, ma childhood wasn't the best. Ma father was an alcoholic, and could be quite abusive at times. He used to beat the shit out o' ma mother."

"No brothers or sisters?"

Pickle shook his head and added, "When I was sixteen, ma mother had killed herself. Painkiller overdose. I left home soon after that, selling hash to support myself. I was then arrested for selling illegal substances and was sent to prison for a few months. I got a few handy contacts from inside and built my business up once I was out."

"So you've been in the drugs game since you were a teenager?"

"Yip." Pickle smacked his lips together and began to chew the inside of his mouth.

A few seconds of silence came after Pickle's short answer, and Karen assumed that the forty-three-year-old wasn't entirely comfortable talking about his past when he was being questioned, although he had told Karen some stories when she _never_ had asked.

She broke the silence with a less serious query. "So, how much are you worth?"

"Well, not that it makes any difference now, but I had properties all over England, two villas in Spain and—"

"How much?" she asked with a snicker.

"About ten million."

"Wow." Karen's facial expression suggested that she was impressed, but decided not to press any further. She had plenty of time to get to know Pickle more, or at least she hoped she would have, and decided to give him a break from her probing. Maybe he would tell her more about his past when _he_ was ready.

Pickle got to his feet and began brushing the grass off of the back of his grey jogging bottoms. Karen saw this as a sign that he was ready to move, and had interpreted the body language correctly.

Pickle's stomach growled loudly for food, which humoured the pair of them. He looked at his female companion with a grin and playfully patted his stomach. "I could eat a horse."

Karen snickered once again and threw her arms around a man that she adored. "Harry Branston, I love you."

As soon as she said those three words, her laughter quickly diminished and she produced a thin smile whilst her cheeks flushed red.

Pickle put his arm around Karen, brought her nearer to him and kissed her on the top of her head. "I know, Karen. I know."
Chapter Thirteen

"Come here," Jack beckoned Johnny over.

They were both in the canteen and had been emptying what was left in the vending machines, and had taken the tins from behind the kitchen area. Other food such as meats and fruit were rotten, and just the smell of the stuff was making Johnny's stomach turn, although Jack had pointed out that a huge percentage of the smell could be coming from the two deceased that were lying in the corner of the room with their heads bashed in.

"What is it?" asked Johnny.

Johnny had just filled a bag; the main contents of the bag was juice, chocolate bars and crisps. He went over to Jack who was standing still, peeking out of the canteen window that looked out onto the car park.

Surrounding the car park was a wire-mesh fence. Johnny stood next to Jack and they both glared out into the real world, or _surreal_ world. Not one man spoke for a minute as their eyes focused on the events that were happening outside.

Eventually Johnny spoke. "So this is what we're dealing with." He gulped and continued to gawp at the five ghouls hanging outside the fence.

"I didn't wanna tell you before, in case you refused to leave, but you need to see this." Jack remained transfixed on the dead and said, without looking at Johnny, "There was two last time I looked. There's now five, but by the time night comes, there could be fifty. Then the next day—"

"I get it," Johnny snapped. "If we want to leave this place, we need to go soon? Is that what you're saying?"

"Like _now_." Jack turned to face Johnny and asked him, "You need the toilet?"

Johnny thought it was a peculiar question to ask him; he scrunched his face with puzzlement. He shook his head.

"Good. Then we can go."

They took a bag each full of food and liquids, and Johnny kept behind Jack as he pushed open the door to the outside, onto the car park, the fresh air caressing their faces. Johnny couldn't believe how cool Jack looked; he never once looked at the dead walkers that were loitering outside the fence, who were a bit more excited now there were humans on show.

Jack casually went over to the black jeep and opened it up whilst Johnny stared in disbelief at the state of the dead things; one looked like a child, no older than seven years old.

"Johnny!" Jack called over; he was now sitting in the car with the driver's door still open. "Quit eyeballing them. We gotta go."

Johnny took a deep breath in to control his heartbeat. His wobbly legs reluctantly went their way over towards Jack. He sat on the passenger seat, and both men now had shut their doors.

Johnny placed his forehead onto the dashboard and began to cry. His body shook with fright, and he quickly tried to pull himself together and searched through the glove compartment for tissues. He had found a packet, and quickly cleaned himself up and immediately looked embarrassed for his mini-breakdown.

He cleared his throat and without looking at Jack, Johnny nodded forwards, as if to say that he was as ready as he'll ever be and that they should drive on.

Jack knew exactly how he felt, but knew Johnny needed to toughen up quick, otherwise he was going to be lunch for one of the many thousands of man-eaters that were out there. Jack told him, "We don't really have a choice in this decision."

"How am I going to get used to this? I just looked at those things and I felt I could shit through the eye of a needle."

Jack began to laugh.

"It's not funny. I'm gonna have a heart attack in my first week."

"You _will_ adapt."

"What about the gates?" Johnny was referring to the entrance gates which were normally controlled electronically. But now the electricity was no more, the gates could be moved with enough force. It kind of reminded Jack of the situation back at the sports centre.

"The gates won't be a problem." Jack winked at Johnny and fired the engine. "Ready?"

Johnny shook his head. "Er, no."

Jack smiled at Johnny's attempt at humour in such a dire situation. He kind of reminded him of himself when the outbreak first occurred. Jack said, "In the Hollywood movies, you're supposed to say: I was _born_ ready."

Johnny added, "Yeah, well some Hollywood movie this'd make. I _wasn't_ born ready; and I have no intention of running around wearing a white vest and smashing the heads of these things and shouting out, _yippee ki-yay, motherfucker_."

Jack pulled the jeep forwards to the entrance gates and turned the jeep around so that the back-end of the vehicle was facing the gates. Jack slipped the motor into reverse and floored the accelerator, making the jeep's tyres squeal and zoom backwards. Causing minor damage, the jeep forced open the gates and Jack swung the steering round so the vehicle spun one hundred and eighty degrees and was now facing forwards.

Jack turned to Johnny. "You okay?"

He quickly nodded, and winced when he said, "I might have released a little wee."

Jack slipped the vehicle into first and went forwards. The dead, by the fence, had now moved away and had stumbled into the road. Jack knew that he would have to manoeuvre the motor carefully, in order not to cause too much damage to the new vehicle he had stolen.

He was convinced that such a vehicle could mow down these things with ease, but he didn't want dents, blood and brain matter all over it so soon. He took his foot off the gas and weaved around the hideous things that desperately tried to claw at the sheet of metal that surrounded the two men inside.

Jack was doing an exceptional job, until he accidentally hit the dead boy.

The boy went under the vehicle and both men's backsides jumped up as the wheels went over the body. Although he was already dead, Jack immediately thought of Thomas and tried to shake it off.

Johnny asked, "Where to now? Lichfield? Burton?"

"I suppose the best thing to do is lay low. The longer we wait, the more chance, as time passes by, that these things might slowly die off and help could come our way."

"Isn't that just wishful thinking?"

"It _is_ wishful thinking," Jack agreed with Johnny, and was in no way angry for his negativity, "but it's all I can think of right now, and I'm not spending another night in the woods, that's for sure."

"I could imagine the sleep deprivation must have been murder."

Jack nodded. "Especially when you're on you own, and you've go no one to cover your back."

"So where to, if you think going back to mine will be too dangerous?"

"I have one idea. Back to my ex's. That's all I can think of. Depends on how many of those things are there, I suppose. It's not far."

"And if it's too busy there?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno."

That wasn't the answer Johnny was hoping for.
Chapter Fourteen

Their journey had been mundane and unproblematic throughout, but now the only thing they had to moan about, apart from the obvious dehydration and hunger, was the stress the hill was putting on their thighs and lower back. They both eventually got to the top of the large hill, where five hundred yards of flat ground greeted them.

The wind was predictably boisterous on this reasonably dry day, and Karen pointed over to a cluster of trees where the cabin should be. Their eyes couldn't see it at that moment, but Karen was convinced that behind those trees was an open area where the cabin was.

Pickle looked around at the view and could see the back of the Pear Tree Estate of Rugeley. The streets seemed reasonably clear and he couldn't understand why. Unless everyone in that area had escaped, or had been slaughtered.

Granted, his eyes could only clock half a dozen streets, but at the moment he couldn't see any signs of bodies strewn across the roads. There were fires in the distance, but he was hoping that the worst of it had already happened, because if this cabin was a pointless exercise, they were going to have to go to the edge of town to find somewhere to sleep.

Karen was looking at the same area _he_ was, and spoke up. "Looks fairly clear."

"True," Pickle said, "and if that shack is still there and clear, we can stay there for as long as we can. The longer away from those things, the more chance we stand o' surviving, providing we get some supplies."

"What happens if this cabin is empty? No food or nothing?"

"Then we're gonna have to raid a few houses and bring the food back up here."

Karen fired another question. "And if the cabin is inhabited?"

"Then we move on, if they don't give us a bed for a few nights. I'm not gonna harm people to get what I want."

Karen raised her eyebrows at her companion as if to say: Isn't that what you used to do?

"Okay." He smiled, realising what he had just said was a little hypocritical. "Back then it was about business. This is about survival. I've never harmed anyone that didn't deserve it."

"Really?" Karen was unsure. She placed either hand on the side of her head and sat down on the grassy, steep hill. "We _are_ getting desperate now, though."

Pickle was a little perplexed at what Karen had just said. Was she hinting that the pair of them should be a lot more ruthless? Was it the dehydration talking? Or was she just physically and emotionally exhausted?

Pickle asked, "So if there's a family in there, are yer quite happy to move them out by force, is that what yer sayin'?"

"Of course not."

Pickle motioned with his hand for Karen to get back on her feet. She did as she was told, and wearily followed behind the man she had known for a short time.

Pickle walked towards the cluster of trees, with Karen following suit. Once they got near to the area, they both stopped, then cautiously walked and came to a six-foot fence with a gate the same size as the surrounding fence that was situated in the middle.

"I don't remember there being a fence." Karen rubbed her eyes, ready to collapse in a heap and sleep for a day.

"Who used to live here?" asked Pickle.

"Some old man. When he died, numerous people bought it and used is as some kind of retreat."

Pickle rubbed his thin beard in thought, and added, "I suppose it's one o' these places that yer can use to have time for yourself, to pray, and get in touch with nature."

Karen glared at the man to see if he was being serious or not. "Sounds boring to me."

Pickle smiled and playfully punched Karen on the arm. "That's because yer a young chick. Yer should be still going to clubs and gettin' drunk."

"Those days are well and truly over."

Pickle went to reach for the gate's knob and tried twisting it. It wouldn't open. He used a little force this time and the gate rattled. If need be, Karen was sure that Pickle could smash through the gate, but out of respect for whom or whomever was in there, she never suggested such a thing.

Impatiently, Karen snapped, "Just look over."

"Okay."

Being the same height as the fence, Pickle went on his tip-toes and could see over. The cabin was reasonably large, and in front of it there was a small garden that was dark, as it appeared to be congested with the shadows of the tall trees that surrounded the area that allowed in little sunlight. Twenty yards in front of the house was an old-looking shed to the left side of the garden. Opposite the shed was a tree stump that seemed to be the place that maybe some wood-chopping would take place.

Pickle could obviously not tell from looking outside, but he guessed that maybe it was one of those recluse cabins that had no electricity, gas or phones. He guessed that the person/people who came here, came to get away from the stress of twenty-first century life, away from technology, and to converse with Mother Nature.

Without warning Karen in advance, Pickle pulled himself up and threw himself over. From behind the fence he could hear Karen releasing profanities that were about him, and he stayed where he was until seconds later she followed his lead.

Karen was clearly exhausted, and it looked as if that one climb over the fence had sapped any energy she had left. Once they were in the grounds, they both stood at the end of the garden and looked at the front of the cabin. She then questioned Pickle, "What now?"

"Knock on the door and introduce ourselves."

"Simple as that? We're trespassing on their property."

"Doesn't matter what we do, Karen, they're gonna be startled at first anyway. Let's just hope it's empty."

They tentatively walked forwards and could see that the windows of the place were in desperate need of a wash. They went past the stump and the dilapidated shed, then Pickle progressed a little further forwards than Karen, and was only yards away from rattling the front door.

"That's close enough," a voice snarled.

Pickle and Karen both stopped in their tracks, and gazed at the slightly opened window to their right—the one to their left was shut tightly, and although they couldn't see a face, they could see the double-barrel shotgun pointing at Pickle's midriff.

Both Karen and Pickle slowly raised their hands in the air without being asked to do so.
Chapter Fifteen

Going back to Rugeley and heading for Kerry's house was forcing Jack to re-live some of the events that had happened to him in the first few days when the news of the outbreak was announced. The days of riding on the lime-green, stolen BMW motorbike seemed like an age ago.

He drove the jeep carefully as they entered the town of Rugeley. It was a few miles from the factory to the town, and Jack was astounded that there were hardly any incidents on their journey back to the place.

There were only a few incidents on the two-mile trip. The first one was when Jack and Johnny drove past a village and found scores of the things wandering aimlessly. A few attacked and clawed at the jeep, but the jeep was too quick and powerful, and they were too slow and weak to cause any damage to the vehicle and the men that were inside it.

The second incident involved humans. Jack passed a parked van on the side of the road where a male dead body lay, and three men and a woman left a house and got into the van. All he could think of was that the man was the owner of the house and the four people that owned the van, parked up, and killed the man for his food, as well as other items that would be deemed as necessary for survival.

At first, Jack thought that the van was going to follow them, but thankfully it never happened.

As soon as they entered Rugeley, they got to the road, Horsefair, and saw at the roundabout that there was a horde of them, all congregating to the left side of the roundabout where a few cars were parked horizontally across the beginning of the road, Sandy Lane. The cars were being used as some kind of barricade, and the Snatchers were trying to get through, knowing that there was something of interest that could be devoured.

Jack had a quick peep and could see people behind the cars, armed with swords and knives, and it seemed to him that some people were trying to take control of the situation. Sandy Lane was the road that led to Draycott Park, and further on was the end of Rugeley and the beginning of Hednesford Road, which bypassed Stile Cop Road.

The jeep turned left onto Green Lane, and passed a street called Park View Terrace where Jack lived for a while when he was a young boy. As the jeep got to the top of Green Lane, it turned left and was now on Crabtree Road, Kerry's old road.

There was just the one dead walker in the street, and Jack made sure that that one ghoul was going to test the jeep's mettle. Back at the factory, despite hitting the boy, he didn't want to run down the small group in case it gave the vehicle unnecessary damage. But now he was at Kerry's and there was just the one of them, Jack wanted to see how the jeep would 'react' hitting an adult's body. They certainly couldn't leave it to roam about. They had no weapons of their own to take it out, and if they entered Kerry's house, it could follow them, which could attract more from afar.

"Hold on." Jack dropped a gear, and floored the gas pedal.

Johnny closed his eyes as the jeep made impact. Once he opened them, Jack had stopped the vehicle and had the wipers on, clearing the black gunk off of the windscreen.

Jack said, "Well that was relatively painless."

"Have you a key for this place?" asked Johnny; his hands were shaking and his bottom lip wobbled a little when he spoke.

Jack shook his head, but didn't answer Johnny verbally. He parked the jeep at the side of the road and jumped out. He looked at the street and could see the end house had been burnt out; whether it was an accident, he had no idea.

The first time he arrived here from Glasgow, he remembered that he had taken out a pane of glass to get into the house; so getting _in_ would be pretty easy, even easier if the place had been broken into and ransacked by desperados.

"You told me about your son and your ex," Johnny began, and was reluctant to finish his sentence, but he did. "Isn't this a little weird coming back to this house? There should be plenty of other houses abandoned."

"I _want_ to be here. You can go whenever you want."

Johnny shook his head, as they were both now walking down the garden and around the back of the house. Jack noticed the shaking of Johnny's head and asked him what was wrong.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah." Jack nodded. "What's up?"

"You're an ungrateful fucker, Jack Slade."

"What?" Jack stopped walking and turned to stare at a clearly-upset Johnny.

"You were nearly dead when I brought you in, and all you've done is bark orders at me; I just feel you're really ungrateful. You drive me all the way to this town, miles away from my own house, and then tell me that I can go if I want. What's your problem?"

Jack look baffled and had no answer for Johnny. He could see he was upset, but felt that it wasn't necessary to apologise to the man, as he didn't know what he would be apologising to him for.

"I appreciate you taking me in." Jack looked around and was stroking his thin beard that had been itching the hell out of him over the last few days. "But what do you want me to do? Give you a wank? The factory was eventually gonna be your own tomb. You would have starved to death in there eventually, whilst hundreds of those fuckers would be gathering outside the place. I've taken you out of that place," Jack then looked and pointed at Kerry's house, "and I'm giving you a bed for the night. I think we're even, don't you?"

Jack never received a response from Johnny. He continued to look all around him, as he was paranoid that standing where they were and having a conversation, wasn't the best thing to do in an apocalyptic situation where the dangers were everywhere.

Jack patted Johnny on the shoulder. "Let's go inside."

The two men went round the back of the house. Jack could see that the pane of glass he had broken, to get inside two weeks ago, was still sitting on the floor in pieces. He raised a sad smile, knowing that Kerry and Thomas were alive back then.

He let himself in and Johnny followed.

Jack looked around. It looked exactly the way it was when he came here the other week, and couldn't believe it hadn't been ransacked yet. It would be eventually; he was certain of it.

Johnny scanned around and asked Jack, "Can I check upstairs?"

Jack nodded his head and said, "It's clear upstairs, I'm sure of it."

Johnny smiled and opened the door that led to the stairs, where there were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor.

"Don't go into the bedroom on the right," Jack spoke out in a sad voice. "That's my son's room. Even _I_ won't be going anywhere near that."

Johnny released a sympathetic smile and could only imagine the torment that Jack had, and still was, going through. No wonder he was rude and uptight, Johnny thought.

Jack had told Johnny in a brief summary what he had been through over the last week or so, and Johnny had come to the conclusion that this world was now either going to strengthen him, mentally, or break him. He had no idea where Jack was, as far as his mentality was concerned. Johnny thought that Jack Slade had been moulded into the figure he was now, and was probably a normal bloke before all this shit happened. He was probably a simple guy, with a simple job, and enjoyed a beer and the company of women.

The new world had stripped down all the perks of the world. Playstations, Facebook and job promotions were now things of the past. Food, drink and shelter were taken for granted in the old world, but were the only targets that people were aiming for now. The days of walking into a supermarket and getting a week of food had disappeared; from now on they were going to be living from hand to mouth.

Johnny got to the top of the stairs and went into the bathroom. He tried the cold tap of the sink and raised a scowl as nothing came out. He took a damp flannel that was sitting on the side. He then washed his hands and face with a bar of soap and the wet flannel, lowered his head on the ceramic and began to cry.

From the bottom of the stairs, Jack called out, "Johnny."

The thin, bald man, who was nearly at the age of fifty, composed himself and called down the stairs, "What is it?"

"We're gonna need to block this front door off and some of the windows, if we want to sleep easy tonight."

Johnny took a look in the mirror. He looked hideous. He looked hideous anyway; some people had remarked over the years, since he had lost his hair, that he looked like one of the cannibals in Wes Craven's _The Hills Have Eyes_. He may have looked scary to some folk, but he was one of the biggest cowards on the planet.

How on earth was he going to last more than a week in this world? He couldn't rely on Jack to carry him; and even if that was the plan, Johnny had a strong notion that if you were slowing Jack Slade down, he would eventually leave you to fend for yourself.

Jack's voice was heard once again. This time it was a lot louder, angrier, and made Johnny jump. "Johnny, hurry the hell up!"

"I'll be right down," Johnny finally answered.
Chapter Sixteen

June 25th

Jade Greatrix and Paul Parker had managed seven hours of broken sleep between them, and were both feeling the effects of dehydration. Jade had drank a few gulps of stream water the evening before and had contracted diarrhoea, but she was unsure whether it was down to the water she had drank, or it was her nerves that were causing her bowels to be so upset. Maybe a mixture of the two.

Paul had splashed his face by the nearby stream, but refused to drink it, despite that his body was aching to have water. He stood to his feet and stretched his body. Jade looked at him and was concerned for him. They were both tired and thirsty, and Paul seemed to have given up. He was such a different character to the one she had first met in the sports centre.

Back at the sports centre, he was strong and confident, and despite the fact he was a man that was missing his family, she did find him attractive. Maybe that's what it was! It wasn't just the tiredness and the dehydration that was making him feel so down; he was more than likely pining for his wife and daughter, she thought.

"You okay?" Jade glared at Paul for some kind of answer. Talking hadn't been his strong point of late.

He shook his head. "This is hopeless. Living in this," he opened out his arms and looked around the woods, "is hopeless. I've made a decision."

"Oh?"

Paul's shoulders rose up as he took a deep breath in. "I'm going home."

"But what about those things? I thought they were all around your village."

"I don't care anymore!" he snarled. "When I woke up on that morning, my family were gone and my house was swarming with the things. I had no choice _but_ to run. Now, who knows?"

"If you go back to your village, there could be hundreds of the things."

"True. But what if they're not there? What if there's no one left, and the Lurkers have moved on somewhere else? That means my house is lying vacant. I have more of a chance finding my family being back at the house. Since I left for the village hall, I seemed to be moving further and further away from where I used to live, which probably means further away from Jocelyn and Hannah. I need to go back. If we ever get to a stage where it becomes safe to walk outside again, the family home is where they'll go."

"Okay." Jade sounded dejected with Paul's determination, but she knew that she could hardly stand in the way of a man wanting to find his family.

"And I want _you_ to come back with me," said Paul.

"Really?"

"Really."

Jade released a smile; her face was full of so much relief and happiness that she began to cry. She was convinced that Paul was going to suggest for the pair of them to part their ways. Paul walked over to the fragile, young lady and gave her a hug. Once their embrace was broken and Jade managed to pull herself together, she asked, "How far is it to your house from here?"

Paul Parker shrugged his shoulders and released a false smile. "With travelling in that pick-up truck, and then running about a mile in the woods, away from those four arseholes, I have no idea where we are and what direction we should be heading. I'm guessing we're about four or five miles away from my village."

"So we need to find a road."

"Yes," Paul agreed. "There's a good chance I could recognise the road, and even if I don't, we should eventually approach a junction. Junctions usually have road signs to state which village is what way and how many miles it takes to get there."

"So do you wanna head back the way we came from?"

"No, I don't," he said sharply. "I think we should go that way," he pointed to his right, "and see where it takes us."

He walked on, with Jade following behind. Their tired feet were dragging through the long grass and bracken, and once they finally came across a dirt path, it made their walk a little easier.

Jade ran her fingers through her dark, greasy hair and pulled a face that was the same kind of expression one would show if they had tasted a bitter lemon. Her fingers struggled through her hair, and her expression was made because of how greasy and unkempt her hair had become from days of not washing and sleeping rough in the woodland.

Her eyes stared at her feet as she walked on the dirt path, and she felt a sudden slap on her chest from Paul who was in front of her.

"Ow!" Jade rubbed her chest and looked up at Paul. "What was that for?"

Paul shushed the twenty-five-year-old and urged her to crouch down behind him. She did as she was instructed, and followed him as he crawled off the dirt path and hid behind a tree. He then pointed ahead of him and she took a gander; her eyes widened when it was clear what she was now witnessing.

There were nine Lurkers—a name Paul gave them—about a hundred yards away. They appeared to be walking away from Paul and Jade, and they had no idea where they were going and where they had come from. They both continued to watch as the small gang of the dead stumbled, very slowly, away from the two hiding humans.

Paul turned to Jade. "We'll keep away from the paths for a few minutes, until they're gone. When we're on the paths, we're more exposed and less hidden."

Jade silently agreed with head movement.

The two of them slowly walked through the long grass and Paul whispered to Jade, "Once they're completely away from view, we can get back on the path and head that way." He pointed to the right.

Jade giggled nervously a little, and asked Paul, "Why are you whispering? They're almost out of sight."

Paul had managed a smile himself. It was a smile Jade hadn't seen in a while, and he puffed out his lower lip and shook his head. "I have no idea."

"You're not right in the head," Jade joked.

"I don't think many survivors _are_ these days, not what after some of us have seen."

Paul's comment had quickly crushed the light entertainment they were experiencing. It wasn't intentional; it just slipped out.

Jade then suddenly heard a snap to her left, where Paul was situated, and heard the thirty-one-year-old cry out and fall to the ground. Paul was on the floor, holding his right foot. "Bastard poachers!" he screamed. "Get it off!"

Jade scanned around and began to panic. She had no idea what he was talking about and what was actually happening. "Get _what_ off?"

Paul screamed out again, and this time Jade shushed the man that was in excruciating pain. Paul Parker raised his foot a little to reveal that his body part had been the victim of a coil-spring animal trap. He couldn't raise his foot any higher as the chain of the trap was hammered into the ground with a metal peg.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" Jade was hysterical and was no use to anyone. She was a fitness instructor and had to take her HSE First Aid course every three years, but a foot being caught in an animal trap didn't cover what she had been taught.

The sweat on Paul's head was raining down and he was certain that his foot was broken. He spoke with a grimace, "Grab both jaws of the trap, and pull them back as wide as you can. At least then I can get my foot out."

Jade did what she was asked, but she found that it was difficult and was struggling to get the jaws open. "I can't do it."

"For fuck's sake. Let me do it."

Paul leaned over and pulled back the jaws of the trap. He cried out again when his fingers slipped and the trap snapped shut once more, sending the pain straight through his body. He stuck his fist in his mouth to prevent him from screaming any more, and drew blood as his teeth sank in.

"I'll try again." Jade bent over and tried once more; this time she had managed to get the jaws wide enough for Paul to remove his foot. Once he did, he could feel his foot pulsating. His head dropped in his lap and tears were released, due to the pain.

He heard Jade say, "Oh no."

He blew air out of his mouth, wiped the tears from his face, and spoke with frustration. "Now what is it?"

She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed ahead of her. The melee had attracted the horde from afar. They had turned around, and were now shambling their way towards Jade Greatrix and an injured Paul Parker. "They're coming."
Chapter Seventeen

They had spent the night in the garden, but felt it was reasonably safe with the fence and the gate as protection. The owner had offered them the poky shed, but once they took a look inside, they kindly refused and wondered when was the last time it had been cleaned. It stunk of animal droppings.

This wasn't the first time these pair had slept under the stars, but it was the first time that they had had a good night's sleep in a long while.

Karen was the first to wake.

Still lying on the floor, she stretched out her arms and felt amazing. For the first time in a long time, she had slept for more than five hours—in this case, nine—and was hydrated. Her throat wasn't sore with dryness anymore and her headaches had disappeared. She sat up in the sleeping bag that had been given to her by the owner of the cabin, and she looked over to Pickle who was still sleeping.

After much talk, the pair of them had convinced the occupier that they came in peace, and only arrived at the cabin in hope that it was empty. They were honest with the man and each one told him their story, from the moment the outbreak occurred to the present day. The man had then lowered his gun, told them that he believed them, but made them sleep outside and appeased them that it would be safe.

He had been a man of his word.

The occupier off the cabin was called Wolfgang Kindl. He was a sixty-nine-year-old man with grey hair, a thick grey beard, with a straw hat sitting on top of his head. His appearance was like something out of Deadwood in the nineteenth century, and his shotgun was an old thing, and he admitted to the pair that he only had one box of shells to his name.

Karen heard the door of the cabin swing open and slowly stood to her feet. Wolfgang stepped out into the new day and greeted Karen with a smile.

She said nervously, "Good morning, Mr—"

"None of that _Mr_ bollocks, Karen." He tittered, and revealed his yellow grin. "I told you before; it's Wolf, and Wolf only."

"Sorry ... er, Wolf." Karen felt silly calling him that; it was like something out of a DC comic. Karen watched as the old man began to walk the perimeter of the fence, checking for irregularities. She took a deep breath in and had to ask, "How did you get the name Wolfgang Kindl anyway? You sound English; you don't sound foreign."

"My parents were Austrian. They moved over here in the fifties." He walked over to a little black part of the grass where it looked like there used to be a fire or two in the past. He went to the corner of the garden to pick some already-chopped sticks and disappeared into the cabin, only to return with some firelighters. He placed the firelighters under the sticks and pulled out a lighter. He used the lighter to light them and they both watched in silence whilst the fire began to take shape. Karen looked over to him with slight confusion and consternation on her face.

As if he could read her mind, he said, "Relax. It gives out a little smoke, but not too much. I've been doing this for two weeks now, and I haven't attracted much attention. Just make sure when you put it out, you do it with dirt, not water. Water makes the fire smokier, plus it's a waste of water." He pulled out a frying pan from the end of the cabin that must have been sitting in the grass, checked it was clean—ish—and put it by Karen's feet.

Wolf explained, "I'm sorry I didn't offer you any food last night. I'm pretty short, but if you are going to eat, and you can only have one meal a day, it has to be breakfast. You hungry?"

Karen nodded. "Starving. We both are."

"Well, have _I_ got a treat for you two." He began to chuckle and disappeared into the cabin once again. He returned into the enclosed garden with six rashers of bacon and an egg box with eight eggs.

Karen couldn't help but smile. "Oh my God. I think I'm gonna cry."

"Happy?" he asked.

"Like a pig in shit." As he began making breakfast, she looked over to Pickle who was still sleeping. "Wait till Pickle sees this."

He hovered the pan over the fire and explained to Karen that it may take a while. Wolf said, "Probably one of the best feelings is waking up on a morning to the smell of bacon. My wife used to cook the stuff every Sunday morning."

Wolf lowered his head sadly at the mention of his wife, but continued to cook. Karen was dying to ask him about her, but feared of upsetting the kind man that had just taken them both in. She tried a different approach and asked him where he was when the outbreak was announced. He knew all about _them_ , when he had the shotgun pointing at them, it was now _his_ turn to be grilled a little.

He stroked his grey beard in deliberation and rolled his eyes. He finally spoke. "Well, at the beginning, the first thing I did was pack our things and told my Grace that we were heading for our cabin."

"Oh." Karen looked around the place, and thought at first that maybe Wolfgang had come up to the cabin on his own accord, and claimed it for himself. "So this place is yours?"

"Yeah. I used to come up here on the weekends to shoot, relax—that kind of stuff. The hill was beginning to kill my back, and Grace had stopped going altogether, so we decided that next year we were going to sell it. I'm seventy years old next year."

"So why didn't you stay indoors like we were told to?"

Wolf gave off a laugh that was infectious and stroked his grey beard again with his left hand, whilst gently shaking the pan with his other hand so the bacon and eggs wouldn't stick too much. There was just two of each on the pan, and Karen assumed that he was making them all breakfast individually. Wolf spoke, "Once all the rules of society have disappeared, you're on your own. We had to escape, from those things, and from man."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm too old to be fighting, Karen. If those things or looters came into our house, we wouldn't stand a chance, so we had to be somewhere away from the public. We came up here before the weekend announcement; I knew something wasn't right beforehand. There were reports for weeks about biting epidemics, riots. You know what the main cause of this disaster is?"

Karen shook her head.

"Denial. Denial occurs because of the arrogance of the government, and also one of the worst things governments hates is social panic."

"You said, _we_. Is your wife here?"

Wolf lowered his head despondently; the first breakfast was nearly ready. "She's dead. She's in the back room. Another reason why I didn't want you guys sleeping in there."

"I'm sorry." Karen felt a shiver rattle her vertebrae, and thought that it was rather odd and unhealthy to have his dead wife still in the cabin. She thought that the stench must have been awful. Was that why he didn't want them to stay inside for the night, or was it the fact that they were strangers and he didn't trust them yet?

She had noticed when she and Pickle turned in, he had locked the door from the inside. Despite taking them in, it was too early to trust them. _Why didn't he just tell us to go away?_

Karen decided to tackle the subject a little later as she didn't want to piss off her host so soon. She then looked over to Pickle; he was stirring. It appeared the smell of the bacon was working its magic. To break the silence between her and Wolf, she asked, "You have kids?"

Wolf nodded his head. "Somewhere; well, not really kids anymore, they're grown ups." He then changed the subject. "Right, your breakfast's up." He slid the contents onto a plastic plate which was accompanied with a plastic fork. "I'll do your friend next."

The body of the woman inside was still irking Karen. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't keep her mouth shut. "Look," Karen forced a full rash of bacon in her mouth, quickly chewed, and swallowed before finishing off the sentence she had started. "We can give your wife a decent burial, if you want. It's not healthy for you to have her—"

"I'll deal with it!" Wolf snapped. His face was thunderous, but as soon as he released a long breath out, the redness in his cheeks quickly diminished and he put on a brave smile, knowing that Karen didn't mean anything by her interfering. He was sure she was just trying to help.

Karen nodded her head apologetically; she didn't mean to upset the man, but it appeared he had forgotten all about the incident within seconds. Karen tried to lighten the mood. "By the way; the cabin being on a hill is a stroke of genius."

Wolf tittered a little. "I know. The hill's that steep, the atrophy stops them from getting up here. Some have crawled, but they can only get so far. There's a few at the bottom of the hill. Did you see them by the hedge?"

Karen shook her head, and became a little unnerved once he had revealed this information. "For a person who has hardly any contact with these things, you seem confident they can't get up."

"I am." He released a smirk. "They've been there for nearly two weeks now. They won't turn back knowing I'm up here. These things don't walk away; there's no surrender, and that's what makes them so dangerous. As long as you have a heartbeat, you're a meal."

"What about humans? Have you had any bother with _people_ coming up here?"

"No. Just you two. I think most people have moved elsewhere, barricaded themselves in, or dead. I listened for the first week on my radio, before the batteries conked out, and I was pleased when they informed us that these things were unable to run, climb—whatever."

"You're a lucky man, Wolf."

"Am I?"

Karen had briefly forgot about his wife and was about to apologise once again, but Wolf had halted her temporarily.

Said Wolf, "Aren't we just putting off the inevitable?"

"You mean ... death?"

Wolf smiled and watched Karen tucking into her eggs. He wished he had more food on offer; she looked ravenous. "Karen, the trouble now is that the boats have stopped sailing, and the trucks have stopped moving. Where are we going to get food and medicine in the long-term? These things are not just killing the human race by eating us, they're killing us with starvation, dehydration and disease."

Karen nodded, and already knew that this disaster was in its infancy and their problems were just beginning. Even though the dead were the main source of the collapse of the old world she loved and had taken for granted, just like every other human, she was certain that the Snatchers were eventually just going to be put in the background and the main problem was going to be humans and how the desperate survivors were going to react. Most of the people out there were scared, hungry, and psychologically scarred by witnessing death in such a destructive and bloody way, and some of that death may have been members of their own family.

She finished her meal, but she refrained from telling Wolf that it was a meal she could have eaten four times over. She didn't want to offend her gracious host, so she told him it was lovely, and verbally greeted Pickle with a 'good morning' when he opened his eyes.

Wolf looked at the two of them; they seemed like a nice, genuine pair, and was contemplating on telling them something that they probably had a right to know about if they were to stay for a day or two.

He decided to hold off. It can wait, he thought.
Chapter Eighteen

Jack and Johnny had spent most of the time blocking off windows and the entrance to the front door that led out onto the road. It had been a laborious couple of hours, but they still had air in their lungs and there were scraps of food and liquid in the residence that could be consumed.

"Fill the bath," Jack commanded Johnny.

"What?"

"Fill the bath." Jack tried to explain, "The power's out. Running water could be next. It's the power that helps the water pump."

Johnny didn't really understand what Jack was talking about; he even thought that Jack was unsure himself, as he didn't seem convincing in his explanation.

Johnny went into the bathroom and tried both hot and cold taps from the bath and the sink. Nothing came out, and Johnny cussed under his breath. He tried the taps again, but his efforts were ineffectual. "There's no running water," Johnny announced. "I did try earlier."

"Shit." Jack stroked his chin in thought. "There's a kettle full of water downstairs, some juice and a few cans of vimto. It'll have to do for now."

"I'll have a can; is that okay?"

Jack's nod of the head informed Johnny it was okay by him, and Johnny trotted down to the ground floor, leaving Jack Slade alone upstairs.

Jack walked into the bathroom and inspected his features in the mirror that was hanging over the sink. Even after a couple of weeks, his hair looked a little longer—that was to be expected in the long-term. His thick eyebrows hadn't been plucked for a while either. He knew that if he didn't pluck, his monobrow would return. His toenails needed trimming as well. It seemed like a trivial thing with the world they were living in now, but with time on their side, Jack decided to prune himself, even if he did smell like a horse's arse.

He walked into Kerry's bedroom and went through her dresser drawers. He pulled out a little white bag and found some nail-cutters. He looked to the right of the mirror and saw a school photograph of Thomas. He must have been only five years old. Jack took the photograph and gently lay it face down, and stroked the back of it as if it was a living thing.

He peered into the mirror and thought, God, I'm looking old. His annoying stubble over the last few days had now turned into a thin beard, and he scowled at the grey bits at the chin area.

Jack then looked at the back of the picture frame of Thomas and picked it up. He sat on the end of the bed, gave off a heavy sigh, and turned the frame around to see the picture of his boy. He was beautiful. His dark eyes and gleaming white smile twanged Jack's heartstrings, and he looked at his boy's cute, overgrown Beatle haircut.

With his forefinger, he stroked his son's hair on the picture and released a small laugh. Thomas was a nightmare to take to the hairdressers.

When Kerry first took him, Thomas had his mouth open and cried whilst the patient lady was cutting his mop. The loose hair had fallen into his mouth, which made him panic and upset. Sometimes Kerry would have to drag him round for his haircut. He would spend the whole time, from leaving the house to once his hair had been finished by the hairdresser, screaming. Other times she didn't have the mental and physical energy, and would give in to him when he refused to go.

Jack placed both hands on the back of the frame and lay back on the bed. His sobbing was loud, and the tears ran plentifully down the side of his cheeks and onto the bed sheets, staining them a little. He held the frame tighter against his chest, as his heart continued to break, and wished briefly that the leather belt in the sports centre hadn't weakened. If it hadn't, he would have been out of this nightmare for good.

A few minutes had passed, and suddenly Jack heard the voice of Johnny from the bottom of the stairs. "Jack! You need to come down and see this shit!"

Jack wiped his eyes quickly with the backs of his hands and headed for the window. The curtains were already closed, and he peered from them. There were two pick-up trucks sitting outside the street, and Jack could see eight people, six men and two women, standing around the vehicles. None of them were armed with firepower, but all were holding some kind of weapon, whether it was a knife, a baseball bat, or a cleaver.

Johnny turned up from downstairs. "Did you hear me shouting?"

Jack nodded, and continued to observe what was unfolding. "You get a better view from here."

Johnny asked, "What's happening?"

"Hazard a guess," Jack began. "These people are trying to survive, but at other peoples' expense."

"What?"

"They're robbing the whole street." Jack then beckoned Johnny to take a step forwards to stand next to him, which he did. They both watched out into the street. "And whoever puts up a fight, gets punished."

They both glared out as a father, whose family were outside their house, was thrown to the ground. Jack looked to the side to see his wife—he presumed—and two little girls crying as the man struggled to get to his feet.

Jack and Johnny heard one of the men shout, "You don't ever tell me to go and fuck myself again. You hear me, cunt?"

Two big men, carrying baseball bats, walked over to the man as he staggered to his feet, whilst three others went inside the house to see what they could get. The men began swinging their bats at the individual. He collapsed to the floor after receiving his seventh blow, and his wife and children screamed so loud, one of the men yelled at the woman to shut the fuck up.

As the two men with bats walked away from the victim lying on the road, another individual from the truck, a red-headed woman, went over to the man, pulled out her knife and stabbed him three times in the back.

The man never got back up. He was dead.

"Fucking hell," was all Johnny could muster. And Jack Slade knew how he felt. He wasn't expecting that. He was expecting the man to get a bit of a slap and be told to be on his way; that was it. It seemed incredible to Jack that the country was only in its third week of this disaster and people were already behaving like this.

Jack looked to Johnny. "I wasn't expecting that."

Johnny's frame shuddered and felt like slapping Jack for bringing him out of the factory; starvation didn't seem so bad after seeing that. "We gotta get out of here."

"No chance. I'm going nowhere." Jack was obstinate, and Johnny could see the determination scrawled over the man's face.

"Didn't you see what—?"

"Of course I did, but I'm not backing down to bullies. Fuck 'em."

"So what're you gonna do?"

Jack peered out of the window and saw that the gang were starting from the end of the street and working their way down.

They were three houses away from them.

Jack looked at Johnny and gave him a psychotic smile. "If they come in," Jack began. "I may have to introduce them to Mr Bar." Jack crouched down in the dim room and picked up the crowbar and revealed a smile reminiscent of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.

"You're fuckin' nuts."

"Possibly." Jack snarled, and puffed out his chest. "I've got fuck all to lose, Johnny. I've already lost everything. I _am_ gonna hide, but if my back's against the wall..."
Chapter Nineteen

Jade and Paul moved as swiftly as they could through the woodland, as the creatures from the woods now moved towards them in healthy numbers. Jade had her arm around Paul's waist and was desperately trying to help him move. His foot was broken and every time the thirty-one-year-old accidentally put pressure on the damaged area from the animal trap, he would release a cry of pain.

Jade kept on looking behind her as they both struggled to move in unison.

"Don't look back," Paul scolded with what little breath he had left. His breathing was inconsistent and he was already tiring. "Just keep moving. Every time you look back, you slow down."

"I'm sorry," Jade was now in tears. "They're—"

"I don't want to know. Just keep looking ahead, and keep moving." Paul was certain that Jade's full sentence was going to be: They're gaining on us.

He didn't need to be a genius to work that out. He could hear the noises of movement getting louder and louder from behind him. He didn't need to look, and he didn't want to look; he knew that the future appeared to be drastic for the both of them.

"Turn left," Paul commanded.

They both turned left and Jade took another peek behind her, despite Paul telling her _not to_ only a few seconds ago. The paranoia was making it hard for Jade not to turn around, but the image of her being grabbed and pulled to the ground and then experiencing dozens of mouths taking chunks out of her well-toned body, repulsed and frightened her. She could now see at least twenty of the things, stumbling and groaning in their direction. She was hoping that they would soon be giving up.

Fat chance!

"Argh!" Paul screamed out as he went over his already-damaged foot and Jade stumbled as he lost his balance; they both fell to the ground.

They wasted valuable seconds whilst they straightened themselves up. They went back to the old position, with Jade's arm around Paul's waist for support, and Paul's hand around Jade's shoulder, and the two progressed the best they could with only three working legs.

"We need to speed it up," Jade stated the obvious.

"I can't," Paul snapped. "It hurts like a bastard."

Jade was quaking with panic and screamed, "It's gonna hurt a whole lot more if we don't hurry the fuck up."

Paul was still moving with Jade, and they could see through the trees that there was a road up ahead. Paul went over his foot again and exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!"

"Come on!" Jade screamed; her heart was now banging the inside of her chest, quick and hard. She looked at Paul; he was exhausted. There was no way he was going to make it. She was sure of it.

She looked around again, and could see them in their loose formation; the nearest one was now only ten yards away.

Jade could see the tears streaming from Paul. He really _was_ pushing himself through the pain barrier. He was struggling to catch his breath, and he was leaning on her and getting heavier, which suggested to Jade that he was becoming weaker. Trying to move on one working leg must be really difficult, almost impossible, she thought.

"We're nearly at the road." Jade gave Paul a false smile, in order to give him some false hope, but he shook his head. "What is it, Paul?"

With his gasping breath, Paul struggled to get out his sentence. "And what do we do once we're at the road? We still have to keep moving, and these things are not going to stop, ever."

_Shit, he's right_.

Jade looked up to the sky and her lip wobbled with emotion. She had never been a bad person, and would like to have thought that she could go back to her house one day and see if her family were still around, but she couldn't do that if she was dead.

She wondered if her parents were still alive; and if they _were_ , she was certain that they were probably distraught that their little girl hadn't come home yet.

What worried Jade the most, was her father. He knew she had gone to work that day, and she was certain that her pig-headed father may have taken the car and took a drive to the sports centre to see if there was any sign of his little girl. With the state the sports centre was in when they left, with the hundreds of ghouls around and inside the centre, she feared that there was a possibility that her father may have been killed looking for her. But she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything; and the only way she was going to know if her family were okay was to achieve her overall goal, and that was to go back home.

A few scenarios could greet Jade Greatrix if she made it back home. Her parents could have turned, or they could be alive and hiding in the house. She wanted to know if they were okay. She was desperate to know.

She had a choice to make, and she made it with a heavy heart.

Jade cried, "May God forgive me."

"What are you talkin' about?" Paul spoke.

Jade looked at him, removed her arm from around his waist, took his arm off around her shoulder and pushed him to the ground.

She heard Paul scream, "Jade! No, Jade! Don't leave me here! Jade! No! Jade! Jade!"

Jade placed the palms of her hands over her ears as Paul continued to call out for her. Her guilt was immense, but her need for survival was even stronger. She was now out onto the road, crossed it, and went into the woods on the other side. She was in tears, but she wanted to live. Christ, she wanted to live!

Once she was a few yards into the woods, she removed her hands and heard the awful screaming from Paul Parker, as he was being grabbed, bitten and torn to bloody pieces by many hungry fiends. There would be nothing left of him eventually, and Jade constantly begged God to forgive her as she walked briskly through the woodland. Once the cries had faded, she stopped walking and sat against a tree.

She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She then rocked back and forth, and overcome with guilt and shame for what she had done to a man that looked after her over the past few days, she screamed out, "I'm sorry!"

It wasn't the greatest thing to do whilst there were marauders about, but it was something she just couldn't hold in.

What was she going to do now?
Chapter Twenty

"So how long you thinking about staying?"

Karen was sitting on a tree stump in the enclosed, suffocating garden that let in little light, whilst Pickle was in the corner of the garden, near the fence, and was doing press-ups. Both guests looked at one another and were both wondering if this was the old man's way of telling them not to make themselves too comfortable.

Karen eventually answered the man. "It won't be for long."

"Just a wee while." Pickle walked over, slightly perspiring and out of breath, and patted the man on the shoulder as a friendly gesture.

Wolf was convinced he was amongst good people. If they wanted the cabin for themselves, he was pretty certain that the Pickle character would be able to snap him in half. "I fancy a walk. Wanna come?"

Both Pickle and Karen nodded their heads and Wolf went back inside for the shotgun. He was gone for a matter of seconds and soon returned with the weapon tucked into his left arm. He put a set of keys into his pocket, and then began coughing. His coughing was so loud and violent, he ended up clearing his throat, turning away from his two guests, and spat onto the grass. He apologised right away.

"That's okay." Karen then pointed at Pickle jokingly. " _He_ does it all the time."

Once they all left the place, Wolf locked the tall, wooden gate behind him and told his two guests that they were heading for the very top of the hill.

In silence they all eventually reached their destination, with Pickle helping Wolf with his last few steps, as it appeared the sixty-nine-year-old was struggling. Once they all got to the top, they took in the view and it brought the childhood memories flooding back for Karen.

The bottom of the hill was surrounded by a huge hedge, all around, apart from a twelve-foot gap where Karen was looking. That gap led to the football field and the back of the Pear Tree Estate of Rugeley Town. She used to pass through that gap to get to where she was now, Cardboard Hill, and would spend hours with her friends. The hill wasn't officially called Cardboard Hill, it was just a nickname. It didn't have a name as such; it was just a large, steep hill that gave off the view of the woods when looking to the right. Looking to their left revealed the sight of the football field and the estate, and Flaxley was behind them—another area of the town.

"It's nice up here." Pickle released a smile and tried to ignore the sight of the smoke that was coming from burning buildings from afar.

"It _was_ ," Wolf chuckled. "I had the occasional bother with kids in the past, but I suppose this outbreak, or whatever the hell it is, puts my _bother with kids_ into perspective a little."

"What kind of bother did you have?"

"Just people breaking into the cabin, trespassers, that kind of thing."

Karen reminisced, "I remember, when I was a kid, you used to be able to _see_ the cabin. The trees weren't so dense."

"I built the fence a few years ago." Wolf then sat down, and the other two did the same, one on either side of him. "I was getting sick of coming up and finding it vandalised, and I just let the trees grow. The trouble is, I don't own the hill, just the cabin, so anyone can come up here. Joggers, dog walkers, junkies—we used to get them all."

Pickle nodded down the hill, towards the gap in the hedge, and said, "I see what yer mean 'bout them things." They looked just in front of the gap, where the hill began to incline. There were five ghouls lying there, hundreds of yards away at the bottom of the mount. They could see a little movement, as if they were still trying to climb their way up. They were clawing at the ground, desperate to move, but the steepness of the hill was eventually too much for their weakened muscles in their legs.

Pickle then turned to Karen. "Why did you call it Cardboard Hill?"

She thought for a second, almost as if she had forgot herself, and said, "We used to break bits of cardboard off, walk up to the top of the hill where we are now, and slide down. You can imagine how popular this place was whenever we had snow."

A comfortable silence enveloped the three of them and all, but Wolf, closed their eyes, feeling the gentle wind lick their sweaty faces.

"You guys can stay here for as long as you want, you know," Wolf announced. The comment came right out of the blue, but it was a welcomed comment, and Pickle and Karen managed a smile on their faces. "But I need you guys to do me two favours."

"I'm happy to earn my keep, Wolf." Pickle waited for the 'favours' that Wolf was about to ask.

"Same here." Karen nodded.

Wolf smiled his yellow grin, and turned to the ex-inmate and admitted, "I don't have much supplies left, Pickle. But if you and Karen could find it in yourselves to loot a few houses over there, preferably empty ones," he pointed at the back of the Pear Tree Estate, "my place is your place. Take anything you can from the street, food, water, batteries, buckets—anything. What do you say?"

"I think that's a fair deal," agreed Pickle. "We do need a break, both mentally and physically, from the woods. The cabin is just what we need."

"I'm glad you agree." Wolf patted his own legs. "These old things are finding this hill troublesome these days, and I can't even run the length of myself. If I went with you, and we ran into trouble, I'd just slow you down."

"We'll go soon," Karen said, and Pickle nodded his head in agreement. "There should be nothing there that we're not used to."

"Well, my dear," Wolf said with a slight embarrassed look on his face, "I have very little experience of what could be down there, because I've been hiding up here since day one."

Wolf then stood to his feet, adjusted his straw hat, and began to make the short walk back to the cabin with the other two. The decline was proving a little tough for Wolf, especially on his knees, and Karen came to his aid. She placed her hand under his armpit and he smiled and thanked the young lady.

Wolf added, "We'll need to find some bleach as well, if you can."

"Bleach?" Pickle queried.

Said Wolf, "It's to disinfect the water that comes out of the sink's tap. It should be okay, but I'm paranoid to drink from the tap. I still have some bottled water and a small bucket of rainwater, as well as the barrel. I can't really boil water; it takes ages with the fire, but with a little bleach you can disinfect it. Bleach will kill some, not all, types of disease-causing organisms that may be in the water. If it's still cloudy, we can filter it through clean clothes or allow it to settle, and draw off the clear water."

"You mentioned getting buckets," Karen reminded him.

"I have a couple inside the cabin," Wolf said. "It's for rainwater. If the tap in the sink goes, we'll only have the barrel and buckets to rely on. Just trying to think ahead, especially if the water coming out of the tap becomes polluted with ... whatever."

Pickle and Karen nodded in agreement.

Wolf had already explained that the water supply to the cabin was very basic and came from a tiny stream near the bottom of the hill, by using inexpensive sprinkler-type tubing that was placed underground. But for drinking water, Wolf preferred using buckets for rain water and the large water barrel that collected the rain that hit the house and went into the guttering, because he was paranoid about what state the stream could be in.

A pipe from the barrel to the guttering was attached, and this was how he got most of the water. He hardly used the water for drinking in the past, because he never had to, as he only used to come to the cabin for retreats. Now he was here on a permanent basis.

Pickle thought that their little expedition may consist of numerous trips to the Pear Tree Estate over a period of days, instead of just the one trip. Apart from the lack of food and sanitation, the cabin and location seemed perfect. The sanitation wasn't a problem for the pair of them, considering they had been living in the woods for the last three days.

They entered Wolf's garden and Karen turned to Pickle and asked him if they should both head right now. Pickle agreed, but Wolf politely asked them to wait outside the cabin for a second. They did as they were told, as the elderly man walked through the cabin's door and disappeared. He then returned, holding a machete in each hand.

Wolf released a smile and said to his guests, "Well, you didn't expect me to send you down there without being armed, did you? I bought these to keep the bushes and branches trimmed back."

He handed one machete each to the newcomers, and he thanked them, even though they were getting something in return.

Looking at the reasonably new machete, Karen asked, "You said back at the hill that you wanted two favours; so what is the second one?"

Wolf lowered his head forlornly. He gaped back up in Pickle and Karen's direction and they both could see desolation in the man's face, his eyes were reddening as if he was about to cry. He cleared his throat. "Follow me."

With no hesitation, they walked inside the cabin.

Karen was glad to be inside, as she was intrigued to see what it was like. She walked in and it was a basic set-up as to be expected. As soon as they stepped inside, they were greeted by a small kitchen. The sink was basic and was the only place in the cabin that produced running water; the place didn't look big enough to have a bathroom, even if Wolf wanted one.

Once they walked past the kitchen there was a reasonable-sized living room, with a set of stairs at the end of the room leading to just the one bedroom. That was it.

Once they reached the top of the stairs, Wolf allowed his guests to take in what he was showing them.

A once-female human was tied to a wooden chair in the corner of the bedroom. Her appearance was now becoming stereotypical to pretty much most of the others they had seen on their travels. Its face was yellow, eyes milky, and its face was bruised-looking.

She was one of them now, and her teeth snarled and gnashed at her guests, informing them that if she could ever get out of this, they would be on her menu as far as lunch was concerned.

They didn't need an explanation, but Pickle had to ask, "So, how long has yer wife been like that?"

Wolf explained, "As soon as we left, a couple of those things grabbed us. Grace took a little bite to the hand when we fought them both off, and thought nothing more of it. Then she got sick, and the radio was telling people that bites, sometimes scratches, was causing this thing to spread, so I knew she was finished."

Asked Karen, "So what happened next?"

"She became unwell. And when she became unconscious, I decided not to take any chances and tied her to the chair she was already sitting on. I hated doing that to my Grace, but I was already convinced that I'd lost her."

Pickle placed his hand on Wolf's arm as he could see the man was becoming upset, whilst the shell of his wife, that looked to have been taken over by some possessed demon, continued to struggle in the corner of the room because of the ropes that bound her to the chair.

"How on earth can yer sleep with that in here?" queried Pickle. He didn't mean the question to sound so cold, after all, 'that' used to be the woman Wolf was married to for many decades.

"It was a struggle for the first week, but you kind of get used to it." Wolf then looked over to his wife and began to sob. His quavering hands wiped away the tears that ran down his cheeks, and Pickle was beginning to feel emotional for the poor man.

Pickle looked at Karen, but she looked unmoved.

Wolf added, "I couldn't do it. I know it's daft; I know she's already gone, but I just couldn't do it."

Pickle couldn't make out what Wolfgang Kindl meant. "Couldn't do what?"

Wolf was beginning to compose himself. The weeping had now ceased, but the bloodshot eyes and stained cheeks would be there for a while. "That's my second favour that I want from you."

"What is it?" asked Karen.

"I want you to kill her for me."
Chapter Twenty One

"They'll be coming inside soon!" Johnny exclaimed. "What do we do?"

Jack and Johnny had been keeping an eye on the situation, regarding the looters in the street. They didn't seem to be just a bunch of opportunists; they seemed to know what they were doing, as if they had been doing this for days, weeks even. They had wheels—probably stolen, were armed, and had a leader that they listened to.

"Let's just give up," Johnny suggested.

Jack shook his head. "You saw what they did to that man, in front of his family."

"That's because he was making it hard for them."

"And so he should. He had a family; you can't just let people walk all over you, Johnny."

"We can't all be like you," Johnny sneered.

Jack smiled at Johnny, his eyes narrowed. "I was just like you a few weeks ago, before all of this kicked off. I was one of the biggest cowards on the planet."

"So what happened?" Johnny didn't seem to be bothered being labelled as a coward.

"I killed some of these things because I didn't have a choice. Then I lost my son, and then I just stopped caring."

"Stopped caring? But you're still alive."

"I know." Jack glared into space, and added, "When that belt slipped and I went crashing into the swimming pool, I felt that I had been given another chance."

"By God?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders and snapped out of his hypnotic stare. He had no definite answer. "By God, fate, something else—I don't know."

They both continued to glare outside and saw three bodies go into the house next door.

Johnny looked back at Jack for a reaction, but his male companion seemed unruffled by the people in the street. "This house will be next," said Johnny.

Jack agreed, and said nonchalantly, as if he had all the time in the world, "We better hide, and you better go downstairs and grab yourself a knife."

Johnny's facial expression suggested that he didn't want to be the bearer of a weapon. "If they find me, I don't want them to think I'm hostile."

"Please yourself," Jack grunted.

Johnny ran into the spare room that had a bed and a cupboard. He hid in the cupboard and Jack looked around to see where _he_ could go. He placed his hand on the doorknob of Thomas' bedroom door, but something was stopping him from going in. He felt that if he went in, he could have an emotional breakdown with all the reminders of his little boy, his toys, his quilt cover, amongst other things.

"Fuck it." He went into Kerry's bedroom and whispered under his breath as he went under her bed, "This has got to be the worst fucking hiding place ever."

Despite the doubts suffocating his psyche, he remained under the bed and kept the crowbar by his side. He then thought it would be better to hide in the built-in cupboard, at least then he would be in a better position to attack if he was found. He changed his mind and crawled out from under the bed, then went into Kerry's cupboard just as the front door was forced open, moving away the barricade.

Jack tried to keep his breathing under control, but he was a little nervous and the cupboard was stifling hot. He listened to the voices and footsteps on the ground floor of the house and could hear them ransacking the place. He knew that if staying in the house became untenable, then they would have to find an empty one to dwell in, and hopefully feed off the scraps that had been left behind.

He could hear bags being filled, plates being smashed, and cupboards being emptied. It angered him that these vagrants had come into Kerry and Thomas' house and were helping themselves to what they wanted.

Then he heard the sound of thudding footsteps making their way up the stairs, and the chesty cough of a man could be heard as he reached the landing. It sounded like just the one person, but Jack grasped his crowbar with both hands, ready to strike.

His breathing became heavier when he heard the bathroom door open. There was silence for a few seconds, and then the door was shut. Then he listened to the door to Thomas' bedroom being opened.

Jack became enraged that a strange man was poking about in his son's room, and envisaged coming out of the cupboard and smashing his brains in. There was a lot of noise coming from Thomas' room, and it sounded to Jack that the place was being turned upside down.

His son's door was now shut, and the man had two rooms to go. Jack had already agreed with himself that as soon as the cupboard was opened, the intruder was getting it.

The bedroom door that used to belong to Kerry, before she had fled to her mother's in Hazelslade, remained closed. Jack was baffled by this, as he was convinced that the room he was in was going to be checked next.

Maybe he had gone.

Maybe he had decided that the house was vacant.

Maybe he was just too damn lazy to check the rest of the house, and was going to tell his pals that it was clear.

Jack's little theories were quashed once he heard footsteps on the landing. The man hadn't left. He was still on the first floor of the house. The creak of the door belonging to the spare room was the next sound Jack could hear from within the hot cupboard he was standing in, and he hoped that checking the spare room would be a simple look over, followed by a quick exit. But Jack was wrong.

"Hey guys," he heard the man shout. "I've got a little hider up here."

"Bollocks," Jack muttered quietly.

They'd found Johnny.
Chapter Twenty Two

The last half an hour had passed without incident, but as Jade decided to have a sit down, she could hear a twig snap in the suffocating greenery. She had no idea what to do, and no idea which direction to run, if she needed to.

She remained standing still; her heart rate speeded up, and she released an anxious intake of breath when she heard the rustle of a bush a few yards away. Out of the bush, a grey squirrel scurried up one of the trees. She placed her hand on her chest in relief and almost smiled. "Little prick," she muttered.

She sat on the grass, leaned against a tree and placed her head inbetween her knees for a short while. She then threw her head back and cried once again for Paul. She knew that if she stuck by his side, she would have been killed with him, but it did nothing to douse the guilt that was burning away from inside her.

Once she had composed herself the best she could, she staggered back to her feet and continued to walk, with her paranoid eyes moving continuously. She desperately wanted to rest, but she wanted to find a road so she could maybe flag down a passing motorist, but she didn't want to go back to the road she had just crossed. She assumed that the road would be now infested with those fiends, and possibly even more had been attracted now that they had made a kill.

Jade had only walked a matter of minutes into the woods until she had another run-in with one of the creatures. It appeared to be unusually on its own, and the single ghoul was still enough to put the fear of God into the twenty-five-year-old. She frantically looked around for something to use for a weapon, but there was nothing, so she decided to make a run for it.

The fitness instructor ran and swiped away any overhanging branches that were a potential threat to her face, and once she came to an open part of the woods, she ran onto the dirt path and decided that this particular path would be safer for her when she thought about the hidden animal trap that had injured Paul, and had become the first step to his demise.

How many more of those traps were there in the woods?

Her run turned into a brisk walk when her eyes told her that her surroundings were reasonably clear, and she licked her dry lips and could have murdered a drink.

Before she could breath a small sigh of relief, a rustle came from the right of her and another two could be seen shambling in her direction. She shook her head, angry more than anything else, that she couldn't have a minute to herself, and began to jog away from the two stalkers quite easily.

Jade's foot then hit an exposed tree-root sticking out of the ground, making her tumble to the floor. She fell and scraped her arm against a jagged rock in the ground, and she yelped out in pain. She could see the two walking her way, albeit slowly, and she inspected her wound.

Her left arm, just above the elbow, had been badly grazed and cut, and the blood ran down. She wiped some of the blood away with her hand, and got back into position to quickly move away from her 'admirers'.

The woodland was beginning to become heavier, and the dirt path was slowly disappearing. She looked over her shoulder and saw that the two were lagging behind. As soon as she turned back round to face forwards, she was almost face-to-face with another one that seemed to appear from a huge shrub.

She released a scream, and was grabbed by the thing. It dug its nails into her shoulders and they both fell to the ground, and began to tussle. It appeared that the monster was a female when it used to be in human form, and its bloated and peeling face was trying to bury itself into Jade's neck, aching for some flesh.

Jade screamed out as she fought with the relentless thing, and as it opened its mouth to take a bite out of her shoulder, she finally managed to move it off of her. She crawled from the beast and eventually got to her feet. Her feet pounded the ground and she never looked back whilst she sprinted through the trees.

Up ahead, she could see the trees becoming a lot less dense and crowded, and a relieved smile emerged on her face when she realised a road was up ahead. She then looked down on her arm and her features created a look of sorrow, but she tried to shrug it off, especially when she could hear a vehicle groan in the distance.

She reached the side of the road and looked ahead to see a farmer's jeep coming her way. She held out her hand and told herself that if the vehicle showed no signs of slowing down, then she would jump in the middle of the road if she had to. She was _that_ desperate.

It began to slow, and she puffed out her cheeks in relief.

When it came to an eventual stop, Jade looked down at her left wounded arm, and covered the wound the best she could with her right hand. It wasn't bleeding that bad, but she didn't want the driver to refuse her a lift because she could mess up his means of transport.

She was greeted by an elderly man of an age no younger than sixty-five. His wife was a heavy woman, of similar age, and they both greeted Jade with a warm smile.

"You okay, young lady?" the driver spoke. "Where're you headed?"

"Anywhere," said Jade, and almost burst into tears.

"Anywhere?" The old man smiled and looked at his wife. "I think that's exactly where we're going."

"I'm sorry to bother you." Jade's eyes were pleading, but she needn't have bothered.

"Just you get in the back, love," the elderly woman spoke with comfort in her voice. "We're getting out of here and heading north."

Said the old man, "Those things were everywhere for days. As soon as they dispersed a little, we made a run for it."

"We're from Heath Hayes." The elderly woman began to pick her teeth with her forefinger. "Our village was fine, then suddenly, one afternoon, we looked out of our bedroom window to see loads of those things, spilling in the street. We saw people jumping from a bedroom window onto a big prison van that was parked on a front garden. The thing then rammed its way through them and then disappeared, taking most of those things with it. But some still hung around."

"It's been a strange few weeks," the old man laughed. "That's for sure."

"You getting in, or what?" The female passenger stared at Jade and added, "You don't look too well, girl. Get in the back, but watch out for our stuff."

Jade nodded, and went to the back of the jeep. She thought that the couple's jovial attitude was bizarre, and thought that individuals of their age should have been tormented by terror. She climbed in and sat near some boxes that could have been food or household equipment, and dropped her head in her hands. She was dying to sleep.

The vehicle moved away and Jade now rested her head against one of the boxes. She was tired, and she was feeling sick. She looked at her arm and was pleased that the bleeding had stopped a little. The only thing that was worrying her now was the mark underneath the wound. The small bite she had received was the result from the tussle she had with the lone figure in the woods before she made it to the road. It was just a little mark. It wasn't that serious, was it?

Jade tried to blank all negative feelings from her head and concentrated on trying to get some sleep. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and she was feeling giddy as if the blood was draining out of her body.

She peered down at the small bite once again, and hoped it would heal.

She looked out of the van as it moved, then closed her eyes, feeling the wind glide soothingly over her features. She quickly fell asleep, unaware that that was the last she was going to see of the world as a human being.
Chapter Twenty Three

"I'll go for a walk, while you're..."

Wolfgang Kindl couldn't find the words to finish his sentence, as the lump in his throat was strangling him.

Pickle and Karen nodded at the old man as he went downstairs and left the cabin to go outside into the garden, and the remaining two were left to glare at the tied-up woman who used to be his wife, Grace.

"Let's make this as respectful and as less messy as possible." Pickle eyed Karen, who nodded in agreement. There was an old sheet scrunched up in the corner of the room and Pickle nodded over to it. "As soon as we put her to sleep, we'll wrap her in that sheet." Pickle then shook his head and released an unusual smile.

"What is it?" Karen asked him.

"It seems all I do these days is bury people: Laz, Davina ... young Thomas and Kerry."

"I buried a whole family from that attic while you were almost dying in your bed—well, I didn't do it all by myself." Karen then briefly thought about Jason Bonser, who back then had introduced himself as George Jones.

"So how are we gonna do this?" asked the ex-inmate, interrupting their brief reminiscing period.

Karen was lost in thought and looked at the machete tucked into her belt, then looked at Pickle's.

Realising what was going through Karen's mind, Pickle protested, "I'm not gonna hack her to death and make a fuckin' mess of his only bedroom."

Karen agreed, reluctantly.

"Wait a second." She ran down the stairs and peered out of the front door to see Wolf nervously pacing up and down in the garden, waiting on news of his wife's second demise. He took his straw hat off and scratched his head, then placed the hat back on, then repeated this action. His nerves were obvious. Karen felt pity for the man and shook her head a little as her mind began to drift. Snapping out of her daydreaming, she suddenly remembered what she went downstairs for.

She scanned the area of the kitchen and looked through the top drawer. It was the usual cutlery drawer, containing forks, knives, spoons and teaspoons. She put the drawer back and looked in the second drawer to see other utensils such as a corkscrew, bottle opener, etc,. She pulled out a large wooden spoon, that was probably used for cooking, and grabbed a penknife from the drawer. She opened the blade to see it was two inches in length.

Probably not enough to do the job, she thought.

She then grabbed the spoon in her left hand and began to sharpen the handle-end with the penknife, until it eventually developed into a very sharp weapon. She kicked the wood shavings away that had fallen onto the kitchen floor, with one kick of her right foot, then went back upstairs.

Karen had returned and instructed to Pickle, "Go round the back of her and pull her head back, by grabbing her hair."

Without arguing, Pickle walked round the back of the chair in the bedroom, which seemed to have excited the thing even more. It began to move that much, Karen thought that there could be a danger that it was going to get loose.

Pickle grabbed the back of its hair with one strong hand and yanked the head back.

"Perfect." Karen walked over and slowly looked at the face of the poor thing. She looked like she could have been old enough to be her Grandma.

Karen released three short breaths out, gearing herself up for what she was about to do next, and finally forced the sharpened-end of the spoon into its right eye socket until it stopped moving. Thick fluid ran down its cheek and Pickle released the hair and it remained still, with its head back. Karen reached over, took the utensil and pulled it out rapidly, which made an unsettling squelching sound.

Karen then pulled out the penknife from her pocket and began to cut the body free. Pickle took a hold of the sheet and laid it out on the floor. Without uttering a word to one another, they picked the body up and placed it on the sheet. Pickle had managed to tie the ankles and hands together with the ropes Karen had cut, before they both wrapped the body in the material.

They took the body out of the cabin, whilst Wolf was purposely not looking, and opened the gate to take her out onto the desolate hill. As soon as they put her onto the grass, Karen said, "I'm gonna go back and see if Wolf has a shovel. If he doesn't, she can stay there. I ain't digging a grave with my fuckin' hands."

Pickle watched Karen as she headed downhill, back to the gate. Whilst she was away, he took the opportunity to look around and see the view of a part of Rugeley he had never been to before. He looked at the back of the Pear Tree Estate and apart from a few burning houses, and the one car alarm that could be heard in the distance, it didn't look too bad. But the view only allowed Pickle to see the back of the houses; he was aware that beyond those quarters could be many ghouls shambling around, looters taking advantage of the weak, and dead bodies strewn across the street. He wouldn't know until he got there, and that would probably be another hour away.

He and Karen were thankful for Wolf putting them up, and getting more supplies was the least they could do if it meant having a roof over their heads and living somewhere on a hill, almost out of harm's way. But Pickle wasn't getting carried away.

Stile Cop only lasted a couple of nights before they were attacked. Maybe being exposed in the open wasn't the greatest idea, but Pickle thought that the Stile Cop hill was enough to keep the things at bay. The hill that they were on now, was even steeper, but the extra positive was that they had a cabin to dwell in with a solid and secure fence around it.

Heath Hayes was just bad luck, especially when Bonser brought a horde back with him, and the sports centre was doomed from the start as there were a few Snatchers already there before they climbed over, and the bloody destruction of young Oliver Newton and Lee Hayward only enticed more from afar.

Pickle then looked down at the bottom of the grassy hill. There were now seven of them, crawling up, but not moving an inch. It looked like the things were managing to get to the hill to a certain point, then they seemed to fall and were trying to crawl their way up because their legs could not manage it.

Pickle shook his head. Despite those things being relatively harmless where they were, he made a decision to remove them. It didn't seem to bother Wolf too much, or so he said, but Pickle wanted them destroyed and removed anyway.

After they had buried Wolf's wife, Pickle was thinking that they should go to the bottom of the hill, kill the fiends, then head to the estate for supplies. That was the itinerary he had in his head for this particular day.

At last, Karen returned with one shovel in her hand. Pickle sighed, and knew who was going to be doing most of the work.

"He seems a bit of a misery." Karen screwed her face and emptied her nostrils onto the grass a few yards away from Pickle.

"And why do yer think that is, Karen?" There was sarcasm in Pickle's voice, which Karen had picked up on.

"I'm just staying—"

"We're only in week three in _Apocalypse Shite_ , and yer wondering why our elderly host is a bit of a misery? Is this the same guy who has seen his wife turn into one o' these things and had her tied to a chair for the past couple o' weeks? And has just asked two complete strangers to kill her, and bury her out on a hill where children used to play?"

"So what's your point?"

Pickle laughed incredulously at his female companion. "Jesus Christ, Karen. Has this situation completely killed off any kind o' empathy yer used to have?"

"Of course not." Karen's facial expression stated that she wasn't entirely sure what Pickle was getting at.

Picking up on this, he tried to explain in a calm, rational manner. "How would yer feel if we were doing exactly what we were doing now, but it was Gary?"

Karen shrugged her shoulders and her body language suggested that Pickle's comment had made her agitated and a little cross.

"I'd be..." Karen tried to answer, but her words were struggling to come out.

"What, Karen?" Pickle waited for an answer. "You'd be a little disappointed, maybe just a wee bit upset?"

"I'd be fuckin' devastated, of course," she snapped, her hands gripping the shovel tightly. "For fuck's sake, what's up with you today? How would you feel if it was KP?"

Pickle shook his head at Karen's retaliation and her poor attempt to shut him up, just because he had touched a nerve for mentioning Gary. Pickle said, "If yer were a man, I'd have fucked yer up by now."

"Fuck you, Harry."

Karen gave Pickle a filthy look, and she held the shovel in a position as if she was about to start digging.

Pickle could see that the twenty-three-year-old's face was scarlet with rage, but he still walked over and went to grab the shovel off of her. "Give me that. _I'll_ do it."

Karen lifted her head up and took a swing at him with the shovel. Pickle moved backwards, enough to dodge Karen's swing, but was completely surprised by her action.

Pickle exclaimed, "Come on; let's not do this, Karen!"

Karen then threw the shovel to the floor, took a step forwards, and threw a left hook, which Pickle caught with his left hand and immediately palmed her in the face with his right. Karen immediately fell to the floor and Pickle cried, "Oh God. Karen, are yer okay? Yer didn't give me much o' a choice."

Karen was lying flat on her front, and she slowly curled herself up into the shape of a foetus. She then began to sob, and Pickle immediately knelt beside her and tried to hug her. Karen fought back a little, but then succumbed to Pickle's persuasive strength and they both hugged one another tightly.

Karen sobbed loudly and her tears streamed down rapidly, staining Pickle's shoulder. He didn't say a word to her. He didn't need to. She had been bottling this up for weeks, and it had finally come to a head.

Pickle stroked the back of her hair and kissed the side of her cheek. "Don't try to speak," he spoke at last. "Just let it out."

They hugged each other tightly for a while, and seven minutes later they both broke away from the embrace.
Chapter Twenty Four

Jack remained in the cupboard, unsure on what to do next. He heard scuffles coming from the spare bedroom, and Johnny making a noise as if he had just been punched in the stomach.

Jack heard a man growl, "Where's the keys to your jeep?"

Johnny cried, "I don't have them. Jack..."

"Who the fuck's Jack?"

Jack sighed inside the stifling cupboard and shook his head. _Nice one, Johnny_.

The man repeated, "Who the fuck's Jack?"

Jack could then hear two sets of footsteps stomping their way upstairs, and it appeared now that there were three people on the first floor. He had no idea what to do, but was pretty sure that Johnny wasn't the type of person to take too much of a beating before he eventually talked.

Jack then heard the people discussing what to do with their new find. He then heard another voice. "Who's this Jack you mentioned? And where's the keys to that jeep?"

Jack then heard Johnny plead, "Please..." This was followed by a pounding noise, Johnny releasing a cry, and a big thud as if something had hit the floor. To Jack, it sounded like Johnny had taken another blow from one of the thugs and fell to the carpet. _Shit! He ain't gonna last another minute_.

"Have you checked the _whole_ house?" a voice questioned angrily.

"Apart from the other bedroom," the other male spoke.

As soon as that sentence was released, Jack knew his hiding days were over. His heart thumped his chest, and his head had begun to produce even more sweat that tickled and irritated the sides of his face.

The door to Kerry's bedroom swung open and clattered off the wall, as if it had been pushed very quickly. Jack clasped the crowbar and waited for his fate. He then heard Johnny moaning and a woman telling him to shut the fuck up. He heard ruffling about in Kerry's room and then could feel the presence of someone walking towards the cupboard. The cupboard's handle was grabbed and it slowly opened.

The unsuspecting man received a headbutt from Jack; the man released a cry and fell backwards onto Kerry's bed, clutching his nose. Jack left the cupboard and went to the landing to see the other man running down the stairs, leaving the house and entering the street. Jack then turned to see Johnny. He was on the floor, holding his stomach, and standing over him was a woman with long ginger hair. She was in the room with Johnny and hadn't reacted as quickly as her male colleague that had left the house.

"Look," the woman began to speak nervously; she had a knife in the side of her belt. "We can work this out."

Jack recognised her straight away. She was the same woman that cowardly bent over the beaten man in the street earlier, and stabbed him three times in the back.

"Get out," Jack snarled, the crowbar being tightly gripped with his right hand. "Get out of my son's house."

Jack stood to the side to allow the woman enough room to get out, and she took the hint. "What about my friend?" She was referring to the man on Kerry's bed, clutching his nose.

"Take him with you."

She nodded and tentatively went into Kerry's bedroom, her eyes never leaving Jack's. She then came back out, her arm around the injured man's shoulder and without warning, the man turned and ran at Jack.

Both men fell onto the floor, which gave the woman the opportunity to pull out her blade, and Johnny, who was still lying on the floor, reacted by side-kicking her in the shin. She released a scream, dropped the knife, and the male on top of Jack, realising that Johnny was getting to his feet, took off and ran downstairs. The woman tried to follow him, but she fell over on the landing as soon as she put weight on her foot. She held her ankle, and tried to stand up once more.

Jack picked up her knife, and put it into his belt. He then passed Johnny the crowbar to hold as he was sure, with the woman unable to walk and the knife out of her reach, she posed no threat anymore.

"Jack," Johnny spoke; his breath was returning. "We need to get that front door shut before more of those fuckers come in."

"Don't worry," Jack said.

The ginger woman turned and hopped twice, away from them on the landing, but her attempt at escaping was pathetic and impossible. She was now at the top of the stairs and could see down them; the front door was left wide open. She hoped that some of her colleagues would hurry up, as she was unsure what this unpredictable man was going to do to her.

Jack glared at the woman, who, in return, revealed a false smile.

She said nervously, "I was just following orders. I just do what I'm told."

"Is that right?" Jack spoke with suspicion.

"Before all of this shit happened, I was a normal person. I had a family."

"You got kids?"

She nodded her head, but Jack didn't believe her. Even though he didn't know this woman at all, he could tell by her face that she was lying.

"So where are they now?" quizzed Jack.

"They were killed."

"You look distraught," Jack sarcastically added.

She tilted her chin and released a sigh. It was obvious that this man didn't believe a word that came out of her mouth.

Continued Jack, "A woman with kids—with any kind of empathy, wouldn't go up to an injured man in the street and stab him to death in front of his own screaming children."

Her eyes widened.

"Oh yeah." Jack smiled and took a step forwards. "I saw _everything_."

She hopped backwards just the once and leaned against the wall, with the toilet door to her right. She could see the coldness in Jack's eyes. She thought: Here is a man who has probably lost everything and wasn't really giving a shit anymore.

She gulped and gawped at Jack with pleading eyes. She stammered, "You-you wouldn't hit a woman, would you?"

"No I wouldn't."

Jack took another step forwards, grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down the stairs. She screamed as she descended painfully, bouncing three times before crashing into the main door.

Jack trotted down the stairs and threw her out onto the front garden, walked back into the house and shut the front door.

"Shit, we're done for now." Johnny had his head in his hands.

"We were done for the moment they entered the house," Jack said calmly.

Johnny began to inspect the area of his body where he had been punched. He touched the area where he thought an eventual bruise would appear, winced a little, and without looking at Jack, he added, "We could have reasoned with them, for Christ's sake!"

Jack turned to Johnny and looked at him, making sure he was being serious. His eyes suggested to Jack that he was! Jack said, "Well, next time they come in, I'll just pin them down and tickle them. Maybe I'll just give them a Chinese burn."

"This isn't funny."

"Can you see me laughing?"

"I think they'll torch the jeep."

"They won't torch the jeep."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because they want it."

"And what if they torch the house?"

"Then we make a run for it."

Johnny looked out of the bedroom window, and sighed, "We can't stay here a second longer."

Jack walked over and saw cars pulling up outside the house, making it impossible for the jeep to move even if they had managed to get inside the vehicle. Jack looked at Johnny. "Downstairs. Out into the back garden, now!"
Chapter Twenty Five

Pickle and Karen had returned to the cabin.

Burying Wolf's wife had been exhausting and thirsty work, so they returned to get refreshments before heading to the edge of town for their first trip to get supplies.

It had been nearly an hour since Karen's breakdown, and the digging and burial had been completed in total silence, until Pickle muttered The Lord's Prayer under his breath.

Wolf had made it clear that he didn't want to attend the burial as what he saw tied to the chair wasn't his wife anymore, and even though he strongly believed she had died many days ago, he still didn't have it in him to kill her himself. Sleeping with that thing in the house was impossible for the first few days, so Wolf had to rely on exhaustion to put him to sleep, whether it was in the cabin on a night, or a sneaky hour in the garden.

"You've got plenty of hours of daylight left," Wolf spoke, and handed Karen and Pickle two over-the-shoulder sports bags. "I really appreciate this, you know. I just wish I could come with you. With my aching bones, I struggle to get out of bed on a morning."

"And we appreciate yer putting us up, Wolf," Pickle said and winked at the old man. "We'll get these bags filled, and come back. If it's quiet, we might have time to go for a second stint."

Wolf said, "We'll have a good night. I'll get the fire on, and we'll have a hearty meal. See if you can get some booze. Red wine would be good."

Pickle laughed, "Yer do realise we're not going to the supermarket?"

"Sorry," Wolf chuckled, and glanced over to Karen who was staring into space. "Say, Karen, you okay? You've hardly said a word."

"I'm fine." Karen put the bag over her shoulder and looked around the enclosed garden, then called over to Pickle. "We ready?"

Pickle nodded.

"You sure you don't want the shotgun?" Wolf began scratching at his grey whiskers, and adjusted his straw hat.

"It's too loud," Pickle said. "Anyway, I think we'll be okay with these." He patted the machete that was tucked in his belt to the left of him.

Harry Branston walked towards the garden gate and opened it; Karen followed behind and left Wolf to shut the gate after them. Once the two survivors were out on the hill, in the open air, Pickle took a big breath in, which amused Karen.

"What is it?" he chuckled, and was glad that she was starting to lighten up.

"How can you breathe in like that, and have that face on you like you're happy to be alive?"

"Well, I _am_ happy to be alive. Don't forget, I only left prison two and a half weeks ago, Karen. I'm still getting used to being out in the real world."

"The real world?" she tittered. She pulled out her machete and used it to point at the back of the Pear Tree Estate, where they were heading, and they both looked out and saw smoke smouldering from the area. She then pointed down the hill. The seven Snatchers were still there, not giving up, crawling hopelessly, trying to get to where they thought food might be, but were simply just clawing at dirt. "You mean all this? _This_ real world?"

"Okay." Pickle scratched his head; it was irritating him and it was desperate for some soap. "It's no' quite how I envisaged ma 'ventual freedom when I was inside," he slurred, unusually more than he normally did.

They descended down the hill, gaining on the seven things that were all on their bellies, clawing at the ground as if they were unable to get back onto their feet. They were now ten yards away from the seven bodies and Pickle warned Karen not to get too close.

"I _have_ done this before, you know." She shook her head, but secretly liked the fact he was concerned for her.

"Not with a machete, yer haven't. Just make sure yer squint yer eyes, just in case."

Karen walked over to the one furthest left and walked around it, grabbed its ankles and dragged it away from the other six, so she could kill it without fear of being scratched or bitten by the others.

"Good idea, Karen," Pickle said sarcastically. "Handling a diseased-ridden ghoul is a great idea."

"Shurrup," said Karen.

Karen drove the machete into the skull, instead off hacking at it, and was surprised that it didn't require too much effort. Pickle wasn't messing about. He was going for the hacking method, and had killed three already. Each one feeling the huge blade slicing through the skull and killing off the brain, halving their craniums.

Karen dragged number two away from the remaining two that Pickle was about to execute. She stared at the ghoul that was trying to twist round to get at her. It used to be a female, and it looked to be no older than eighteen.

What a waste, she thought.

She allowed the thing to grab her trainer whilst Pickle was finishing off his fifth and Karen wondered what _she_ had become. Three weeks ago, this scenario would have emptied her stomach, but now she had adapted to this apocalyptic world quite easily.

The female Snatcher was like all the rest: discoloured, milky film over the eyes. This particular one was affecting her, but why? Karen was thinking about her step-sister, Kelly, in Glasgow. Was she one of them now? Is this what she looked like? She was convinced her mother was dead, but had a feeling that Kelly, maybe even her father, could still be kicking about in Scotland's biggest city.

"Ahem." Pickle tried to get Karen's attention, bringing her out of her hypnotic gaze and back to reality. With his bloody machete, Pickle pointed at the creature that had its hands on Karen's feet, trying to pull itself towards her on its belly to get a bite. "Yer want _me_ to get tha'?"

Karen took a step back and looked at Pickle. She then shook her head as if she had just woken from a dream, and pulled the machete back, ready to strike. She brought the weapon down three times, and the damage was so severe that a portion of its head gave way with the severed diseased brain inside it.

She wiped the blade on the grass, and Pickle did the same before putting it back into his belt. With her empty bag nearly slipping off her shoulders, she adjusted it and nodded towards Pickle to see if he was ready to go.

Despite his reservations of touching them, he helped Karen drag the bodies to the side, near the hedge, so they didn't have to see them every time they walked past. Once this was achieved, they went through the large gap in the hedge. They were now on the football field, and only a few hundred yards from the Pear Tree Estate, which was half a mile from Draycott Park where Karen used to live, when the world was normal, when she was a nurse, and her fiancé, Gary, was a young lawyer.

As they walked across the football field, Pickle turned to Karen and said, "Oh, by the way. When we get there, I want no stealing off o' families, okay?"

Sarcastically, she saluted Pickle and said, "Yes, Saint Harry."

"I'm serious, Karen. One vacant house alone, should be enough to fill these bags." Pickle watched her for a response, but she never made eye contact. "Yer follow ma lead. Straight in, then straight out. No messin' about."

They were coming to the end of the field, and were now a hundred yards away from the concrete path that led into the estate. Once they were on the path, Pickle drew his machete; Karen did the same.

They were preparing for the unexpected.
Chapter Twenty Six

Both Jack and Johnny ran downstairs and went through the door into Kerry's back garden. As soon as they entered the grounds, they heard the angry voices of men entering his ex's house.

With Jack carrying the crowbar, and Johnny carrying the knife that used to belong to the ginger female assailant that Jack had thrown down the stairs, both men jumped the garden's fence and landed in the next street.

They ran as hard as they could, veered right into an alleyway, and turned their sprint into a jog. This continued for another minute until Johnny had got stitch, forcing him to stop running. He doubled over in agony and was focusing on getting his breath back.

In the distance they could see two ghouls with their backs to them, stumbling into someone's driveway. "We better go another way," Johnny said, "before they see us."

Jack shook his head satirically at Johnny. "And what are they gonna do if they _do_ see us? Run after us?"

"Some do seem to be quicker than others."

"Just relax." Jack looked around the area, seeing if there were any signs of an empty house. His eyes continued scanning the street, but it was difficult to tell if any houses were vacant at all, as most, not all, had their window curtains closed. The only strong hint that there were people inside was the barricading of the front door, which sometimes could be seen through some doors that had frosted glass, but not all doors had this design and possessed a simple wooden door.

Suddenly, noises of engines could be heard, and Jack and Johnny immediately ran away and hid behind a large bush. Three vehicles pulled up in the street fifty yards from the two hiding-men, and six men and two women got out, all holding a sharp weapon or a bat each.

Jack had a sneaky peek, and recognised two of the men from before. He couldn't see the woman or the other two males that had invaded Kerry's house, which suggested to Jack that this gang had a healthy number of people involved in their clan.

There were two men in front of the rest of the group, having a heated conversation with one another. The one on the left was dressed in a skip cap and had an Aerosmith T-shirt on. The one on the right looked more slicker. He was wearing jeans, a nice, well-ironed shirt and was clean-shaven.

The man in the skip cap spoke with Slick. "Let's just forget 'em. We got plenty of supplies."

Slick shook his head; he was the one that seemed to be in charge of the mob. "No chance. They've got the keys to that jeep, and one of those pricks threw my sister down the fuckin' stairs."

Crouching behind the bush, Johnny shook his head at Jack. "Sister?"

"Oops." Jack reminded Johnny, "To be fair, you're the one that fucked up her leg."

Slick then went round the back of one of the vehicles and opened the boot. The sounds of dogs barking had sent shivers down Jack and Johnny's frame, and Johnny looked at Jack. It was clear from his face he was fearing the worst.

Said Johnny, "I hope that's Yorkshire Terriers that they've got." He then put his head in his hands. _Could this day get any worse?_

Still looking, Jack could see that on two leashes, Slick had two Pit Bulls, each one with a grey coat. "Er ... not quite."

"Fuck this." Johnny ran from the bush, which alerted the dogs. Jack followed suit.

Slick couldn't see that the men had fled from the bush, but knew by the dogs' reaction that something was up. "It must be them!"

Trusting their instinct, he took each one off the leash and watched as they sprinted to the end of the street and turned left down an alleyway. Slick then ordered two guys to follow where they went, if that at all was possible.

Meanwhile, Jack and Johnny ran through alleyway to alleyway, from street to street, but with the pace and the nose of a dog, it was like a fighter pilot trying to avoid a heat-seeking missile.

Johnny was becoming exhausted, and carrying the heavy crowbar wasn't helping Jack's plight either. "We're just gonna have to kill 'em ourselves." Jack looked at the crowbar, then looked at Johnny's knife.

"Fuck that." Johnny wasn't confident at all, and began running again. They both turned into a main street that descended a little and were greeted by nine Snatchers stumbling in the middle of the road.

"We can dodge them!" Jack shouted at Johnny, but Johnny took a look behind him to see the Pit Bulls turning the corner of the street, onto the main road, and hurtling towards them with a vicious speed. Jack looked to his left. "Garage!" was all he bellowed, and they both headed for the nearby garage that was attached to a house.

The dogs weaved and swerved by the dead as they had no intention of harming them, and concentrated on the two men that were now struggling to climb the garage.

Jack threw the bar onto the roof and climbed up with ease on his second attempt, but Johnny was struggling. Jack gave Johnny his hand and tried desperately to pull him up.

"Fuckin' hurry up," Jack shouted, seeing the two Pit Bulls gaining and gaining. "You've got three seconds before they take you down."

Johnny released a cry of anguish, and Jack pulled him up, just as the dogs had jumped and gnashed at the man's legs. The canines remained where they were and snarled and barked at the two relieved men who were standing on top of the garage, catching their breath.

With the melee of the escape and the arrival of the dogs, who were still barking furiously at Jack and Johnny, all nine ghouls slowly shambled their way over to the garage. At this point, Johnny nudged Jack. "If we jump off the back of this garage, we should land in the back of that garden, away from those things and those dogs."

"Wait a minute." Jack held out his hand to his friend, trying to catch his breath. "This might be interesting."

Jack looked down from the garage as the dogs gnashed and tried to jump up at the man, desperate to tear his face off. The dogs were still oblivious of the dead that were gaining on them from behind, but the dead were strongly attracted to the noisy animals.

The nine continued to walk towards the dogs and eventually circled around them. At this stage, Jack looked away as the cries and wails from both animals pierced and assaulted his ears, as the nine Snatchers ripped the dogs to bloody shreds.

Johnny looked down and saw that there wasn't much left of the dogs already. Jack then saw two men, belonging to Slick, turn the corner of the street, onto the main road. Jack pulled Johnny onto his front on the garage roof, away from view of their eyes.

"Holy fuck!" one of Slick's men yelled.

"Fuckin' shame," the other one laughed.

"But where are the dogs?"

Jack then looked at Johnny with confusion. "What are they talking about?"

It took him a while to realise that the two men, who could see the nine ghouls from afar munching on bloody pieces of meat, thought that they were eating the remains of Jack and Johnny.

"Fuckin' dogs have just bolted," Jack heard one of the men say. "Gavin ain't gonna be pleased."

"I know," the other one spoke. "Let's go back and tell him the news."

Jack assumed that the 'Gavin' that they were talking about was Slick. Nevertheless, they seemed to have got away with it, thanks to a huge slice of luck.

"Let's hope we never see these men again," Johnny snorted.

"Amen to that," was Jack's response, but Jack was unsure whether groups like this were isolated incidents.

If such a brutal gang like this could exist in this part of a small town, how many more could there be? What was it like in cities across the UK? Was this now becoming a normal thing? People getting stabbed in the street in front of their families? Men having dogs set upon them because of retribution and a set of car keys? Seriously?

"Week three," Jack said, and shook his head, wearing a fictitious smile.

"What?" Johnny was now getting to his feet, ready to jump off the garage, into the back garden.

"Week three, and some people are resorting to this already."

"I know." Johnny lowered his head sadly, stood his skinny frame up and ran his fingers over his hairless head. "What's this place gonna be like after three months, let alone three weeks?"

"I dread to think, my friend." Jack also got to his feet. "I dread to think."
Chapter Twenty Seven

As soon as they entered the first street of the estate, Karen and Pickle walked and looked from side to side at the houses on either side of them. There were sixteen houses in all, eight on either side, and the first one to the right looked all burnt out. The rest looked to be in decent condition, and some had a few doors that had been left ajar from possible fleeing residents.

The houses that weren't open seemed to be barricaded. Living room windows had curtains and blinds closed; some front doors could be seen through the frosted glass and cupboards, and other furniture, had been stacked up against them.

"The few houses with the doors left open," Pickle began, "are the ones we're gonna search."

Karen responded with a single nod and brushed her dark hair behind her ears. She followed Pickle into the front garden of one of the places in the street and both went into the house, machetes drawn. The living room was dark from the drawn curtains, which Karen opened, and once it was established that the living room and kitchen was devoid of life, it was time to check upstairs.

"Where're you going?" Karen snapped, seeing her partner heading for the stairs. "Just see what they've got and go."

"I want to make sure the house is empty before we ransack the place. We'll need sheets as well."

They both crept up the stairs to the dim area of the landing. Pickle tried the bedroom on the left, checked it, then returned a minute later, then tried the other two, only to find all three vacant. Judging by the state of the quilts in all bedrooms, it appeared that the family had left in a rush.

Karen clapped her hands together and said, "Now it's safe, we can see if this lot have left anything for us."

"What about the attic?" asked Pickle, looking up to the hatch that was above him.

"What about it?" Karen asked, bewildered.

"There may be people up there."

"So what? We're here for supplies, not people."

Karen ran down the stairs, leaving Pickle on the first floor, and took the bag off of her shoulder. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There wasn't much left, and what was in it, some ham and cheese, had become mouldy since the fridge had stopped working.

She crouched down and opened one of the cupboards that had a food carousel with two levels. On the first level was a packet of croissants and some bread rolls, still in their packet. On the second level was a jar of crunchy peanut butter, ketchup, two tins of tuna, a jar of bolognese sauce, four tins of baked beans and bottle of maple syrup.

She put the lot in her bag.

She opened the cupboard above and took the bleach. She even took the toilet cleaner, some sponges and a bottle of cream to clean baths—she had no idea why. In the glass cupboard, next to the one full of cleansing products, there was a biscuit tin. She opened the tin and saw an assortment of chocolate bars that produced a huge smile across her face. There was Crunchies, Caramels, Snickers, Fudges, and chunky Kit Kats—mint flavour.

"I think I'm gonna have an orgasm," she giggled to herself, and put the tin into her now full bag.

Pickle returned from upstairs and asked, "Anything?"

"Plenty," Karen answered with a smile.

Pickle then clicked his fingers. "Batteries. We need batteries."

He began to check through the cupboards; Karen told him which ones she had already checked. He searched the last two and pulled out a tin that looked like it used to hold an assortment of expensive biscuits, something a person would get for a Christmas present. He shook it and then looked on the shelf above where the tin had sat and produced a beam. There was a torch sitting there.

He reached for the torch, put it into his bag, then opened the tin to confirm that it was now a tin that held batteries of many sizes.

"Perfect." Once they were in his bag, he lifted it back up. "Christ, this is heavy already."

"Tell me about it." Karen nodded to her own bag that was bursting. She then looked in the cupboard, under the sink, and pulled out two bottles of Merlot. "Put them in your bag. We deserve them."

"We'll take these back up to Wolf and come back, or we can return tomorrow."

"What's that noise?" asked Karen.

"I can't hear anything."

Karen walked towards the kitchen window and opened the blinds and beckoned Pickle over. He plonked his bag on the floor and took a gawp out into the back garden. There were two Snatchers lumbering around an oak tree that was at the back, and Pickle could now see why the two creatures weren't moving from the tree.

Up at twelve feet high, sitting on a thick branch, was a young girl, no older than fourteen. Her dark hair was tied back, and she looked exhausted, as if she had been there for hours, days even.

"I've got it," Pickle said.

He walked from the kitchen and headed for the back door that led out into the garden. He was greeted with the blistering sun burning down on his features, and closed his eyes for a few seconds to take in the wonderful heat. He then took a few steps closer towards the creatures that had their backs to him, and produced a whistle that someone would use to beckon their dog.

"Thank God," was all the exhausted girl could muster, as she saw this huge, rough-looking man, standing in the middle of the garden with a stained machete, proving that this man was not scared of using the thing.

The two creatures, a male and a female, turned and stumbled towards him. Pickle had done this many times before now, and the two things were more of a nuisance than a scene of terror. He sighed hard, as if someone had spilt his drink, and pulled the machete back and took a swipe at the female. The blade nestled into the right side of the cranium, and once pulled out, a small amount of dark blood spat out, followed by the body collapsing in a heap.

The male ghoul, who was initially behind the female, made things a whole lot easier when it tripped over its fallen comrade and hit the floor. Pickle drove the blade into the back of its head, and withdrew it. He wiped both sides of the blade on the long grass, and placed it back into his belt.

He then looked up at the girl and held out his hand to beckon her out of the tree. "It's safe now."

She hesitated for a few seconds, and looked around her garden and tried her best to fight back the tears.

Gestured Pickle, "Come down. I'm not gonna hurt yer."

She finally did, with Pickle's help, and she was in two minds whether to hug the man or not.

"How long yer been up there?" he enquired.

The girl answered, "For a few hours. I ran into the garden, but I was trapped."

"Are yer alone? Is it just you?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Where're your parents?"

"Erm..." She cleared her throat and nodded to the creatures that Pickle had just attacked. "You've just killed them."

"Oh."

Karen had emerged out from the house and asked Pickle what was taking so long.

Pickle walked up to Karen and whispered, out of earshot from the fourteen-year-old, "This house belongs to this girl and we've just emptied the place."

Karen made a loud noise as she exhaled, and looked over to the girl. "What would you prefer: To stay in the house alone, or stay with other people?"

"Other people," the girl spoke with little hesitation.

"Sorted." Karen then walked out of the garden and disappeared. Pickle looked at the frightened girl and shrugged his shoulders as he had no idea what Karen was planning on doing.

Five minutes later, Karen had returned, and said, "The family from two-doors down are gonna put you up. I'll walk you round."

"That's great," the girl cried and gave Karen a hug; she then hugged Pickle and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for..."

Pickle laughed, "Killing yer parents? No worries."

Karen walked with the girl and Pickle gave off a smile. Karen was full of surprises, sometimes even nice ones. One day he wanted to strangle her; the next, he wanted to hug her.

Harry Branston decided to walk around the garden whilst waiting for Karen to return, and peered over the fence to look at the others. Two gardens down he could see a greenhouse and his face almost lit up.

A greenhouse?

A greenhouse usually meant fresh vegetables. If there was no family there, he thought, then great. If there _was_ , but they were too scared to come out of the house, then Pickle thought about raiding the garden and splitting the produce with the family. He had no idea about what could be available. It was nearing the end of June, so he didn't know what was in bloom and what wasn't. Did there need to be a special time of the year to pick the tomatoes? Would everything be edible? Had the products in the greenhouse shrivelled up because they had been neglected and were now overripe, if that was possible, or had the family already cleaned out the greenhouse anyway when the apocalypse was in full swing?

Karen returned to the back garden with a swagger. Pickle pointed out the greenhouse to Karen. "Excellent. We can check it out tomorrow," was her response.

"Good work with persuading that family to take in that poor wee thing."

"No problem," Karen smirked. "They were reluctant at first. Probably have got their own family to think about."

"But yer twisted their arm." Pickle winked and nudged Karen, proudly. "What was it? A bit o' emotional blackmail?"

"I just told them that the girl needed to be with people. And if they didn't take her in, she'd die."

"Good job. I suppose seeing that machete may have persuaded them."

"And the fact that I told them that if they didn't take her in, I'd torch their house."

Pickle looked at Karen with wide, disappointing eyes. "Yer shouldn't be threatening people like that, Karen. They're just frightened, that's all."

"Relax. I'm just kidding." Karen chuckled and slapped Pickle on the shoulder. "They were pleased to take her in. Apparently they've known her all her life."

Pickle stretched his back, ready for the arduous walk back up to Cardboard Hill, back to the cabin. With a heavy bag, he knew he was going to be exhausted once he had left the street, walked the length of the football field, and then hit the incline of the hill.

He confessed, "I'm never going to make another trip down here, not today."

"We can come back in the morning," said Karen. "We've got all the time in the world."
Chapter Twenty Eight

Jack and Johnny had walked nonchalantly through a street, and had no idea what was around every corner they approached. The dead either seemed to be everywhere or nowhere.

Curtains twitched as they walked through the lane, and one individual bellowed out of his bedroom window and asked the two men if they knew if there was anywhere safer. Jack thought that it was a bizarre question. If he knew that there was anywhere safer, he wouldn't be walking down this particular road in the open air.

There were potential hazards everywhere, and although walking down a street left the two men exposed, being in the open made it easier to see any dangers.

"I need to sit down." Johnny stopped walking and sat on someone's front garden.

Jack knew exactly where Johnny was coming from; he was also exhausted. Jack placed the crowbar onto the grass and sat next to the weapon that was lying inbetween the pair of them.

Johnny shook his head and asked, "How the fuck did you manage to stay outdoors for more than a fortnight? This is a nightmare; the longer the hours go by, the more the factory and starvation seems more appealing."

"It was worse than this at the beginning," Jack said. He then grabbed the chest part of the boiler suit he was wearing and wafted it to get some air on his body. "It's roasting out here, and these boiler suits are not helping."

"Look, even if we were wearing just our shorts we'd still be sweating our bollocks off." Johnny pointed up at the sun; there was only one solitary cloud in the sky. "That doesn't help, and neither does running from two big fucking Pit Bulls, avoiding flesh-eating creatures, and men who would kill you for a fucking banana."

"A banana?" Jack tittered.

"Oh, at last. A bit of hilarity from the cool Jack Slade."

"Look, Johnny." Jack placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "I didn't say it was gonna be easy."

"Look." Johnny pointed at his stained boiler suit where his legs were. "My thighs are fucking killing me. I've pissed myself twice in just a five-minute period—"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. Let's just find an empty house and crash for a few days."

To Johnny's relief, Jack nodded in agreement to his suggestion. He picked up the crowbar, and used it to get to his feet. With the bar, he pointed to a house at the end of the road. "That front door is open, which means two things: it could be empty, or there could be some of those things inside."

"I don't care," Johnny sighed. "I need a fresh change of clothes and a decent kip."

"Sounds good to me." Jack licked the roof of his mouth. It felt all wrinkly, telling him that his body needed fluids. "If it's clear, we'll see if they've got any running water. Do you want a drink when we get in?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Johnny cackled.

Jack glanced at his companion with a stern look. "I don't know. Does it?"
Chapter Twenty Nine

Everything in the bag had been emptied and stored in the kitchen cupboards of the cabin. Wolf was delighted with the items Pickle and Karen had brought back, and asked if there had been any problems.

"Nothing we're not used to," Karen answered Wolf. "But you'll be amazed what we've been used to."

Wolf shook his head and patted Pickle on the shoulder and pointed at Karen. "Where'd you get this one?"

"Long story," laughed Pickle, and began to insert a couple of firelighters underneath the wood where Wolf had built a fire that hadn't been lit yet. Wolf was convinced they were going to come back with something, but had come back with more than he was expecting. He was more pleased with the bleach and batteries more than the food, and told the two that at least now they could drink water from the kitchen sink, if they wanted, without worrying too much about poisoning themselves. He was still adamant on getting his liquids from the barrel full of rainwater, but the sink-water didn't bother Karen and Pickle anyway.

They drank water whilst Wolf got the fire going; Pickle looked around the enclosed garden. For the first time in a long while, he felt safe. The fence around the cabin looked solid, and he knew that if there was even a tiny chance that those things could get up the hill, they'd still have to get through the solid perimeter.

He looked at Karen as they both sat near the fire, and she flashed him a smile.

"Are yer thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Pickle.

"Stile Cop?"

"Actually, no." Pickle took another swig of water that Wolf had given him. "I was just thinking, after everything that's happened, I didn't think we'd be sitting here. I don't want to jinx things, but this place is almost perfect."

"Apart from having to piss and shit outside."

"We should be used to that with the woods. At least we have toilet roll now," he guffawed.

Karen managed half a smile, suggesting she wasn't sharing his positive outlook, but it didn't dampen Pickle's spirits. Everywhere they had gone to had turned to shit after a couple of days, whether it was Stile Cop, the house in Heath Hayes, or the sports centre. Pickle could understand why Karen wasn't getting carried away. She was being realistic, not necessarily pessimistic.

Wolf was in the kitchen and it looked like that he was making a big pot of soup. He placed a metal rack over the now blistering blaze, and told them that once it was prepared, it'd take a while to heat up on the fire.

Going back to what Karen had said earlier, Pickle then asked, "Why does this remind you of Stile Cop?"

"Remember the fire? The food?" Karen smirked. "KP doing the barbecue?"

Pickle snickered, "And giving Jamie the shits."

A silence fell upon the two of them as they realised that they had been talking about people that were no longer alive anymore. Pickle dropped his head, and could feel his eyes welling up for KP.

"Poor KP," Pickle spoke with a quiver in his tone.

"Poor _everyone_ ," Karen said with genuine affection.

"Poor Grass, Laz, Jamie, Janine, Davina ... I wonder how David and little Isobel are? Man, she was the cutest thing I'd ever seen."

Karen smiled and nodded in agreement. "What about poor Jack and his family?"

Pickle nodded and sighed once he could feel his throat getting tighter with emotion. "That was the most heartbreaking thing I'd ever witnessed, seeing that woman and her son lying in that office."

"I wonder how Jack managed to ... well ... die?"

"Poor bastard was probably ripped to pieces like that Lee and Oliver kid at the gates." Pickle's sombre reminiscing wasn't helping his mood and wondered briefly what fate had in store for _him_. How was he going to leave this earth? Would it be painless or painful? He added, "There was nothin' I could do about Jack. After losing his son, he just gave up, like _I_ nearly did when KP went."

"No one blamed you," Karen appeased her male friend. "You led the group; but you're not a hypnotist. You can't control what people are thinking and feeling. Jack made his choice, and is probably better off where he is."

Thinking about things that had happened in the recent past, Karen wondered aloud, "I wonder how Paul and Jade are getting on?"

"Fine," Pickle said with heavy confidence.

"You seem certain."

"Paul's a tough bastard, and besides, he's got desperation running through his veins. He needs to stay alive so he can eventually find his wife and daughter. He mentioned going back to his house, if it's safe enough. Shit," cackled Pickle, "he's probably there now."

Wolf then appeared from the cabin with the pot of soup being carried with both hands. He gently put the soup on the metal rack and said, "One thing I don't have, and that's pepper."

"We'll put that on our shopping list for tomorrow," Pickle spoke with a chuckle.

Wolf knelt near the fire, wearing a set of denim dungarees, and began to stir the pot with a metal spoon. He was reasonably quiet and Pickle asked if he was missing his wife.

"Yes, I am," Wolf remarked. "But I'm mourning for the woman that had died two or so weeks ago, not that thing you killed and buried on the hill. That wasn't her. That was just evil that had taken over the shell she used to dwell in."

"Well this is a barrel of laughs," Karen spoke with a sarcastic tone wrapped around her words. Pickle was about to reprimand the twenty-three-year-old female for her crass and insensitive comment, but Wolf burst out laughing when she said it.

"You're not shy, are you?" Wolf shook his head whilst he continued to titter. "I know you said it was a long story," Wolf turned to Pickle, "but how did you two meet?"

"I was in the woods," began Pickle. "Karen was hiding and thought I was one of them, so she attacked me and broke my nose."

"I didn't break it," Karen protested. "It just bled a little. He went down like a sack of shit, though. _And_ he was carrying a handgun."

Wolf winked at Karen, telling her that he was about to try and wind Pickle up. He then turned to Pickle, feigning surprise on his face. "A big, strong lad like you, and you allowed this petite thing to knock you down?"

Picking up on Wolf's ribbing, Pickle spoke with a fake defensive tone, "In my defence, she _was_ well hidden."

"Still," Wolf cackled. "You're built like a bear, and Karen put you on your arse."

Pickle was starting to give up and was now ready for the soup that was now bubbling in the pot. Wolf could see his guests were getting hungry, so he stood up to get back to the kitchen to get three bowls and three spoons.

Wolf straightened his straw hat, stroked his grey beard and said, "I tell you what, Karen, you're a cracking girl. You remind me of my wife when I first met her."

"Hot, was she?" she joked.

"She certainly was." Wolf stared at Karen, admiring her natural prettiness. "You know what, Karen? If I was single, and forty years younger—"

"I'd be knocking you back right now."

Pickle and Wolf both laughed collectively, and Karen tried her best to keep a straight face so her dead-pan humour was more effective, but her face eventually cracked.

Karen stood to her feet and brushed the back of her trousers with the palms of her hands. "Fuck this. Let's get the wine open, and then we can tell you everything that's happened."

"Now yer talking, Karen," Pickle continued to cackle. "Now yer talking."
Chapter Thirty

June 26th

The two men had slept through the night. Neither one had arranged for one or the other to keep guard and take turns in sleeping; they were so exhausted once their backs touched the soft mattress that they had crashed right away.

When they arrived at the house and settled down after a few hours, they felt safe almost immediately. The house was locked and secure, and the street had no presence of the living or the dead, and no barricading took place this time before they went to the bedrooms on the next floor.

Jack was the first to wake; he sat up in the nude and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He looked around and noticed that the bedroom that he was in was probably one belonging to a teenage boy. The seductive posters on the wall of Cheryl Cole and Amy Childs suggested that the teenage boy was a heterosexual and probably used the posters for times whenever he felt horny. Jack looked at the posters of the two women and thought that they were more than likely dead now—either mutilated, or walking round like the rest of the deadheads.

Jack got off the bed and opened the cupboard that stood by the window. He wanted to check to see if there were any clothes that would fit him, as he didn't know whether the teenage boy was a schoolboy-teenager or a young man-teenager.

He looked inside the cupboard and it appeared that the family had packed before leaving, so it appeared to be a planned-leaving, rather than a spontaneous one. There wasn't much left in the cupboard, but Jack did help himself to some new briefs, a pair of black socks, a blue T-shirt with bright colours splashed on the front, and a cream pair of combats, which he was sure would not remain cream for too long once he went back out in the new world, but he was glad to be out of the boiler suit.

He heard a knock on his door and for some reason he asked who it was.

"Er ... it's Johnny," was the reply,

Jack opened the door and shook his head at his daft query, and had a small snigger to himself. "Morning."

"Sorry," Johnny looked around; he was in a slight jovial mood. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"Wasn't thinking."

Johnny was fully dressed, and it appeared that he had also decided on ditching the boiler suit, and had taken clothing from the man of the house's wardrobe. He wore blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt. "I've found a toothbrush we can share, no toothpaste though ... er, or water, of course."

"I need a drink." Jack ruffled his hair, looked at his fingers, and pulled a confused face as if he was unaware what to do next. "And a shower."

Jack walked out of the bedroom and sat on the top step of the stairs, and placed his head in his hands; he was still half-asleep. Said Jack, "There're those two litre bottles of sparkling water underneath the sink, that'll have to do."

"And a half bottle of diluting juice."

Jack looked at Johnny to see if he was having a joke, but his face told him he was deadly serious. "And how are you going to dilute the juice? You gonna piss in it?"

"No," Johnny snickered. "I'm gonna use ... the ... _oh_."

"You're gonna dilute it with water that we don't have, is that it?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"Don't matter. With the bottles of sparkling water under the sink, and the water left over in their kettle, we could stay here for a couple of days at least."

"And then what?"

"I don't know." Jack lifted his head, his eyes closed. He then began rubbing his temples with his fingers as if he was suffering from a headache.

"Not much of a plan."

Jack stood up and went face-to-face with Johnny; his countenance was full of rage and his fists clenched. "Well, what the fuck do you want, Johnny? Eh?"

Johnny was taken aback by the man he had helped to recover, and didn't understand the meaning of his outburst. "I..."

"When this thing first happened, I had a purpose to stay alive; I had a place I needed to go, but now ... now that I've lost everything and everyone I cared for, I have nowhere to go. I wish I could make this all go away, but the only thing that can do that is death. I tried to kill myself just a day after I lost my son and ex-girlfriend, but it never happened, and I'm glad it didn't. I still don't know why, but something inside of me still wants to live."

"I'm sorry." Johnny cleared his throat and dropped his head like a child that had just been reprimanded by a teacher. "I kind of look at you for answers 'cos you've been out there; you know what you're doing."

"I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm still only alive because of luck."

"Luck?"

Jack stared at Johnny, who could see that Jack Slade's eyes were filling up. Jack added, "Most of us that are alive are probably here out of luck. But is it good luck or bad luck? Are we really lucky to be searching around for drips of water and scraps of food, while the dead are out there wanting to rip you apart. There're also people out there that want to harm you for anything that would benefit _them_ , but weeks ago they could have easily have been your neighbours or your work colleagues. It's all fucked up. This whole thing is fucked up!"

"Again, I'm sorry."

"Just leave me alone."

Johnny did what he was told and went back into the bedroom, leaving Jack to sit on the top step and stare into space.
Chapter Thirty One

It was a beautiful morning once again.

June had been good to the middle of England—weather-wise—and Pickle was the first to wake. He was used to waking early from years of getting up at seven am when he was back at the prison, and he decided to take a stroll out of the grounds and onto the grassy hill.

He opened the tall gate and took a peep over his shoulder, as if what he was doing was wrong, and walked out and shut the gate behind him. He looked at the thick, tall fence that surrounded the area of the cabin and tried to push it with his hands, as if he was stretching his calf muscles. It was solid. Wolf had done a good job, for an old man that could hardly move. Pickle was convinced that he must have had help building it, but it wasn't something that was going to keep him awake at night.

With his feet covered in blisters, a result of days of walking in the woods, Pickle had left his shoes back at the cabin, and walked along the soft grass, barefooted. It was a well-kept hill, considering that in the old world it used to entertain joggers, kids and dog-walkers, and there was hardly a scrap of litter about or canine shit to be seen. Even though it had the nickname Cardboard Hill, it appeared that there wasn't much cardboard around either.

Although he was feeling the strain on his back, he slowly made his way to the very top of the hill, where he and Karen had their falling out, and the moment he arrived at the top, he sat his bum down and pulled his knees into his chest.

He glared up at the wonderful sun that shone down, and a smile emerged on his face. It was one of the few moments that Harry Branston was pleased to be on his own.

It was good to be alive, he reflected. The sun on his face, the greenery around him, and the soup and wine he had the previous night, made him thankful for what he had. The grave of Grace Kindl, ten yards from his left, was the only thing that soured the moment a little.

Harry stood to his feet and began to stretch his worn body; he then hit the ground and began doing press ups. He preferred pull ups, but any kind of exercise would do him. Even though he had had plenty of cardiovascular exercise over the days with the constant walking and the odd running episode from those creatures, it was good to do a bit of exercise on _his_ terms.

After ten minutes, a puffy Pickle wiped his brow with his forearm and decided to take advantage of the cool wind that was around at one of the highest points of Rugeley Town, and allowed the wind to cool his frame down after his short exercise session. Pickle now sat down with his legs crossed and looked up to the beautiful blue sky. He then mumbled, under his breath, a prayer:

"Father, thank you that you sent your son to bring me life. Life in the fullness. Life for eternity. Thank you that I share Christ's resurrection life. That Christ is alive in me. And his spirit dwells deeply in my being. Right now I receive your healing. I receive the same power that raised Christ from the grave. I receive your life. I receive Your strength."

A bird that he could not name, flew above him and had interrupted his spiritual time. Pickle looked with his hand almost covering his eyes from the blinding sun, but the bird had now disappeared. He was pleased to see that life for some animals and birds was going on as normal.

He continued, "Thank you that all things are possible for those who believe. Thank you that you are moving _in_ me right now. May I continue to receive from you. This hour and every hour. Amen."

He puffed out his cheeks and tears fell from Harry's eyes.
Chapter Thirty Two

It had been a mundane few hours for Jack and Johnny, and the two individuals had spent most of the morning sitting in separate bedrooms, thinking.

Johnny had spent most of the time reflecting about Jack's rant and the kind of 'luck' that the survivors had had in order to stay alive. Johnny's saving grace was the factory. It was secure; had food, and was a safe haven, albeit temporarily.

He had no idea the exact amount of time he had spent lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling that desperately needed painting. He was even unsure whether all the time he was in the room had been spent awake. He was certain he'd either had had a power nap or was drifting off when he got a fright. Whatever gave him the fright forced him go to the bedroom window that looked out onto the back gardens, but he couldn't see anything.

Johnny closed his eyes once again, even though he felt that his bladder needed emptying. He began daydreaming about the future, and what on earth was going to happen next. His daydreaming was short-lived however, as he heard the front door being shut.

"Shit."

His eyes opened as wide as they could, and despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he was unable to move. He had no idea why the front door of the house had been shut. Had Jack gone for a walk? Was he tired of Johnny and decided to go out there alone? Was it something else? Had one of those things got in? Or had the gang tracked the men down and wanted revenge for the treatment of their colleagues?

Johnny was still unable to move, even when he heard the slow, clumsy footsteps progressing up the stairs. Once the footsteps were heard on the landing, Johnny had found some energy from somewhere and quickly rolled off the bed and crawled underneath it.

He was now lying on his front, and already the sweat was trickling off of his forehead as he waited for whatever was outside the bedroom door to come in.

There was a knock on the door, but Johnny didn't answer. He was too scared to answer. There was a second knock, but straight after the knock, the door swung open, and all Johnny could see from where he was lying, was a pair of shoes.

"Johnny?"

It was Jack's voice.

_Thank fuck_.

Johnny slowly and sheepishly crawled from under the bed, and saw that Jack Slade was confused. Jack never bothered to ask him what he was playing at, and instead decided to speak to him as if his rant from earlier had never happened.

"I was speaking to the old woman next door," Jack began.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, wiping his brow. "Oh, so there _are_ some people alive in the street then."

Ignoring his remark, Jack continued, "Apparently the street has hardly seen any action during the outbreak. Mrs Doyle, the woman next door, said that in the three weeks, she had only seen two monsters go by her front window."

"So what are you saying, we should stay where we are?"

"Well, because the street is relatively hidden, and people have chosen to stay indoors, there has been nothing to attract these creatures."

"Did you ask them about those looters?"

Jack nodded. "She said that she has never seen anyone like that. She even said that she pops over the road to her friends for a cup of tea and a chinwag every evening."

"Those idiots are only a matter of streets away," said Johnny. "It may well be rosy in the garden for Mrs Doyle and her other coffin-dodger friend, but it's only a matter of time when their food runs out or those crazies, both dead _and_ that gang, come here and rob them." Johnny then suddenly looked at Jack with befuddlement and scratched his bald head. "And how on earth does she get a cup of tea when the electrics are out?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Camping stove, maybe."

"Is that it?" Johnny stood to his feet and bent over to touch his toes and stretch his back.

"No." Jack sat down on the bed, next to his friend, and added, "She also said that she has a daughter and a granddaughter who, in the first week of the outbreak, had fled to Armitage, but only got so far because some men had blocked the road off. They eventually allowed them to stay. This information was given to her when the mobile phones were still working. Anyway, the blockade is at the Spode Cottage."

"The pub?"

Jack nodded, and then teased, "And what's behind the Spode Cottage?"

It had been years since Johnny had lived in that area, but he answered, "I think I can remember a massive hedge, eight feet in height that no one can get through."

"And what's inbetween the back of the pub and that hedge?"

Johnny thought for a moment and couldn't find an answer.

Jack sighed, "The caravan park, of course."

"Of course," Johnny said in a whisper. "Do you think they'll let us in?"

"Only one way to find out."

"But how are we gonna get there? It's three miles away."

Jack pulled a face that didn't give Johnny too much confidence, and tucked both of his lips in whilst he began to think. Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of keys and shook them.

Said Johnny with confusion, "They're the jeep's keys."

Jack nodded slowly, slightly mocking Johnny. "Yes they are. And we're gonna get our wheels back this afternoon."

"What if those twats have taken it?"

"Then we come back here."

"I dunno." Johnny stood up, and was all tense again, and began pacing the floor. "Why don't we steal a car from the street?"

"Have you _seen_ the old cars in this street?"

"So what? Give me a sane reason why we should go back for that jeep?"

Jack could see that just the thought of going back had turned Johnny into a bag of nerves. "I'll give you three reasons. Reason one: I don't wanna be stealing a vehicle from some poor soul who's gonna need it in the future. Reason two: Even if I wanted to steal a car from the street, I have no idea how to hotwire a car anyway. Reason three: The jeep's perfect. It's got gas, and it's solid. It's exactly what we need. And ... Reason four: It'll be fun."

"You said _three_ reasons," Johnny sighed, "and that last one wasn't funny, by the way."

"You have two options, Johnny." Jack took on a more serious tone and stared at his companion who was far less enthusiastic than Mr Slade. "You can either come with me and possibly go to a place where it may be secure, and have other people we can be around with plenty of food—"

"You don't know that for sure; there could—"

"No I don't," Jack interjected. "Or, you can stay here for the next few weeks, hiding, drinking your own piss, and eating the leaves and the grass from the back garden, 'cos that'll happen eventually if you decide to stay here. You can't order online for food anymore; those days are gone. You're gonna have to go out there and get it for yourself."

"Yes, I know that," Johnny snapped. "Don't patronise me."

"So what's it to be?"

Johnny held his arms out as if the answer was blatantly obvious. "I'll go with you."

"Good." Jack headed for the bedroom door and opened it to leave. "Be sure to have a piss; we go in ten minutes."
Chapter Thirty Three

"Another trip or so, and we should be okay for a few weeks," Wolf said with excitement coated in his words.

At last, there seemed to be a little light at the end of the tunnel. Before the arrival of Karen and Pickle, Wolfgang Kindl had envisaged his future of getting food by collecting mushrooms and berries from the nearby woods, and putting out traps for any kind of animal that came along.

Karen disappeared into the cabin, leaving the two men in the garden, and grabbed the bags for the next supplies trip.

"There're are a few people living in that street," Pickle said. "I think we should try another street in the future. We shouldn't get too greedy with this street. They'll need supplies themselves, and I don't think they're the type o' people to go out and hunt and loot for stuff."

Wolf cackled and looked at Pickle. "If they have a family to feed and they're starving, trust me, they'll do anything to survive. Once the food runs out, these barricaded folk that have boarded up their doors and windows will eventually come out."

"And the trouble with that," Pickle added, "is if these people eventually come out, more could be attacked—"

"Meaning more of those deadheads will be produced. By the time desperation kicks in, the people will be more dangerous than the creatures out there. There's a good chance that this cabin will be owned by new people in a few weeks. I've always thought that one day people will come up here and kill me, asking no questions, then take over the place. Then a few weeks down the line, the same will happen. This is one of the safest places in the town. No one has ever tried to get in, apart from you and Karen, but they'll come. As soon as the hunger and the dehydration kicks in, they'll leave their homes, kill their neighbours, maybe, then one or two will come up here."

"You seem certain."

Wolf continued, "If you had a young son, and he hadn't eaten for days, and you live in a world where the land is in a lawless state, what would you do to keep your child alive?"

"A lawless state or not, I'd do anything."

"Exactly."

Karen then emerged from the cabin, and threw Pickle his bag. "What are you two talking about?"

Pickle grinned and said, "Oh, Wolf was just cheering me up."

"Just being realistic, Harry." Wolf patted Pickle on the shoulder and with his old, tired legs he walked back into the cabin whilst Karen and Pickle left the premises.

"Make sure you lock the gate," Pickle shouted over to the occupier, and strolled through the grass in the glorious sunshine with his female partner beside him.

They walked in a comfortable silence and went down the decline and through the gap in the tall, surrounding hedge. They both slowly walked along the football field, scanned the spacious area, and enjoyed the warm rays heating up their skin.

"This'll be possibly our last time in this street," Pickle announced to Karen.

She nodded in agreement and said, "We can try the other street behind it, once we run out of supplies in the cabin. If there's anything left."

"That's exactly what I said to Wolf." Pickle smiled and was in agreement with Karen. "Like I said to David Pointer, when he was firing questions at me about survival: Let's just live for today and not worry about tomorrow."

"It would be nice to stay in the same place for a while, without running from those things every other week."

"I think our safest place was the multi-storey car park after what had happened at Stile Cop."

"No, it wasn't," Karen laughed and waggled her head. "Safe from those things, maybe, but not safe from death itself. Another day up at that place and I would have thrown myself off from the boredom."

Pickle stopped walking and looked at his friend. "We've been through some shit, me and you, haven't we?"

"You could say that. This is how it's gonna be from now on."

"I know; after all o' those things we've killed, avoided, and ran from, in a few weeks' time our own death could be something we never would have envisaged, something unjust."

"Like?" asked Karen.

"Well, like being shot for our bags o' food, or the cabin gettin' stormed by some desperados."

"You're a cheery fucker, aren't you?"

"I was talking to Wolf; he had a few things to say, and some o' them made sense."

" _He's_ okay; he's sixty-nine-years-old, he's had his life."

Pickle looked at his female companion with disappointed eyes. "Karen. That ain't nice."

"Aw, come on. He's had a good innings. Do you honestly think _we're_ gonna have the opportunity to reach that age?"

"Probably not, but he _is_ doing us a favour."

"Yep, and we're doing him one as well."
Chapter Thirty Four

Jack, along with the reluctant Johnny, left the house and took the keys that were sitting by the teapot in the kitchen, just in case they needed to come back for whatever reason. The forty-year-old then slipped the keys into his back pocket, whilst the car keys were in his front, and walked along with his companion.

The walk itself looked innocent enough, with the exception of a hammer slipped into Johnny's belt buckle and Jack carrying the crowbar in his right hand. The streets were unusually and eerily quiet, as if it was a typical early Sunday morning, and most people were inside and in their beds, nursing hangovers.

Jack had no idea why there were very few of those things, and thought that they must have been enticed in their droves by something beforehand.

Jack thought back to the day when Gary had set fire to the Porsche, in a desperate attempt to push them back, and it exploded and took Gary and himself off of their feet. It seemed that hundreds were behind them that day. Maybe they kept walking and walking, and a lot of them from the Rugeley area had cleared out because of this. But what about the ones that had reanimated inside their own homes from day one? Were they still indoors?

Johnny, on the other hand, couldn't care less about the reason why the streets were barren with life—and death. Long may it continue, he thought.

One of Jack's questions were answered immediately when he saw to the left of him, two reanimated poor souls, inside their own living room—he presumed—trying to claw and slap their way out at the blood-covered panes of glass. Their excitement intensified once they saw the two males casually walking by.

Focusing on the task in hand, Jack faced forwards and continued to stroll, and as soon as they came to the end of the street, Jack crouched down and waved Johnny back. They looked down the long road of Crabtree, and could see the black jeep sitting at the side of the road where they had left it.

"It hasn't been touched." Jack's posture was a man now brimming with confidence. "All we need to do now is take the jeep and get the fuck out of this town."

"As simple as that?" Johnny was a lot more sceptical than Jack. "What if it's a trap?"

"A trap?" Jack tried to stifle his laughing. "I think these guys have got their hands full with robbing the houses in the area. Anyway, they think we're dead, remember? Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"I hope you're right." Johnny still seemed unsure. "I just hope that they haven't drained the fuel from the jeep and fucked off, otherwise we'll be going nowhere fast."

Ignoring Johnny's remark, Jack ordered, "Follow me."

Jack decided to cut through the back gardens in order to get to Kerry's old place a different way. They jumped over fences and climbed over hedges with little fuss. Then once they were near Kerry's back garden, they stopped. Jack crouched down behind a hedge and could see that the garden was empty of life, just like the ones that they had ran through to get to their destination.

"What do you think?" Jack asked Johnny.

"Does it really matter what _I_ think?" Johnny said, with the sound of self-pity in his voice. Johnny knew that whatever he suggested, Jack would rarely take his advice anyway. He had no idea why his companion asked him for his opinion.

"I suppose not." Jack grinned and patted Johnny on the shoulder, letting him know that he was joking. "Come on."

They climbed the hedge and fell into Kerry's garden. Jack then told Johnny to wait round the back of the house whilst he had a look around the front. Johnny did what he was told, then Jack came back and told him the road was clear.

"No one there at all?" asked Johnny.

"They must have left and picked another street."

"Bastards!" snarled Johnny. "I hope they get what's coming to them."

Jack took out the car keys from his pocket, and beckoned Johnny to go with him. Jack pressed the fob and the jeep unlocked. Both men jumped into the vehicle and quickly drove away with no hassle from other outside forces, both alive and dead.

Johnny quipped, "Well, that was easy."

Jack made a right turn and speeded up down a long road called Green Lane. "Don't be too sure," said Jack, and nodded up ahead where a car was coming the other way.

"Is it one of them?" Johnny asked, as he was unsure, but Jack recognised the vehicle and turned the jeep off the road, into the playing fields. The car followed.

Both men stayed silent whilst the other car gave chase and followed closely behind them. Jack slipped the jeep into fourth and floored the gas pedal. He veered left, throwing him and Johnny to the side as the jeep took the sharp bend, wheels screaming, and straightened the car up. The jeep then drove onto a large play park and they were on the grass once again.

Jack asked stridently, "Johnny, how we doin'?" Jack couldn't see what was going on. The back wheels span and spat up dirt so much that it was hard to see through the back window via the misty rear-view mirror.

"Not a lot." said Johnny, peering out of the back.

"Be a bit more fuckin' specific than that," Jack snapped, smothered in tension. "I mean: Are they close?"

"Pretty fuckin' close."

Jack turned the wheel and the vehicle swerved left back onto the road. "How many in the car?"

"Two."

Johnny could see that Jack was lost in thought, despite the fact that he should be fully concentrating where he was going.

Johnny questioned, "What's up?"

Jack responded, "Maybe we should stop the jeep and take our chances." He then pointed to the crowbar, sitting in the back of the jeep.

Johnny was confused. "And do what? Run?"

"Beat them to death."

Johnny shook his head and slowly dropped it into his hands. "Just keep driving. They'll give up eventually." _Please give up_.

Jack slipped the jeep into a lower gear, and the car behind seemed to be getting closer. He floored the gas pedal once again; the tyres of the jeep screamed out as the vehicle made a sudden sharp turn to the right. They were now along the main road into the town centre, and Jack could see up ahead that there was a crowd of the dead lingering around a roundabout called The Globe Island.

He had no idea why they were hanging around that area. Maybe a kill had taken place.

"Hold on," instructed Jack.

Seeing that he wasn't joking and that Jack Slade was planning on ramming the vehicle through the eighty-strong crowd of the dead, Johnny cried, "Oh Jesus," and braced himself for impact.

Out of habit, both men were wearing seat-belts and jolted forwards as soon as the steel bumper hit the front of the horde. It felt like it had hit a brick wall, and Johnny kept his eyes open and witnessed dark blood and brain matter hit the windscreen with a disgusting splat. Thankfully, the windscreen never cracked, and Jack kept his foot fully-down no matter what.

The jeep had made it through the crowd and they heard the car behind try and replicate what the jeep had done. It should have been easier because the jeep had caused significant damage through the centre of the group, but the car was just a Mazda with very weak protection.

The vehicle was stopped in the middle of the crowd, and the surviving ghouls that hadn't been mowed down by the jeep, surrounded the car. Jack stopped the vehicle, once they were in the clear, and he and Johnny stared out the back, looking at the stationary vehicle from fifty yards away.

Whether it had stalled, or the sheer mass of the bodies had stopped the Mazda from moving, they were unsure.

The two men in the jeep could not see anything because of the horde. Somehow the things had got inside the vehicle, or had pulled the men out, because Jack and Johnny could hear the screams of the two men as they were being eaten alive.

"The sooner we get to that place, the better." Johnny looked at his driver.

Jack never responded to Johnny's comment; he simply used the windscreen washer button to wash the glass in front of him, and then he put on the wipers to move away the debris that had been created by a one and a half tons of metal that had ploughed itself through a group of rotting and diseased beings.
Chapter Thirty Five

Karen and Pickle weren't far away from the back of the estate, and they began to chat as they continued to stroll along the football field.

Asked Pickle, "So what would yer be doing now, if this whole end-o'-the-world thing wasn't happenin'?"

Karen laughed, "You make it sound so trivial."

Pickle never responded to Karen's remark; he continued to glare at her for some kind of answer. She then pulled a confused face and said, "I don't know. I'd probably be getting out of bed after my nightshift. I usually sleep till late afternoon. Then hang about in my pyjamas and watch crap TV. Then Gary would come in from work; I'd make him a meal that dogs wouldn't eat." She laughed to herself after making that remark, but Pickle could see the melancholy in her face. Karen continued, "I would then get ready and kiss him goodnight, and go to work around eight or nine in the evening."

"Shit. That routine sounds worse than the one in prison."

They ambled in a few seconds of silence and Karen took a peep at Pickle's back and scowled in thought.

"What's wrong?" he queried.

"You're right earlier. You _do_ seem to be losing a bit of weight. I'm sure that back was a lot more muscular when I first met you."

"Aw, come on. I ain't lost that much muscle mass."

"You seem to be a little hunched over as well," Karen began to tease. "This whole apocalyptic scenario is ageing you pretty quick."

"Cheeky bitch. I'm only forty-three."

Karen pointed. "Here we are."

They had made the concrete path and had stopped at the end of the familiar street. Karen scanned the area before taking another step, and was satisfied that, once again, it looked reasonably peaceful.

They both entered the street, and Pickle pointed at a house on the left. "Let's try that one. That's the place that has the greenhouse in the back garden. It seems vacant."

"What makes you so sure it's vacant?"

Pickle stopped walking and looked around the small street. "Well, the front door is open, and there's blood smeared all over the front of it. If there's anyone inside, it's o' the dead variety." He pulled out his machete, and Karen copied him. "I'll check upstairs again and yer can start filling yer bag."

They entered the house with careful footsteps, and with paranoid eyes they scanned the place; their eyes were constantly on the move. Once it was apparent that the ground floor looked uninhabited, Karen went into the kitchen and took more tins, whilst Pickle mooched about upstairs.

Pickle reached the landing of the house and could see that all four rooms—three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed—had their doors shut. Because there was little light, it felt like night-time in the place.

He reached for the bathroom door and, with his machete at the ready, he pushed it open and had a quick peep inside. The bath was filled to the brim, suggesting to Pickle that there were, or used to be, people inside during the beginning of the outbreak. 'Filling the bath with water' was one of the many tips that had been broadcasted on the radio in the first days of the disaster.

Staring at the three closed bedroom doors, and now thinking that they may be people inside, Pickle closed the bathroom door very quietly, and went to the first door to his left.

He knocked the door with his middle knuckle and awaited a response. He didn't know why he was doing this. He didn't _need_ to do this. If there were people hiding, then they were obviously scared, so it wouldn't make a difference if Karen and Pickle looted the house or not.

Pickle cleared his throat and began to speak, "If there's anyone in here, or yer can hear me from the other rooms, I'm just passing through. I mean no one any harm."

Pickle paused and felt a little foolish. What if there was no one inside?

His presence remained by the frame of the door, as he was aware that if there were people inside, there may not necessarily be hiding in a corner, shivering with fright. They could be aiming a shotgun at the door, waiting for Pickle to go in.

There was no verbal response from behind it, and Pickle was in two minds whether to just go back downstairs and help Karen out. But what if there were children in that room?

"Okay," Pickle said. "I'm coming in. Just remember, I come in peace."

He pushed down the handle and tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked or barricaded.

Suddenly he heard a male's voice from behind the door. "Leave us alone."

"Who's in there?" Pickle gently questioned. "Yer alone, pal?"

"No, I'm not alone." The man added, "I'm in here with my two daughters. Please, don't hurt us."

Pickle was confused with the man's pleading. "Why would I hurt yer?"

There was silence from behind the door, and the man finally spoke. "I heard from a frightened resident that, a few streets away, four men in a pick-up truck had been raiding houses, regardless whether there were people in there or not."

"Did this ... _resident_ happen to know what they looked like?"

"All she said to me was that there was one of them with greasy black hair, tied in a ponytail, with a horrible grin."

Pickle was convinced it was the same four men that had attacked them a while ago, the same men that had shot dead the middle-aged man and woman that had kindly gave them a ride a few days previously, and the same men that were responsible for the splitting up of his group when he and Karen ran for their lives one way, and Paul and Jade ran the other way to avoid a shotgun cartridge.

Pickle said, "Do me a favour. Open the door."

"I-I can't do that," the man stammered.

"Let me talk to yer, face-to-face. I have a machete, if I wanted to come in and hurt yer, I could anyway."

"You might be one of those men."

"I'm not one o' _them_. I'm with a woman. We're here to get food, but if I'd known there were people in here..."

"Take what you want. We have enough in _here_ ... for now."

Pickle remained by the door and could hear movement coming from the room.

"Okay," the man spoke out. "I'm letting you in."

"Good man. I swear to God I'm not one o' those idiots."

The man began to remove furniture from the door. Pickle then heard speaking and a little girl asked him what he was doing, in a frightened voice. The father appeased his daughter and slowly opened the bedroom door to be greeted by Pickle's warm smile.

"May I come in?" Pickle asked.

The man was in his thirties, dirty-looking, and small in stature with blonde hair. Pickle stepped into the room and saw his girls, sitting in the corner. The place wasn't a mess; it looked like any kind of bedroom with the curtains closed.

Pickle looked at the man, then looked at his scared girls.

"This is ridiculous." Pickle couldn't help himself. "What are yer doing, hiding in here?"

"I'm trying to protect my girls."

Pickle then heard Karen shout up from downstairs, "I'm done!"

Pickle bellowed back, "Be down in a minute! Wait outside for me."

He then turned his attention back to the father. With his forefinger, Pickle beckoned the man to follow him. "Come with me. Yer girls will be fine for a moment."

Both men left the bedroom and Pickle shut the bedroom door. He and the man were now on the landing. Pickle quickly checked the other two bedrooms, that were thankfully vacant, and then stared at the man and shook his head at him.

The man, who never introduced himself, asked nervously, "What is it?"

"This is yer home, right?" Pickle interrogated.

The man nodded, but had no idea where Pickle was going with this little talk of his.

"Then take it back, for fuck's sake, before somebody else takes it."

"What are you talking about?"

Pickle looked exasperated and spoke in a passionate rant. "Those things are out there, and there're looters out there, and yer hide in a bedroom and claim yer protecting yer daughters, seriously? Yer front door was wide open; yer have a greenhouse in yer back garden with all kinds o' vegetables yer could live on—"

"I have no idea where you're going with this—"

"Grow some fucking balls, man! Yer got two daughters to think of. This house should be a fortress."

"I have no weapons, I—"

"Yes, yer have," Pickle growled. "Do you have a set of knives downstairs?"

The man nodded.

"Then yer have weapons. Yer got a hammer?"

The man nodded.

"Then yer got weapons. Yer got a wooden handled brush or mop?"

The man nodded.

"Right," Pickle sniffed. "Tape a screwdriver or a steak knife to the handle o' one o' them, and yer have a spear that could gouge out one of their eyes from five yards away. Think!" Pickle placed his forefinger to his temple and began tapping it.

The man cried, "I was just scared. My wife was killed in the first week—"

"Well, I'm sorry about yer wife, but there're two other girls that need yer now. You've got a bath full o' water in yer bathroom, that's a brilliant start, because I think that the running water is ceasing up now. So whatever yer do, don't drain it."

"Okay." The tears ran down the man's cheeks, and he shivered in fright. Like most people, he wasn't adapting to this new world. Even though he had two little girls that were relying on him, he was falling apart.

Pickle added, "I'm gonna leave now, and I'm gonna shut the door behind me. I expect yer to block off yer doors and downstairs' windows. Then yer can take yer daughters out o' that stuffy bedroom and give 'em a different change o' scenery before they lose their fucking mind." Pickle pointed his finger into the man's chest and added, "This is yer house; keep it that way."

The man wiped his tears away and accepted his reprimand. "You're right."

"Right," Pickle sighed. "I'm gonna go for a piss in yer downstairs' toilet, and then I'll be on ma way."

"Don't flush," the man pleaded. "Apart from number twos, we've been avoiding flushing in case it attracts those things."

"Well, with the lack o' water, I'm not sure that's gonna be possible anymore." Pickle turned and winked at the man. "I hope yer got plenty o' buckets."

Harry Branston then walked down the stairs and began whistling.

"Will I see you again?" the man called out.

The back of Pickle's head nodded and he responded, "I might be back later, just to check on another house or two. You and yer daughters, stay safe, ma friend."

"You too."
Chapter Thirty Six

Thirty-year-old Sharon Bailey awoke from her nap; she could feel a draught as if a window had been left open or had been broken. She could then hear them downstairs. _Fuck!_

She had no idea how they managed to get in, but they were in! She had only killed eight of them since the outbreak, but was certain she'd feel no hesitation in destroying more, if that was the only option she had.

For the last two days she had stayed in the house, fed off the scraps of food that were left, and lived on the two-litre diet coke bottles to put some kind of fluid in her body. It was now time to move on.

Even with those things loitering on the ground floor, she had a couple of options to explore. She could either jump out of the bedroom window to escape, or climb down the drainpipe of the house to reach the clear back garden. The problem with these options were that there was a high risk of injury.

If she damaged her leg, foot, ankle, or anything else, it could result in her spending her days walking through the streets with an injury—a handicap that could be detrimental to her survival.

The other option would be to peer down the stairs, wait until the front door area was ghoul-free and make a run for it, out into the street. The trouble with this option was that it was also a risky one. She had no idea why and how many of those things had crashed through the living room window. There could be just the one, but there could be many more.

She couldn't see from looking down the stairs from the landing, and being spotted was something she was trying to avoid. She had noticed that climbing wasn't their strong point, but if she was spotted and they began to group together at the bottom of the stairs, she'd have to forget about the option of running out of the front door.

She was hungry and thirsty, and didn't want to wait another day longer.

She then paused for breath and crept halfway down the stairs. She could see the curtains blowing out and shattered glass on the carpet, sitting underneath the window, and it appeared that one, or some, had forced their way through the window and had fallen in. Two other creatures were outside trying to get in, but were struggling.

She had been waiting there for long enough now, and knew that her hesitancy could be her downfall. She checked to make sure she was still carrying her cleaver; it was still there.

Seeing there was just the one ghoul in the living room, she galloped down the stairs and made a run for the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it hard. But it wasn't moving. This had alerted the lone ghoul from the living room and the female could see that the thing stumbling towards her was reaching out, and was now only yards away.

She drew her cleaver and smashed the weapon into the front of its cranium. It fell forwards, with the cleaver still embedded, and fell on top of her. She released a shriek as the they both fell together, and her consternation was doubled when she saw another two emerging from the kitchen area that she hadn't seen before.

She had very little time to get the thing off her, as well as remove the weapon from its head. The two things walked towards the panic-stricken woman and she had finally managed to get the fiend off her. As she got to her feet, she was grabbed by the first creature and she swiped at its legs, making it fall and giving her valuable seconds. She went back over to the defunct body and pulled the cleaver out with both hands. She then kicked the second one that was making its way over, and it fell as her sidekick smashed into its knees.

She went back over to the door and realised she had the lock on, which was the reason why she couldn't open it in the first place. She gave the lock a twist and shut the door behind her as she fled the house. The two ghouls in the house began to smack their hands against the door, unhappy that their 'meal' had escaped.

There was another two on the front garden, and they quickly went for her. She knew that a house in the next street was vacant, as she saw the family flee in their car, but she knew that if she didn't remove these two problems, they'd follow her and probably could potentially cause problems for other people in the area.

She pushed one of them over, which gave her time to concentrate on killing them separately. Whilst the fallen creature was now slowly crawling along the floor, she took out a knife from her back pocket and rammed it into the right temple of the other ghoul. It fell to its knees and went face down onto the concrete drive.

The other creature continued crawling towards her, as if getting to its feet was an action too hard for it to perform, and this made it easier for her to kill it. She went around it, grab its hair and pulled its head back with her left hand, and hacked at it with the cleaver until it stopped moving.

She wiped the few specks of its blood from her face and wiped both sides of the cleaver on the lawn. She then tucked it into the belt, that was holding up her green combats, and Sharon Bailey walked out of the front garden and headed for the abandoned house she had her sights set on. She constantly twisted her head from side to side and was pleased, and surprised, that no more dangers lurked around, for now.

She then looked down at the bracelet hanging off her wrist, and released a smile. But there was pain behind that smile.

*

Once the black jeep passed a place called The Ash Tree pub, Jack and Johnny reached an incline in the country road. Jack dropped a gear and was now a matter of minutes of reaching the tiny village of Armitage. The blockade could be seen up ahead, half a mile from Armitage, and Jack began to slow down.

At the left hand side of the road was The Plum Pudding pub, with the canal behind it as well as a few barges. To the right hand side was The Spode Cottage, a pub/restaurant, and further on, behind the area, was the caravan/trailer park.

The road into Armitage was blocked off by a HGV parked across the road, twenty yards in front of the two pubs, and another three cars were parked lengthways in front of the HGV. Standing on top of the HGV, all holding shotguns, were three men, and the same set-up applied fifty yards away so there was a two-way block in case they were attacked on either side.

Once Jack stopped the vehicle and turned the engine off, he slowly got out of his means of transport, but Johnny remained inside. Jack raised his hands and was impressed, but more surprised, that neither men pointed their weapons at this strange man who had appeared from nowhere.

"Hello." Jack's welcome was greeted by silence by all three men. Jack continued, "We were told that this place is pretty much the only safe haven around here. Could I ask you gentleman if you are you taking in more residents, or are you full?"

Still ignoring Jack, one of the men on the left turned to the middle man and told him, in a voice that Jack could hear, to go and get Vince.

Jack lowered his arms, realising the men had no intention of pointing their weapons at him and put his arms behind his back, patiently waiting for this Vince guy to turn up. Jack remained silent, knowing that the men on top of the HGV were not in a talkative mood—unless they were ordered not to talk to outsiders—and fortunately he didn't have to wait long for Vince to show up.

The tall man, known as Vince, stood on the HGV inbetween his three 'soldiers', and flashed Jack a welcoming smile. "Alright, mate?" was the greeting. "How's it going?"

The welcome seemed genuine and warm, and Jack was relaxed immediately. "Not too bad. I was wondering—"

"One of my guys tells me you'd like to stay here, is that correct?" Vince was straight to the point.

"Yes."

"How many of those things have you killed?"

Without pausing, Jack answered, "Too many to count."

"And what about him?" Vince pointed at Johnny, who was still sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep.

Jack sighed, "Well, I'll be honest with you. I don't think he's cut out for this kind of world."

"Who _is_?" Vince began to laugh and then nodded towards the jeep that was covered in many bodies worth of blood and other debris. "Ran into a bit of trouble, I see."

Jack nodded. "It just this minute happened, back in the town centre."

Vince's eyes narrowed with suspicion at Jack's small story. "So are you really here because you want to stay, or are you just running from someone or something, and we happened to be in your way with this road being blocked and all?"

Jack looked over his left shoulder at Johnny, and then looked back up to Vince. "We're sick of running, that's all. We want to live."

Vince climbed down the HGV with protests from one of his men. Vince told him to shut up, and swaggered over to Jack once his feet touched the floor. He stood five yards away from him and began to look him up and down.

Jack also checked out Vince. He was tall, but he had no muscle mass around his body that would worry the average guy. Vince was definitely a few years older than Jack, mid-forties, maybe, and his grey head of hair did nothing for him if he had any aspirations to look younger. His face was also in a bit of a mess, and appeared to be covered in old scars or scratches.

"You don't look much to me." Vince grinned, and looked Jack up and down once more. "You look like you could lose a fight with a three-legged dog."

Jack cackled, "I look meaner when I'm holding a crowbar. Especially the one sitting in the back of that jeep that I've used many times."

Vince liked Jack's response, but he was unsure of taking in outsiders. They had nearly forty people on the caravan site, and the more people they had, the more food and water they needed to keep the large group alive.

Said Vince, "We've turned six people away in the last few days; we don't really need anymore, my friend. Some people come here to get to Armitage, realise the road's blocked and then turn back. Others come here because it's a lot quieter than that other shambles of a blockade at Sandy Lane."

"So what's _your_ story?" asked Jack.

"Most of the people in here, like me, were living here in the first place, in the park."

"So you've accepted no outsiders?"

Vince nodded. "Some. Mainly relatives of the people that live here."

"And how'd you get those guns?"

"Inquisitive little monkey, aren't you?" laughed Vince. "Some of us used to go clay shooting before the shit hit the fan, as our American cousins say."

"Look, even if it's just for one night, can we stay?" There was pleading in Jack's voice.

Vince was lost in thought for a minute and threw his head back and began to breathe heavily. Jack thought that this was bizarre behaviour, but chose not to say anything. Vince lowered his head back down so that he was making eye contact with Jack once again. "If you wanna stay for a while, you need to prove your worth."

"How?"

"You can go on a trip tomorrow morning." Vince looked up to the sky and could see that the evening wasn't far away. "We grab supplies from places and stock them up in the Spode Cottage."

"You can't rely on looting forever."

"Don't you fucking worry, boy," Vince cussed. "We have a well, we have animals round the back, and a massive chicken-pen. But if there's food out there, we may as well take it before some other twat does."

"It seems a bit soon to already be having this kind of set-up after just three weeks, don't you think?"

"Not really. The caravan park was already here. All we did was block the roads off. It's hardly rocket science." Vince then began to titter and shook his head. "Three weeks. It feels like three months, don't you agree?"

Jack did agree. Especially the few days when he spent time in the woods, alone. They were the longest days of his life. Months? It felt like years!

"Stay in one of the caravans for the night. We're going on a run, to get more supplies. And you two look like you need some rest. They'll be a guard outside your door. No offence, but we hardly know you, and you look like the type of men that would steal old ladies' knickers and shag goats," Vince began to cackle loudly, "so I think the guard will be necessary."

"Thank you." Jack reached out to shake Vince's hand.

Vince shook Jack's hand and said, "Some caravans are empty because some folk decided to leave; one family had actually killed themselves. There are eight empty caravans out of the twenty that are here." Vince then pointed at Johnny, and beckoned him out of the jeep; he then turned to Jack. "We'll get your vehicle on the premises later. Right, let's get a drink. My mouth is drier than a nun's crutch."
Chapter Thirty Seven

June 27th

Karen wasn't feeling very well, so Pickle decided to travel on his own. Karen had been sick through the night and had put her sickness down to the water she drank before she went to bed, but she wasn't entirely sure. Pickle thought that it had something to do with the full bottle of wine she had consumed, but decided to keep his mouth shut to avoid an unnecessary argument with the twenty-three-year-old woman.

Pickle told the two worried folk that he was a 'big boy' and that he could handle whatever was thrown at him. There was a lack of medication inside the cabin, and Pickle had convinced Wolf that with cupboards of medication just sitting in abandoned houses, it'd be ridiculous not to make just one more trip.

In a last, stubborn attempt, Karen left with the forty-three-year-old to go back to the street for medical supplies. It didn't work out, as she only managed a few hundred yards before she threw up on the grass whilst they were heading for the gap in the hedge. Pickle frogmarched her back to the cabin and told her jokingly to get some rest or next time she was going to get 'bitch slapped'.

Wolf had managed to get a reluctant Karen to settle down, and the exhausted female had fallen asleep in the bedroom of the cabin.

Pickle had now gone through the hedge and was on the football field. He could see, near the edge of the field, a lone Snatcher, probably making its way to the bottom of the hill to spend the rest of its days crawling to a cabin it could never get to.

Pickle drew the machete from his belt as the thing had spotted him, and the ghoul was now picking up its pace towards the survivor. It was a pointless attempt by the beast; with one swing of Pickle's arm, the creature's head was sliced in half. The cranium from just above its eyebrows was removed and fell to the ground with most of the black diseased brain going with it. Pickle looked at the bloody machete with a little surprise. He had taken Wolf's advice and had sharpened it on a stone that sat in the corner of the garden, but he never realised it was _that_ sharp. The effort it took to remove its head was minimal.

Unruffled by what had just occurred, he entered the same street and knew for a while that this could be the last time he visited. The cabin was well stocked, and it didn't seem fair to strip more supplies from the street, considering there were other families dwelling there. He also didn't want to get too attached to the people. He knew that the more he conversed with the survivors, the more guilt would eat away at him once he left there whilst he went to his secure cabin, with its huge supply of food and water. So this was another positive of not having to go back.

He knew he couldn't save the world, but it wouldn't stop his mind being plagued with shame if he got to know some of the folk, and then had to leave them and make his way back to the comfort of the cabin. But his small group needed medication of some sort for the future, just in case, so this particular trip was vital.

He walked into a house that had its door left ajar and looked around, taking extra care round every corner he approached. This was the second house he had checked. The first house seemed to have no medical supplies at all. Pickle assumed that maybe the family took medical stuff with them before they left— _if_ they had left.

The empty houses confused him slightly. He wasn't sure that families that were missing had fled in their cars to go elsewhere, or had fled on foot at the height of the disaster, when the street was more-than-likely crawling with the ghouls. The lack of human blood on the roads and pavements in this particular street suggested that very little slaughter had took place during the start of the outbreak. People had either hidden, were killed in their homes, or moved elsewhere, either on wheels or on foot.

This time he decided not to check upstairs. He wanted to spend as little time as possible and get the hell out. He managed to find a cupboard that had painkillers, and other medications. He then crouched into the darkened kitchen and took out tins of fruit and tuna to put into his bag.

"Need a hand down there?"

The female voice startled Pickle. He spun around on his heels and stood up straight so he could get a good look at the young woman. She was dressed in green combats, a black T-shirt, and was holding a meat cleaver in her right hand that, judging by the stains on the steel, had seen action not so long ago.

"I'm sorry," Pickle spoke. "I didn't realise this was yer house. I thought it was vacant. The door was left open."

"It is ... vacant, that is. It's not my house; I'm just doing the same as you." She ruffled her short brown hair and Pickle had noticed she had the biggest and most striking blue eyes he had ever seen on a woman. Despite that her clothes had seen better days and her face and fingers were decorated in dirt, possibly some dried in blood from killing those creatures, Pickle could see that in the old world, this woman used to be a very pretty individual.

"Harry Branston," Pickle held out his hand, "but most people—"

"Call you Pickle," she interrupted with a small smile on her features. "My husband's sister was married to a guy called Branston. He had the same nickname."

"Oh. So where is..?" Pickle stopped his question in mid-sentence, but it was obvious what he was going to ask.

"My husband?" The woman sighed, but it wasn't a sigh that was filled with sorrow; it was one of those sighs that suggested impatience, as if she had already told the story a hundred times before, and now had to repeat herself again. "I found that he had turned into one of those monsters, and had eaten my seven-year-old son."

Pickle was stunned by her matter-of-fact statement and she looked cold in her facial expressions, almost as if she had shut down her emotions, or was pretty damn good at hiding them.

Without pestering the woman for any more information, he apologised to her for her loss and asked her if she had come to stay in the house.

"I was thinking about it. I was just upstairs, checking the place out." She smiled and said, "We could share, if you want."

Pickle shook his head. "That's okay. I have somewhere." Pickle then pulled out a small empty bottle and began twisting the tap of the sink to fill it up; the water was trickling out. "Not too sure what's happening at the moment with this damn water."

The woman said, "Water facilities, although automated, still depend heavily on people to operate them. When those people stop going to work or have been attacked, then the water will stop shortly thereafter. In an ideal world people would keep a twelve-volt battery-powered water pump. If the power goes out for long enough, so will your water and water pressure. The pipes in the house alone likely have many gallons. You can get water from water heaters, the chlorine can keep them fresh."

Pickle laughed, "You used to work for the water-board or something?"

"No." She shook her head, her face was blank.

His laughing ceased immediately.

She continued, "You're lucky water has been running this long."

"How do yer mean?"

"If people can't go to work to keep the facility operating, then after three days water quality starts to degrade, as the chemical tanks start to run empty after three or four days. This will not be noticed as there will still be a four or five day supply already in the reservoir. So doing some simple math: after four days the water situation is normal, but should start to degrade. After six days the reservoir is half-full of untreated water, and after eight days the reservoir is _full_ of untreated water. At this point the water will not be safe to drink, but the automatic systems will still be pumping water into the distribution system. At home all you would need to do is boil your water for it to be safe."

"The electricity's gone now, though," Pickle spoke up.

The woman added, "After fourteen days the generator stops and the system shuts down."

Pickle was lost in thought and said, "I suppose the sanitation will be a concern as well."

She nodded in agreement. "We're only in week three, but eventually people will die from unsanitary conditions. Then we'll have all kinds of diseases to look forwards to. Cholera is an excellent example of a waterborne disease that is a direct result of decomposing animal tissues in a water supply. Thirst will drive people to the nearest supply of water, then many will die on the banks and contaminate the lakes and rivers."

"How do you know all this?" Pickle asked.

"Google. I read about it in the first week."

"I never caught yer name."

"That's because I never gave you it."

Pickle cracked her a smile and waited patiently for her to introduce herself, and continued to stare at the mysterious thing.

"Sharon." She held out her hand. "But Shaz'll do."

"Okay, Shaz." Pickle looked around the kitchen and opened his arms. "It's all yours. There's plenty o' food left." He winked at the woman and walked by her with his bag hanging off of his shoulder and said, "I'll see yer around," as he left the premises.

"Maybe."
Chapter Thirty Eight

Vince had only been running the camp for just under three weeks, and already the many residents looked up to the forty-nine-year-old. The place pretty much ran itself. Vince would get his own crew to sort out the minor problems such as caravan fittings, drainage and any problems with the running water. He, on the other hand, would spend most of his time either guarding the blockade or going out on a run and getting supplies.

The residents had given him a medical list, as there were a few people who needed medication such as painkillers, asthma inhalers, and tablets for some or the elderly who had high blood pressure or angina. Vince could only get _some_ medical supplies, and although most chemists had been emptied by the end of the first week, there were still newsagents that would sell medical gear, but nothing too hardcore.

Vince had an idea to go to Stafford Hospital and see what was there. He had a feeling that it may have already been pillaged, and it could also be crawling with the Rotters. But a van full of medical supplies could keep the camp going for months and would also, and more importantly, as far as Vince was concerned, make him look good.

He knew that the longer he waited, the less chance that there would be anything there. They were doing fine at the moment, but the trip to Stafford Hospital could be an experience that would benefit them in the long-term. The only trouble with the journey to Stafford wasn't just the hospital itself, which could be littered with all kinds of dangers, but the place was eight miles there and back. This meant that the actual trip could be littered with hazards even before they got to the hospital, and a lot of petrol was going to be used up for the journey.

It was something worth thinking about, but it wasn't just the paranoia of going to the hospital that bothered Vince. He would have to leave the camp for at least a couple of hours and this meant leaving the people exposed, as it wouldn't be worth the risk going with just two people. He needed all of his blockade people and at least two pick-up vans to make the one-time trip worthwhile.

Vince only had a few people to lean on when it came to some kind of security; only a handful of shotguns were available and they were hardly top-of-the-range equipment. He needed more men; most of the residents were elderly or too scared, and they put their efforts into what they were good at in order to help the place keep running smoothly.

Security was a problem.

Vince was selective in his choice, and although a few others had volunteered, they looked nervous as hell just holding a shotgun. Vince thought it'd be better to have small numbers and people who were able to fight, rather than large numbers with men and women who could be a hindrance and a danger to the rest of the group.

He wanted Jack on board.

Jack was a man, like everyone else, that had been thrown into the deep end and had been managing to tread water so far. The trouble with Jack was that he was a good guy, _too_ good in fact. Vince wanted to see for himself what Jack was capable of.

If he wanted the camp to survive, the people out on a run had to be ruthless. He had never killed another human being to get what he wanted, as Vince tried to raid places that were already empty, but if he had no choice in the matter, he felt he could shoot another person if his back was against the wall.

Rather them than me.

*

Jack had fallen into a deep sleep, and with the comfort of being in the caravan park and having a certain amount of security around the place, he slept soundlessly. The only trouble with Jack was that his dreams were being hijacked and plagued with macabre images.

In the dream, Jack was back in the woods, walking along a dirt path. By his side was Karen, Pickle, Jade and Paul. It was as if the dream had re-written history and he had managed to catch up with the small group once he had escaped from the sports centre. The dream didn't really highlight how he had managed to catch up with them, but in the old world his dreams had always been erratic, vivid, surreal, and sometimes downright weird, and that was put down to Jack's over-indulgence of alcohol.

All five of them had been walking through the greenery for a number of minutes, and Jade had noticed that there were two ghouls to the left of them.

Jack and the rest of the group had decided to run away from this minor danger, and as they ran, Jack could feel himself slipping further and further behind the four of them. He tried to call out, but neither one was dropping back to help him. He continued with the hapless run and took a look over his shoulder to see that the two creatures had now disappeared from his view. Once he turned back round, he could feel the ground beneath him falling from his feet and he fell into a huge, manmade hole.

Filled with panic, he looked up to see that the huge square hole was ten feet in height and was a considerable length that must have taken days to create. Jack had no idea what the hell was going on, and as he looked along the dark ditch, he could see numerous bodies lying on top of one another, as if they had been killed and been dumped on top of one another, like something out of a holocaust picture.

Jack gulped and could feel his heart in his mouth. He glared hypnotically at the bodies at the end of the ditch, and his eyes widened once he saw the first one, the one on top of the pile, beginning to move.

Its limbs twitched and its head rose up, as if it was a drunk individual waking up and not having a clue where they were and how they had got there. Then it slowly and clumsily climbed off the small pile and dropped onto the bottom of the ditch. It got to its feet finally, took a curious look at Jack, and began moving towards him.

Jack squinted in the darkness and could see that it was a man called Robbie Owen moving towards him—the security guard from the Glasgow hotel Jack had woken up in. Jack then heard movement up above him and saw a grinning Pickle, Karen, Paul and Jade standing above him, watching the drama unfold.

Jack tried to call out to them to help him get out of the ditch, but his voice was lost, and this made the four individuals titter amongst themselves.

Pickle then said, "I think yer better off with this, Jackie boy." He threw the crowbar into the ditch and Jack picked it up. This was followed by manic laughter above him from all four of them.

Trying to shrug off the surreal event, he took a swing at Robbie and saw him fall with ease. He could now see a second body getting off the pile, and this one appeared to be Gary. Jack shook his head at what was coming towards him. Gary looked ashen, and his throat was slit, just like it was back in the supermarket. Again, Jack took another swipe and saw Gary's head obliterate into a bloody mess. It fell to the side and never got back up again.

Two more bodies began to stand up from the pile, and at this point, the four people who stood above him were mocking Jack, clapping and calling out his name as if he was being egged on in a boxing match: _"Ja-ckie! Ja-ckie! Ja-ckie!"_

Jack was getting tired and watched as the two things got nearer. He could only see the silhouettes of the ghouls. One was about five-five, and its shape suggested that it was/used to be female. The other was much smaller, just under four-feet in height. Once the penny dropped and Jack knew who they both were, he began to cry.

As the two creatures got nearer, a broken Jack Slade dropped the crowbar onto the floor, fell to his knees, and sobbed uncontrollably. He could feel them getting nearer, but remained on his knees with his hands around the back of his head, refusing to look at the pair of them.

As their groaning grew louder and their footsteps got nearer, Jack took a deep breath in, waiting for the indescribable pain to come once the two ghouls, that used to be Kerry Evans and Thomas Slade, began ripping him apart.

As soon as he felt the cold hands on his head, Jack Slade then woke up in the double bed.

It wasn't like waking up from a nightmare that you would see on TV or in the movies. Jack never shot up and screamed out his son's name. He never cried out and burst into tears. He simply opened his eyes quickly, looked around the caravan he had been sleeping in, and could hear his temporal pulse hammering away inside of him.

He slowly sat up and wiped away the few trickles of perspiration that were present on his forehead. He looked at a clock that sat on a set of drawers. It was a few minutes after eight in the morning. He got out of the bed, wearing just his shorts, and searched around the caravan.

But there was no Johnny. Where was Johnny?

They had both slept in the same caravan, but his saviour from a few days ago had now disappeared. Jack tried not to be too alarmed as he was aware that it could be something trivial.

Maybe he had gone for a walk, a cold wash, or just a general nosey round the place.

There was a rap at the door and Jack went over to open it. He was greeted by a smiling Vince.

"How's tricks?" asked Vince. "How did you sleep?"

"Like a drunk baby."

"Good," laughed Vince. "Get dressed and I'll show you round the place."

Jack looked confused; he turned his back on Vince and looked around the caravan with his sappy, blurry eyes. "Where's Johnny?"

"Don't worry about him. He's taking a shit in one of those portaloos."

Jack rubbed his eyes, still slightly scarred by his dream, and looked around for his clothes.

"Oh, and before you come out with me, take these." Vince handed Jack a small bottle of water, a tooth brush and a small tub of toothpaste. "That friend of yours smelt pretty bad. We don't want you walking around with bad breath as if you've just eaten out a lamb's shitter."

"Charming." Jack shook his head at Vince's choice of words, and took the toothbrush, toothpaste and water off of him. "Be two minutes."
Chapter Thirty Nine

"How you feeling?" asked Wolf.

Karen had slept more than she wanted for her nap, and was now making an appearance for the first time since the morning.

She yawned and looked around the garden. Wolf had made another small fire, and was cooking potatoes, still with their skin on. Wolf nodded towards the potatoes. "I hope Harry comes back with more butter; I have missed a baked potato."

"So have I, but I thought he was going down for medical stuff?"

Wolf nodded. "He has. Anyway, I think we'll be fine for a few weeks now. I assume that it's not so bad down there, right?"

Karen sat down and glared into the fire. She was starving and the potatoes smelt lovely. "There were a few isolated incidents, but nothing we haven't seen before." Karen brushed her greasy brown hair behind her ears and lowered her head to look at the grass by her feet.

"I suppose you're not feeling too strong with all that vomiting." Wolf smacked his lips together and ran his fingers through his grey beard in thought. He adjusted his straw hat and said, "I'm gonna go inside and get you some water; you're probably dehydrated."

Wolf returned quickly and gave her a cup of the clear stuff. Karen took the cup off of Wolf and thanked him. She held it with both hands and shivered.

"You okay?" Wolfgang Kindl looked at Karen with concern on his phizog. "You don't look so good."

"A bit of fuel for my body and I'll be fine." Karen finished the water in one, and slowly stood to her feet.

"Where're you going, young lady?"

Karen sighed, "For a walk. I need the toilet anyway."

"Yeah," Wolf's face looked apologetic, "I'm sorry I don't have any toilet facilities. This cabin was purely designed for an overnight stay at the most. I'd normally just pee in the corner of the garden when I used to come up here. I never even had running water at all until six months ago."

"You don't have to apologise for anything." Karen leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You've got nothing to apologise for. We're eternally grateful for you taking us in."

Wolf lowered his head and blushed a little. He went inside the cabin and came back out with a kitchen roll in his hand.

Karen smiled at his generosity and thoughtfulness. "Just rip one sheet off that bad boy. I only need a number one."

Wolf did exactly that and told Karen that she could do it in the garden and that he promised he wouldn't look. She refused and told him that she preferred to be out of the grounds altogether. Once she left, he put the rest of the roll back in the kitchen and sat by the fire, attending to the potatoes.

Karen was still baffled that the cabin had no sanitation, and then suddenly cursed herself for being so ungrateful. She was now feeling weak and went a bit light-headed.

She headed for the top of the hill, but it was a hell of a struggle. Once she managed to get to the top, she relieved herself on the grass. Once she had wiped herself with the sheet of kitchen roll, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she was unsure what to do with the used sheet; she wasn't used to using a sheet over the last few days of living in the woods.

She threw it on the grass and walked a few yards forwards before sitting down. The day was cloudier than what she had been used to in the last couple of days, but the temperature was still high and the climate was muggy and stifling.

Her thoughts were gloomy and this had been the weakest she had felt in ages. The last time she felt this bad was when she was nursing a hangover after Gary's birthday party. She had no idea what it was. Was it something in the air? Something she ate or drank? She had no idea, but at least the sickness had disappeared.

Just a twenty-four hour bug, she thought.

Whatever it was, she was certain that after plenty of fluid and one of Wolf's meals she'd be right as rain.

She beamed as she saw the frame of Pickle in the distance. He was making his way across the football field, then disappeared temporarily behind the hedge, and then reappeared once he walked through the gap in the hedge. He looked up the ridiculously steep hill and saw Karen sitting at the top. He waved up at her, and she waved back.

He then began walking straight up to her, instead of walking up and slightly veering left towards the cabin. She watched as he struggled to get to where she was, and she was becoming tired just watching him making his way up.

Once he was a matter of yards away, the out-of-breath man slipped off the bag and dumped it on the floor and slumped next to Karen.

"This hill's getting harder and harder to climb," he moaned, then turned his head away from Karen and spat on the grass. "Ma back's killin' me."

"That'll do for now." Karen rubbed her head and was feeling the beginning symptoms of a migraine. "Hopefully, what you've got in that bag should fill that cupboard. What goodies did you get?"

"Medical stuff and some more tins."

Karen looked up at the sky and could see the clouds had grown darker and were looking more hostile. "Looks like it's gonna piss it down."

"Good," said Pickle. "That barrel that's attached to the guttering o' the cabin needs filling anyway. I'll get some buckets out and they should be nice and full for the morning. That'll keep our paranoid host happy. I don't know why the old bugger just doesn't drink from the tap." Pickle peered at Karen, and had noticed that she wasn't listening to him. "How are _yer_ feeling now?"

Karen then stood up and stretched out her arms like someone would, once they had woken up. "Okay now. I'm gonna grab my machete and go for a wash."

"What? Where?"

"There's a stream back into the woods." Karen looked at Pickle for a reaction, but he was struggling for words.

"Don't yer wanna wait a few more days?"

Karen shook her head and said, "Wait for what? Until the flies find me repulsive? I'm starting to smell a bit."

Pickle snickered, "We're all—"

"And I'm starting to make myself sick with it."

"Yer not as bad as Wolf."

"God, have you smelt that man?" Karen placed her hand over her mouth, feeling a little guilt for slating a man that had taken them in. "He actually smells like a sewer."

"Go, by all means. But I'm coming with yer."

"Fine. I better let him know. He thinks I'm just out for a pee."

*

After dropping the bag off and telling Wolf that they were heading for the stream in the woods, Karen and Pickle took the ten-minute walk down the other side of the hill to the wooded area, and wasn't surprised that there was no other entity there. Once they had reached the bottom of the hill, where they had a conversation a few days ago before they came across the cabin, they ventured into the woodland and could hear the running stream almost immediately.

"We should really check this place out now and again for those things." Pickle turned away as Karen began to strip, and decided to talk to dilute any embarrassment that he was feeling.

"What for?" Karen said with bemusement. "When we split from Paul and Jade, we walked through these woods and didn't come across one single Snatcher. And even if the odd one did turn up through the woods and reached the bottom of the hill, they couldn't get up. We've seen them try and get up on the other side, through the gap in the hedge. They're rotting away. The atrophy should make it difficult for these things to walk properly, let alone climb the hill."

"We can barely make it up ourselves." Pickle agreed, and released a small chortle and scratched at his thin beard.

"Exactly; so stop being paranoid."

"I know _they_ probably couldn't make it up the hill, but I'm also thinking about human beings, people that could do us harm."

There was a silence from behind Pickle and all he could hear was the gentle running of the stream. It appeared that Karen had stopped washing herself, but Pickle didn't want to turn around in case he saw Karen naked. She nodded in agreement. "I think you may have a point there. I suppose it wouldn't harm to check it now and again. I mean—Fuck it!"

Pickle asked, "What?"

"I forgot a towel."

Pickle smiled and shook his head. "Bradley, I really do think yer losing yer mind."

*

He took a jug of water and dipped it into the barrel; he then added a spot of bleach and left it at the side of the sink. He knew the remainder of the hill would hurt his back and his knees, but Wolfgang made a decision, now that his guests were out of the way, to go up and visit his wife.

Even though there was no headstone as such, Pickle had made an effort to make a small cross, and even without that, it wouldn't take a genius to know where she was buried.

It was a struggle, but once the sixty-nine-year-old man reached his wife's grave, he took his hat off, wiped his brow, then sat down next to the shallow grave.

"Well, my dear," he said. "I think it's fair to say that you're in the better place, away from this ... nightmare." Wolf patted the earth that covered her and sighed, "What the hell's happening? Why now? Why is this happening now?"

He could feel the bottom of his eyes filling with water, and sniffed, "Thank goodness we don't have grandchildren. That would have made it even more heartbreaking. I hope our kids are okay, though. Even..." Wolf allowed his sentence to trail and cleared his throat.

He looked to the side of him at the grave. He wished he was in there with her. It wasn't as if his kids needed him anymore; they were grown adults. They never really needed him when they were children.

He spent most of his life working, whilst his wife stayed at home. She was always there for the kids when growing up. She took them to school; she picked them up. She sat and helped them with their homework. She made them dinner. She took them to bed, and she read them stories.

He was more of a stranger that they only really saw at the weekends, and even then, he'd be out with his pals, getting drunk.

"Damn," he blasted. "I wished I'd been a better father ... _and_ husband. This shit does really make you think."

He bent his aching legs, brought his knees up to his chest, and looked out at the view. He lowered his head and began to sob. He totally let himself go. His sobbing continued for another two minutes, and once he had managed to gather himself together, he wiped his bloodshot eyes.

Wolfgang Kindl then reached for his hat, struggled to get to his feet, and before walking away, he looked at the grave and blew it a kiss. "I love you, my darling. Always have. Always will."
Chapter Forty

Jack followed behind Vince as the tall man began to give him a tour of the place. Jack had never been to the caravan park when the world was normal, so he was pleased that Vince was showing him round. It was a small place really; there were many caravans and a manmade fence was made in a square shape where they had put three cows, and next to that was a chicken pen. Vince explained that a local farmer had asked for refuge, and Vince allowed it, especially when the widower said he would bring his stock with him.

Vince said, "Since the power went out, things have been a little more difficult, but we have diesel generators to keep things ticking along nicely."

"Did you stay here before it all happened?" asked Jack, unsure whether he had already asked him this question before.

"Yep. I've lived here for three years. Even before the announcement on the Saturday night, I knew something was wrong. With the riots and biting epidemics that were reported, it didn't take a genius to work out something was amiss, but people just chose to ignore it. Unless it's on their doorstep, people don't like facing up to major problems. It's like the guy who finds a lump in his balls and refuses to go to the doctors, hoping the problem will go away. But the problem, and the lump, doesn't go away, it just gets bigger until it's too late."

"What's your arsenal like?"

"My arsehole?" cackled Vince.

Jack shook his head at Vince's attempt at humour.

"Not good." Vince was blunt with his answer to Jack's question. "We have a couple of farmers in here, that's how we got the animals, we never stole them. We have half a dozen shotguns, but that's it. If any gang comes here, loaded to the teeth with top-of-the-range weaponry, then we're all fucked in the arse."

"That's reassuring," Jack responded with sarcasm.

"I can't see it somehow, though," Vince spoke with conviction. "We're not really a country that has an abundance of guns. Unless we get attacked by the army or a gang of ex-drug dealers, I can't really see anyone trying to force their way in."

"Vince!"

Both Vince and Jack turned around to see a young female, her right hand was holding a hunters knife.

"What is it, Claire?" asked Vince.

"We've spotted four Rotters heading towards the truck."

"Rotters?" Jack laughed. "Is that what you call them?"

"What do _you_ call them?" Vince questioned.

Jack shrugged and struggled to answer. "I don't know; a woman I briefly knew called them Snatchers."

Vince's face grimaced. "Aren't they the creatures from Harry Potter?"

"Dunno. I was more of a Lord of the Rings kind of guy."

Vince stepped towards Jack and placed both of his hands on his shoulders and said, with a smirk, "Well, my precious, it's time to prove your worth to the group. Get that Johnny friend of yours back here, and meet me at the blockade."

Vince walked away and ambled alongside Claire. It appeared that they were both heading to the main road, back to the blockade area. "Oh." Vince stopped and turned around and smiled at Jack. "You're gonna be needing that crowbar."

*

Jack and Johnny were taken to the centre of the blockade. On each side of them were vehicles blocking off the main road into Rugeley and to Armitage. The usual way to get on the other side of the barrier was to go through the cab doors of the HGV, that was parked across the road, and out the other side. Vince beckoned both men to follow him, and they climbed on top of the HGV, near where two of Vince's lookout-men stood.

Once this was achieved, Vince beamed and pointed down to the lane. The men were standing on the cab and were about twelve feet high-up from the road. They looked down and could see four of the creatures stumbling about.

Vince began to speak, "Usually when we get some strays, my guys usually take care of them, but now it's your turn, gentleman. You need to prove your worth. We already have enough females in the camp who can cook, clean and some can even fight. We don't need anymore dishwashers."

"You have women who cook and clean?" Jack laughed, and remarked sarcastically, "I applaud your twenty-first century thinking."

"I'm not being sexist, Jack, but every man knows that the best way to get a dishwasher to work is to start kissing the back of her neck." Vince chortled, and his buddies joined in with the hilarity, and he continued to snicker at his own joke.

"That's very funny," Jack said with a huge pinch of mockery. "This is just one big boy's club."

Vince held his hands up. "Seriously, we're working together, using our strengths. It just so happens most of the people that go out on a run, are men. And besides, I hate washing clothes. I'd rather take a shit in my hands and clap."

"Charming." Jack scratched at his stubble and was finding this Vince character a hard person to like.

"Jack," Johnny looked at Jack, pleadingly, "I'm not sure I can do this."

He was overheard by Vince and was told, "Well, Johnny, if you refuse, I'm kicking you both off the camp right now. And from what Jack was telling me earlier, you have a nice little horde waiting for you in the town centre. I don't take too kindly to people wasting my time, and I might even keep the jeep for the overnight sleep you got out of me."

Jack snapped at Vince, "I already told you that I've killed before."

"Then this should be a piece of piss," Vince laughed. "But I need to see for myself." Vince's voice then turned to a more serious tone. "If you bump into any of those things and freeze out there while we're getting supplies, you could cost the whole team."

Jack looked at a petrified Johnny. "It'll be okay."

Johnny grabbed onto Jack's sleeve and whispered, "But I've never killed any of these things before, you know that. We can make a run for it and make a left turn into the woods. I heard about this place on Cardboard Hill—"

"Let's just do it," Jack sighed, and was getting a little tired of Johnny's bellyaching.

Both men had managed to climb down on the other side of the barricade before the four ghouls had reached it. They were seconds away and Jack looked at a petrified Johnny.

"Here," Jack yelled, and passed Johnny his crowbar in return for Johnny's knife. "This'll be easier for you."

Like a boxer, Johnny skipped backwards in order to avoid the things, but Jack wasted no time. Three of the things used to be female and the severely bloated one wearing a dirty yellow dress, held out her arms, only for Jack to grab her left arm out of the way and drive the knife into its left eye socket. Seconds after the disgusting squishing noise, the thing fell as soon as Jack withdrew the knife.

There was no time to spare, and it appeared that Jack had drew the short straw. Not only did he only have a knife, although that was his choice, he also had to contain the other two that were approaching him, whilst the crowbar-wielding Johnny had just the one creature to destroy. _Typical!_

Jack could see Johnny take a half-hearted swing at his only attacker, and although his life could be in danger, Jack felt a little angry with Johnny. He had had it easy so far in the new world, compared to most other people, and now all he had to do was kill one of them, and he was struggling to do that!

Two of them simultaneously went for Jack and he side-stepped out of the way, fooling them both. The two were wearing casual clothes, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with their attire covered in blood—their own, and probably their victims.

Female One went for Jack; it appeared that it used to be a teenager, probably who had a boyfriend, a brother or sister, and a mum and dad. Now here was Jack Slade ramming a knife into the front of her skull.

It took a few vital seconds for Jack to remove the stubborn blade from the penetrated skull, and had to take a step back when Female Two tried to grab him and gnashed its teeth, biting thin air. He ran around the corpse of Female One and could see that Johnny was wrestling with his ghoul, and had dropped the crowbar on the floor and yelled out as they both fell to the ground.

Jack was now face-to-face with Female Two and tried to penetrate his weapon into the front of its head, but the knife practically bounced off the skull as if it were made of steel. He tried again, but this time he threw his arm as if he was throwing a right hook and the knife pierced and buried itself into the right temple of the creature. It staggered a little, like a drunk, and fell to the ground with a thump, the knife going with it.

Jack was exhausted and could hear Johnny scream out as the thing was still on top of him. Jack picked up the crowbar and dragged the monster off of Johnny. The thing was on its back, trying to get up, but Jack rained blows from the crowbar, completely obliterating the skull until its face was unrecognisable.

Out of puff, Jack turned around and could hear Vince sarcastically applauding him. "Bravo, Jack. You're gonna fit in just fine round these parts, but I fear for your friend."

Johnny was still lying on the ground and Jack tried to help him up.

"Leave him!" Vince called out.

Jack looked up at the tall, grey-haired man and shouted, "I'm not leaving him. It's both of us or neither of us."

Vince placed his hand on his heart and mockingly feigned tears. "I'm touched. I really am."

With a shotgun in his hand, he jumped down to meet Jack and began walking towards him. Vince's eyes scanned the bodies and pointed at the almost headless one that Jack had dealt with by crowbar. "That's my favourite." He then glared at Jack seriously and told him to move away from Johnny.

"What?" Jack was perplexed by his command.

"Just do it." Vince's jovial nature had disappeared, and Jack wasn't going to argue with a man carrying a loaded shotgun.

"He'll get used to it." Jack tried to defend Johnny's pathetic attempt at destroying one of those ghouls. "He'll be able to kill one of those things eventually."

"I don't think so."

Johnny was exhausted, and was now kneeling up with his head lowered and his back to Vince and Jack. Without a second of hesitation, Vince brought up the shotgun and unloaded a cartridge into the back of Johnny's head. As bloody debris was thrown forwards from the massive wound, the body of Johnny slumped to the floor, his skull, blood and brains were scattered in front.

"NO!" was all Jack could muster. Jack's eyes widened with disbelief and he kept on looking back and forth from Johnny's body to Vince. Did it really happen? Despite the nightmare rollercoaster of a ride Jack had endured, he was still able to be shocked by the barbarism this new world had to offer.

Vince explained, "Even the women have taken out some of those things, even some of the teenagers. I'm sorry about Johnny, but this is just not his world."

Jack stared at Vince in disbelief and angrily took a step forwards, but Vince reminded him by pointing the smoking gun, that he was in control, not some man holding a crowbar.

Vince then lowered the gun, told Jack to keep well back, and walked over and crouched down to Johnny's body. Vince picked up Johnny's right floppy arm, to reveal that he had been bitten in the bicep. "I'm not an animal, Jack," he explained, and released the arm. "I wouldn't shoot someone for no reason. He was fucked. His hesitation and lack of balls had cost him his life. That's the first time I've ever shot another person before. I'm sure it won't be my last."

Vince then looked up to the sky and could see that the evening was drawing in. "Get some sleep, Jack. You're going out on a run tomorrow morning." Vince then looked up to the individuals standing on top of the HGV and pointed at Johnny's body. "Burn him with the rest."
Chapter Forty One

June 28th

Pickle was the first to wake up. He yawned and stretched and had spent another night sleeping under the stars. Karen had opted for the couch this time—blaming Pickle's snoring, and Wolf was in bed as usual on the first floor. He was just starting to get used to sleeping without the tied-up Snatcher that used to be his wife a few weeks ago.

Pickle looked up to the heavens and could see that the dark clouds were threatening to soak the area. He estimated that the time was around seven am and quickly stood to his feet. He could hear the whistling of the wind as it screamed its way around the perimeter, dying to get in. Pickle's heart increased a little once the tall gate began to rattle. He knew that the area was solid, but it wasn't set in stone that those things couldn't get up the hill.

He took his machete out of the ground where he had driven it before going to sleep, and headed for the gate. He thought about telling the other two of his intentions, but decided to leave them be. Even if they did wake up and were suddenly worried where he had got to, especially Karen, that was _their_ problem. He was an adult, not a prisoner anymore, and could go anywhere he wanted. He didn't need permission.

As he left the premises, he prepared himself for the steep climb. The beginning of the steep walk was already putting a little strain on Pickle's knee joints, and he could understand, at the age of sixty-nine, why Wolf was quite happy to stay where he was, because at forty-three, Pickle could also feel the aches and pains of walking up and down the hill over the last couple of days, and _he_ regarded himself as a fit individual.

Once he reached the top, he turned around to take in the view, but before he could sit down, his eyes were attracted to something from afar. Smoke could be seen across the estate since day one when they had arrived, but this time Pickle could see, quite clearly, a house on fire in the first street, the same street they had been gathering supplies from.

He knew that their looting days were over for now, but twinges of guilt were urging the man to go down to see what was happening. He looked over to the cabin, then looked back at the estate and the street where the burning was coming from.

He thought about the families that were down there, the father and two girls that he had met the other day, and Shaz—although he was pretty certain _she_ could handle herself.

He was lost in deliberation; he tapped his fingers on the handle of the machete that was tucked into his belt, and suddenly came to a decision. He shook his head. _Sod it!_

He knew that he couldn't save the world, and his lack of selfishness could put his own life at risk, but his intrigue was strong and there were children down there. He was certain Karen would give him a lecture about going alone again, but he was pretty sure that he could get to the street, find out what was amiss, and return by the time Karen and Wolf had emerged from their sleep, as it was still early.

Pickle walked down the hill, with his machete already drawn. He then made the trip across the football field before reaching the street. There was no sign of death as such, but he knew that with the house on fire at the end of the street, it wouldn't be long before the Snatchers arrived in their numbers.

He could see a woman on her own with a bucket in her hand. She then poured the bucket down the drain at the side of the street; the metal grid had already been removed. As she poured, what looked like to Pickle, body waste down the drain, Pickle put the machete back into his belt so he didn't look threatening, and walked towards the middle-aged woman.

"How yer doin'?"

Her response was a quick nod of the head. "I've seen you about," she said. "Mainly with that young girl."

"What happened?"

"Someone stuck up for themselves," she quickly nodded over to the burning house, "and paid for it."

She wasn't really making sense to Pickle, and then suddenly he saw something that he hadn't seen in the street before. It was two Ford Focus cars, and it looked like the same vehicles that belonged to the four men, the same men that had blocked the road a few days ago, the same men that killed that poor middle-aged couple that had gave Pickle and co a ride. It was also the same four men that were responsible for Pickle and Karen splitting from Paul and Jade.

His eyes were now sharp and was aware that the men could appear outside from the houses at any time, but the trouble was that he didn't know which house they could be in. Pickle tried to rekindle the conversation with the woman before bolting, because he certainly didn't want to bump into those four men again.

"So where are they now?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, stating that she had no idea.

"Did they kill whoever was inside?"

She shook her head. "They raided the house at six this morning, beat the guy up who put up a fight, and then the man ran off with his son." She then turned to Pickle with evil eyes and snarled, "Haven't you lot taken enough from this street? Isn't there any other streets? We're barely surviving as it is."

"I'm sorry. I only took from the vacant houses; I am nothing to do with these people."

The woman seemed to have no fear in her. She seemed to have adapted quickly to the new world herself, but was still trying to act civilised. She walked away from Pickle and said, "I'm done talking to you. To me, you're all the same."

Pickle turned on his heels, ready to quickly make his way back across the football field, but a faint child's scream made him stop in his tracks. The scream was coming from the same house where the father and two girls were living.

He ran to the football field, out of the street, and decided to go the back way, in case the men left through the front door. He was no coward by any means, but Pickle was aware that he was outnumbered and when he first met these men a few days ago, one of them was carrying a shotgun, albeit an unpredictable one, and didn't want to put his life at risk unnecessarily.

Over the last few weeks he had fought his way through Stile Cop, through villages and the sports centre. He didn't want his life to end by the hands of a bunch of scumbags who he could put down quite easily if it was hand-to-hand fighting.

He was now round the back of the street and on the edge of the football field. He peered over the back garden's wall to the house, but couldn't see anything. He then decided to jump over the wall to get a closer look at what was happening. Once he did this, he passed the greenhouse and sneaked over to the back window. The blinds were closed, but he could hear voices. Another scream could be heard, then the pleading words of the father followed; then a voice of a man could be heard, telling the father to shut the fuck up.

Pickle continued to listen in, but it had suddenly gone all quiet.

Maybe they've left.

Pickle then looked behind him and wondered that if they _had_ left, why hadn't they raided the greenhouse and the vegetables that were in there, as well as the cabbages and leeks that were in the garden.

He crept to the corner of the place and suddenly saw one of the gang walking away from him, as if he had just left the house. Pickle didn't know their names but he had labelled them as Specks, Wiry, Average and Mangy. It was Wiry that seemed to be heading back to one of the cars, with a black bag full of something.

He then saw Wiry open the boot of the car. He could see that there was a gas canister in the boot, along with other equipment. Then the penny dropped. There was a caravan at the end of the street that belonged to the man that had fled, which was where they probably had stolen the canister from. Wiry walked back into the house and this time Pickle realised another member was now outside, and saw Specks walking from the other side of the street with another canister—a lot smaller—in one hand, and a camping stove in the other. Pickle breathed out a sigh; he must have missed these guys by seconds when he was talking to that woman. Specks then placed the items by the side of the car and lit up a cigarette.

The canister and stove would have been perfect for the cabin, Pickle thought. But he never bothered with the caravan on his visits because he knew at the time that the house was occupied. Because of their ruthlessness, he was convinced that these men would probably survive for a long time, and it didn't seem fair that these bastards were living a life of luxury, whilst good people were now living hand to mouth.

"Heads up!"

Pickle was startled and quickly turned around to see the butt of a shotgun hit him straight in the nose. He fell to the ground, blood pouring out, and his eyes blurred with tears of pain.

"I take it you didn't see me hiding in the greenhouse?" Mangy laughed, and spat in Pickle's face. "We saw you talking to that woman in the street, and I said to my pal: _That's that motherfucker who tried to make us look foolish the other day_. Where's the other three?" He ran his fingers through his black, greasy hair and began fixing his ponytail. "Ah, don't say you lot got lost."

"Go fuck yerself."

Mangy snickered, showing the huge gap where his two front teeth should have been, and brought the shotgun up, ready to strike again, making Pickle cower.

"Hey," a voice could be heard from above, from the bedroom window. It was Average. "Bring that piece of shit inside."
Chapter Forty Two

"How did you sleep?"

"Horizontally," was the answer from Jack to Vince's question.

Vince released a chortle and said, "Please don't tell me you're still thinking about that friend of yours."

"Er, well it did cross my mind once or twice last night when I was trying to sleep."

"Look, we've been through this before—"

"I know, I know." Jack held his hands up to stop Vince from repeating himself. "You'd think he'd be nothing but a hindrance anyway, even before he was bitten."

"You saw how he handled himself with just the one of those fuckjobs."

"I also saw his head exploding in front of me, which was a trifle worrying."

"You're a sarcastic fucker, aren't you?" Vince laughed.

"What's the punishment for sarcasm in this mental camp of yours? Castration?"

Vince had initially knocked the door and walked straight in, before engaging in conversation with his new guest. He now made himself comfortable in the caravan and sat next to Jack who was half-naked, lying under a sheet on the couch. Jack sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was still tired from the disturbed sleep he had had. It hadn't been a sleep of the normal kind; it was more like three power naps. He never slept for longer than a two-hour period, and every time he woke up, he thought of Johnny.

Asked Vince, "So are you ready?"

Jack got out of bed and glared at the man. He still had no idea how Vince had all those scratches across his face, but didn't have the energy to ask, and certainly didn't want to listen to another banal story from the forty-nine-year-old.

Jack put his screwed up T-shirt over his head and asked, "So where're we going with this ... _run_ of yours."

"Just up the road," Vince began, and started to scratch his grey hair. "You'll come with me and Claire. We've raided a couple of the pubs up the road, but there's a newsagents that hasn't been touched yet, so we're gonna try that today."

"And what if this newsagents is being occupied?"

Vince laughed, "And what're they gonna do? Beat us with sweets and cigarettes?"

Jack sat down and placed his elbows on his knees; he then rubbed his eyes with the right palm of his hands and released an exasperated sigh.

"What is it now?" Vince was growing impatient, and waited for an answer off of his ungrateful guest. "Every time I look at you, you've got a face like a smacked arse, as if someone has pissed in your porridge."

Jack finally answered, "I'm not harming people, simple as that."

"I don't give a cunt's hair what you think. You play by _my_ rules. It's all about survival of the fittest, Jackie boy. You're either with us or not. Most of the places we've been to have been empty, so stop panicking."

Jack took to his feet again and took a swig from the bottle of water that was sitting on the side of the sink. He stared into nothingness and was testing Vince's patience who was waiting for some kind of response from the new guy.

Jack looked over at Vince. "Give me five minutes."
Chapter Forty Three

"For fuck's sake, Harry!" Karen cussed.

As soon as she woke up, she made her way outside and could see that Pickle was no longer in the garden. His sleeping bag was rolled up, and it looked like there wasn't anywhere else to look, so she knew he wasn't on the grounds. She hoped that he had gone to the side of the hill to relieve himself.

She took her machete and slipped it under her belt. She could then hear the creak of the cabin door opening and saw a dishevelled-looking Wolf, standing and rubbing his hair, confused. "What's going on? Where's Harry?"

"Fuck knows," Karen said.

"Maybe he's just gone out for a pee, or..."

"I'm gonna check."

Wolf never protested and went back inside his cabin, picked his hat from the kitchen sink, went back outside and placed it on his head. He looked to the heavens and a smile broke out onto his face. "It's gonna rain. I better get the buckets ready and place them outside on the grass. Should collect a fair bit today, judging by those clouds."

"Just drink from the tap, you paranoid old fool," Karen muttered under her breath as she walked away.

Wolf continued to prattle on, but Karen wasn't really listening to him; she was more concerned about where her friend had got to. She opened the tall gate and left the premises.

She was now standing in the grass, underneath the threatening clouds that hung above her. It looked like the area was seconds away from torrential rain. She then unexpectedly threw up on the grass, a situation that lasted a minute. _Shit; not again. Where did that come from?_

As soon as she began walking around the hill, she could already feel a few specks of saltwater hitting her face. She looked to the top of the hillside, but couldn't see him. She decided to quickly walk to the peak and see if he was on the other side. She knew he wouldn't have gone back into the woods, as that would be pointless. As soon as she reached the top, she looked down and scanned all around the hill, but there was no sign of him, or any other life for that matter.

"Where the fuck are you, Pickle?"

She looked at the area of Flaxley and knew he wouldn't go in there, as it was a place he didn't know and had no importance. She then turned around and looked at the back of the Pear Tree Estate, and the street that they had acquired supplies from. It looked a little different from the back; there was now a house smouldering and it made Karen gasp.

She shook her head.

He's down there.

*

Another punch was thrown into Pickle's stomach as he remained sitting on the wooden chair in the middle of the living room, and this time he nearly fell off. He was being held by Wiry who stood behind him, holding his arms. Mangy glared at the ex-inmate and rammed his elbow into the side of Pickle's face.

"That's enough," Average snarled, and walked over to a battered and bruised Pickle. "What happened to the rest? There were four of you, and you split into two."

"Yeah," Mangy added, stroking the thick, dark beard that covered half of his face, "what happened to that dark-haired chick you were knocking about with? Give me ten minutes with her and I'd be up to my nuts in guts." He grabbed his crotch and then cleared his throat and spat on the living room carpet.

There was no response, and it appeared that their prisoner had been beaten too much to answer their questions.

Average then looked at Wiry and asked him about the family upstairs.

"It's okay," Wiry responded. "I just went up to see him. The guy promised he wouldn't cause any trouble, and told me that we could take what we want. He just didn't want us to touch his girls."

Specks was outside, filling the boot of both cars. He walked into the living room where a beaten Pickle sat and his other three companions stood, and announced, "I left the smaller gas tank and the stove on the side of the road. There ain't much room for anything else, so one of you lot will have to—"

"Just leave it there," Average snapped. "We have enough anyway. Let the residents have the tank and stove. I don't want them to think that we're _complete_ bastards," he chuckled, and Mangy joined him.

Wiry asked, "So are we ready to go?"

Average nodded.

Mangy's laughing had begun to subside and then looked at Average with a more serious tone. "So what about him?" He nodded towards Pickle.

"I don't know." Average was lost in thought and looked over to Specks. "This man kicked you in the balls," he pointed at Pickle, "and then side-kicked you in the knee, so do you want some fun before we go?"

Specks was unsure and hummed and harred.

"Go on," Mangy teased. "Be a fucking man for a change."

Specks gawped at the man in the chair. His face was bruised; his nose looked broken, and his head was lowered as if he was almost unconscious.

Mangy laughed at Specks' hesitation and shook his head and said to Average, "We're gonna have to dump this one if he doesn't get his act together soon. I've seen bigger balls on a gnat."

Specks tried to defend himself, albeit timidly. "The guy's a mess." Specks pointed at Harry Branston, whose head remained drooping as if he had fallen asleep. "I just don't see the point. The guy's unconscious anyway."

Added Mangy, "This _man_ and his friends made us look like idiots."

"Er ... well, we _did_ try and rob them," came the voice of Wiry who was still holding Pickle's arms back, stopping him from slumping to the floor. "I suppose they were just defending themselves."

"What is wrong with you bunch of pussies?" Mangy looked outraged, but Average looked to be bored of this whole episode and started to pick at his nails. He was ready to leave.

Mangy disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute later, holding a pruning tool used for gardening. He then looked at Specks and said, "Let's see how unconscious this man _really_ is, shall we?"

He opened the pruning tool and placed the little finger from Pickle's left hand, and took it off with the utensil. Pickle released a yell of pain and began to move in the chair as if he had been given an electric shock. The blood seeped onto the carpet from his wound, and Wiry was feeling queasy at what he had just witnessed.

"What'd you do that for?" Specks looked shocked.

Mangy began to cackle uncontrollably, picked up the severed little finger off the carpet, and began to tease Specks with it by dangling it in front of his face. Wiry was finding it hard to control their 'guest' who continued to writhe in the chair from the excruciating pain, and was also sickened by the unnecessary and sadistic act of violence.

Mangy could see that Wiry was struggling to control Pickle, so he picked up the shotgun that was leaning against the wall and rammed the butt of the gun into his stomach. Pickle bent over in agony and it felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs.

"There was no need for that," Specks said. "Hasn't he suffered enough?"

"Stop your bellyaching," Average spoke at last. "I've decided that we're gonna kill him anyway before we go." He then turned to Specks and asked, "So is that the cars stacked full?"

Specks nodded.

"Right." Average walked through the living room door and began to trot up the stairs, and yelled, "As soon as I've had this piss, we're going."

Now that Pickle had ceased to struggle, Wiry released his arms and Pickle immediately fell from the chair and slumped onto the carpet in a heap.

Mangy looked at Wiry and a nervous-looking Specks; he then announced, "As soon as he's down from the toilet, this little puppy," he pointed at Pickle with the butt of the weapon, "is gonna get his comeuppance."
Chapter Forty Four

The reluctant Jack Slade made the short journey to the village of Armitage, and was surprised that he hadn't seen a single one of those things during the journey. They had driven in a pick-up truck and he went along with Vince and Claire.

"Well, here we are," Vince announced.

All three stepped out onto the main road where there was the occasional detached house, but overall it had little life even before the shit had hit the fan.

"Hey, Claire," Vince called out from the other side of the van. "What do you say when we've finished up here, you can come back to my trailer and blow me off, release some of that tension I've been feeling."

Jack looked at Claire in surprise, but she immediately shook her head. She said, "He's joking. He knows I wouldn't lower myself to be with a man like him, and that I'd rather blow a horse."

"Charming," Vince joked, and then looked at Jack and gave him a wink. "I'm quite easy to get along with once people worship me."

Jack hung back whilst Vince and Claire tried the main door of the shop. Unbelievably, it was open.

Claire was the first to peer inside and pulled out a large knife from the back of her trousers. She looked back and said to Vince, "I can't believe no one has tried this shop yet."

Vince looked around the main road and sighed, "Yeah, well, I have a feeling the residents in this area are probably too fucking scared to come out. Some of them are probably fathers; should be fucking ashamed of themselves, but I suppose we're all made from different stuff." He looked at a couple of houses, their windows were still covered with drawn blinds and curtains. "If they want supplies, they need to come get them themselves. First come first served; finders keepers, and all that. I'm not Robin Hood. I'm not gonna help them. I look after number one."

Claire nodded in agreement.

Even though Jack didn't know her background, it was clear that Claire looked up to Vince. Maybe he had saved her life a week or so back. He was unsure.

Said Claire, "All this stuff is practically sitting on their doorstep and they're still too scared to come out."

"Maybe they're still inside their houses because they've turned," Jack suddenly blurted out.

Neither one responded and both entered the newsagents, beckoning Jack to follow them. Jack gripped his crowbar and did what he was told.

As soon as they entered the murky shop, Vince pulled out a torch and began searching through the establishment. A lot of the items in the shop appeared to be missing and Jack guessed that the owners of the shop were upstairs, and _had_ been since day one of the outbreak. There was plenty of alcohol and cigarettes in the place, but essential food like fruit was missing, although a few tins still remained on the shelf.

Vince pointed at the shelves and said to Jack, "Get all the tins in your bag."

Jack did what he was advised and went down the aisles and grabbed what he thought would be beneficial. He put tins of fruit, beans, tuna and soup in the bag he was carrying, filling it within minutes. He looked down the aisles and was baffled that Vince appeared to be behind the counter and was emptying the cigarette area. Claire was near a glass cabinet full of medicines and bandages, and was emptying the stuff into her own bag.

Vince turned around and saw Jack staring at him as he was putting the last packets of Benson and Hedges into his bag. He explained, "These are for the residents. We have a few smokers; it's the only pleasure they get these days."

"Seems a bit pointless, that's all," Jack spoke out. "You could've filled your bag full of tins, but you've got cigarettes instead?"

"It keeps 'em sweet. I'm not a smoker myself; I only smoke in bed, ain't that right, Claire?"

"I wouldn't know." Claire was still filling her bag, and as usual, she wasn't reacting to Vince's attempt at humour. "On your own, maybe."

Jack threw the heavy bag over his shoulder and was told by Vince to dump the bag in the back of the truck, grab another empty bag from the back, and return to the shop to steal more tins. Jack had managed to dump the heavy bag, and he quickly returned with an empty one in his right hand. As soon as he entered the shop, Vince told Jack to take the other two bags away that he and Claire had filled. Claire's was heavy, but Vince's was a lot lighter.

Again, Jack went outside to dump the bags and his eyes clocked two creatures shambling in the middle of the street, heading towards the vehicle. He put the bags in the back and looked to the left, down the road where the creatures were. He guessed that another two minutes, and they'd be near, but his consternation of their presence was very low. There was three of them, armed with weapons, so just two of these things didn't pose too much of a threat, but he thought it would be in Vince's best interests that he was still informed that danger, albeit diminutive, wasn't too far away on the outside.

As soon as Jack walked back into the shop, a voice bellowed out from behind a door, near the counter, "Leave my shop, and nobody will get hurt."

Vince and Claire immediately stopped what they were doing, and Vince burst into hysterics. Claire remained still, her face was deficient of emotion.

An Asian man walked from behind the door, holding a sword, and looked very nervous holding the thing. It was obvious it was a weapon he had never used before, and Jack was guessing that it was probably an ornament a minute ago, before the man had heard the noises in his shop.

"We're just going," Vince said casually.

"No!" the shopkeeper yelled. He walked in front of the counter and was now near Claire who refused to move. She was now in striking distance. "I saw you from outside; I want you to bring those bags back in, and leave my shop alone."

Vince nodded his head, and began rubbing his chin in thought. "You know what? You're right. What we're doing is terrible." He then pointed at the man who was shaking with the sword, and told him, "I'll be back in a minute."

Jack hadn't known Vince for long, but already knew that his niceness was fake and had gone out to the truck because he had something up his sleeve. That _something_ was a shotgun.

Vince re-entered the shop and the shopkeeper cried in fright when Vince returned with the gun in his right hand.

The man dropped his sword as a sign of submission and, in tears, tried to explain, "Look; my family are relying on the shop for survival. We haven't had any trouble until you lot showed up. Please, I have a wife and three sons upstairs, all under the age of ten."

Vince laughed, "You have a wife under the age of ten?"

"What?" The shopkeeper was now baffled and didn't understand Vince's dark sense of humour.

"Well," said Vince. "I'm very touched by your story, but—"

"It's okay," Jack interrupted, and could feel Vince's cold glare. "We've got what we wanted. Haven't we?" He looked at Claire, then his eyes went onto Vince, but he wasn't getting a reaction. "We're taking the stuff that's in our bags, but there's still plenty left. As soon as we leave, you better barricade this shop. Your door wasn't even locked."

"Really?" The shopkeeper placed his hands on his forehead, and strangely began hitting himself. He then looked back up at the gang of three and added, "I must have forgot during all the panic. This door's locked anyway, so even if they got into the shop..." He pointed at the door behind the counter that led upstairs to his home.

"Just make sure the shop's locked as well, once we're gone." Jack then pointed around the shop at the remaining food, "And get all of this shit upstairs, into your house, before someone else takes it."

The shopkeeper nodded like an obedient child. "Yes. You're right. Thank you."

Without saying a word, Vince left the shop, clearly agitated by Jack taking over the 'gig', and Claire quickly followed behind.

Jack smiled at the nervous man and raised his hand to say farewell. The man returned the gesture with a grateful nod of his head, and then Jack walked outside to be greeted by a clearly-upset Vince.

"Well, you exceeded my expectations in there, Jackie boy." Vince's words were drenched in sarcasm.

Jack tried to explain, "The man was desperate, and you said yourself, we have plenty back at the camp."

Vince said, "Why don't you put a pair of knickers on my head, because you've just made me look a right cunt."

Claire wasn't getting involved in the bickering and silently went into the passenger side of the truck. Jack looked to his left and saw that the two beings were only ten yards away from the truck. Vince sighed and pointed at them, and said to Jack, "Make yourself useful and get rid of them. They'll only follow the direction of the pick-up truck and end up at the blockade by the end of the day."

"Okay." Jack nodded in agreement and went to the back of the truck to grab his crowbar. He walked up to the two ghouls and noticed one was much quicker than the other as Jack took a step forwards. He put it down with a solitary strike and walked towards the second one, which was no older than fifteen when it was in human form and dressed in football attire. Jack hit the thing and it stumbled back. He shook his head and took another swipe, the hook-end of the crowbar embedding itself into the top of the cranium, and the ghoul dropped like a stone, its cranium spewing out liquid from its damaged head.

It frightened Jack how little it affected him putting these things down, but was convinced that this kind of cold attitude was keeping him alive. He knew these things couldn't be bargained with or felt pity for its victims. It was kill or be killed.

"As much as I would love to stay and admire the view," Vince was in the driver's seat and had his head leaning out of the opened window, "I need to get back to camp to see people, and more importantly, knock one out."

Jack never responded with words, but with the one quick nod. He walked over to the truck and jumped in the back, his crowbar still dripping with blood.
Chapter Forty Five

Karen had finally entered the street, and as soon as she saw the burning house up close, as well as the two Ford Focus cars, she took out her machete. She looked down a street to the left of her and could see seven Snatchers stumbling up the road, making their way to the lane she was now in. Were they attracted to the burning house? She wasn't sure, but they were only a hundred yards away.

She progressed closer to the cars and saw a small gas canister and a camping stove on the pavement. Perfect for the cabin, she thought. She looked around and then ogled inside the well-stocked car, then grabbed the canister and stove and put them behind the wall of a garden so nobody else could claim them.

Her eyes widened, as the sight of the two cars had suddenly brought back memories from days ago. It was the four men! But where was Pickle? With them? Had he been caught?

She knew they were somewhere, but wasn't entirely sure which house they were in.

She guessed that they were on the right hand side of the street, and crept over the other side of the road. She sneaked into a back garden and peered through a living room to find no one in there. She hopped over a fence to get to the next house, and heard a voice above her. It was a woman, and her bedroom window was opened.

"If you're lookin' for ya mate," she whispered, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, "he's at number eight. Those men 'ave got 'im. I saw everything."

Karen gave the woman a nod of thanks which she hadn't seen, because the window was immediately closed. It was obvious that the remaining residents were concerned by the presence of these men, and the woman was brave in the first instance for talking to Karen.

Karen stuck her head out from behind the house and could see number eight, as it was the house opposite to the one where _she_ was, on the other side of the road. She then saw a tall, skinny guy walking over to one of the Fords and opening the boot. The boot was well-stocked and there was a large gas canister sitting in the back.

The man turned his back on Karen, and she thought that this was the perfect opportunity to take care of one of them. Her mind was now certain that Pickle was inside with the rest of the men who had tried to kill them only a few days earlier.

She was hesitant in what to do. Her hesitancy enraged her and she cursed herself for being a coward, but this move she was planning could also put her friend's life in danger if it went pear-shaped.

Here goes!

She ran over towards the car, only twenty yards away from the man, and tried to make as little noise as possible. As she crossed the street, ready to bring down the machete's handle down on the man's head to knock him out, a shot rang out, and Karen and the tall man both ducked. It appeared that her little run had been spotted from the living room window of number eight, by the shotgun-wielding, Mangy.

He stepped out of the front garden, into the street, and with Karen knowing that there was one cartridge left, she dived to the floor once he unleashed another shot.

Her ears were assaulted by an incredible noise as the car exploded, and an incredible heat burned the back of her neck. She rolled onto her back and looked up to see a huge fireball, only fifteen yards away, touch the sky. She covered her face as light debris fell from the skies that had been catapulted up by the explosion, and she had finally managed to find some energy to move further away from the fire. Her mind was beleaguered by bewilderment and had no idea what was going on.

She looked back up to the murky sky and saw the smoke from the defunct car, almost the same colour as the threatening clouds, billow its way into the atmosphere.

Her ears were ringing and it felt like everything had turned into slow motion, as if she was in a dream. She could see that Mangy was struggling to reload the shotgun with another two cartridges, and it finally dawned on Karen that the second blast from the shotgun had penetrated the gas canister in the opened boot of the car when she dived out of the way.

Not having any time to allow this to sink in, she ran over to Mangy and drew the machete back. He dropped the shotgun in fright and Karen took a swipe at him, slicing the left side of his cheek. He fell to the floor, screaming, and before she could take another swipe, she felt hands on her shoulders. She was thrown to the floor, dropping the machete, and could see that Specks and Wiry had somehow crept up behind her. She put it down to her loss of hearing for their 'surprise' attack, and both started kicking her.

She curled herself into a ball whilst the kicks continued, and she somehow managed to grab the machete and took a few blind swings as her back was taking the unnecessary blows. Both sets of kicks stopped immediately once she heard a high-pitched scream. Her ears had been temporarily damaged from the blast, but there was no escape from hearing such awful cries.

She opened her eyes and could see an unharmed Specks jumping into the remaining Ford and driving away from the street, whereas Wiry was now on the floor, in the middle of the road, with his left arm, three inches from the elbow, hanging off and releasing more blood than Karen thought was possible. It appeared that her blind swiping had created at least one casualty.

She got to her feet and tried to shake off the high-pitched noise in her ears. She looked at Wiry and felt absolutely nothing. She then walked by him, as his screaming continued from the machete wound, and she was now standing next to Mangy who was still clutching his face, blinded by the blood that covered it. She stuck the bloodied machete into her belt and picked up the abandoned shotgun and the two cartridges off of the floor that Mangy had tried to use to reload the gun. She reloaded successfully, and knew that this weapon of choice was the correct one for the remaining assailant inside, as there was no way on earth that the screaming and the explosion hadn't been heard from him.

Karen was aware that three possible scenarios greeted her once she got inside: Pickle could be dead. The remaining assailant could have Pickle as some kind of hostage. Or, the man had already fled.

She opened the door, walked into the house, and pointed the gun in all directions as if she was a member of a SWAT team, albeit with an unreliable and old-style shotgun. She kept her eyes sharp, especially now that the ringing in her ears was still loud enough to drown out any faint noises, and walked into the living room to see a slumped man on the floor.

"Pickle?" she cried, and placed the gun on the floor. She tried to move the man over but he was too heavy. She felt for his carotid pulse, but there wasn't one, and he wasn't breathing anymore. She lowered her head and could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

With the Snatchers coming up the street, and the explosion, she knew she couldn't hang around for long. She placed her hand on the man's head and released a long, sad exhale of breath. She ran her fingers down his back and then suddenly scowled with confusion. His muscular frame had seemed to have diminished.

The living room door swung open and Harry Branston appeared with a slight limp, and a swollen face. Karen released a gasp and a laugh in unison, and placed her hand over her mouth. She looked at the slumped body, and pulled the head up by the hair to reveal the face of the dead man. It was the remaining assailant, Average.

Pickle said, "I was just checking on the family hiding upstairs. That explosion's gonna bring a bit o' bother. I think we should go; I think we've caused enough shit for the people in the street."

"You okay?" Karen was sickened at his battered and bloodied appearance. "Oh shit. Your finger!"

"I'm fine," Pickle said. "I saw everything from the living room window. As soon as that explosion happened, he," Pickle pointed at the dead body, "turned around. So I just kicked him in the side of the leg and broke his neck. Easy as pie."

Pickle looked uneasy on his feet, and Karen went to help him. Pickle shooed her away and said, "I can just about walk, leave me be." He then patted himself. "Bastards have took my machete."

"Wolf has a few more back at the cabin. Let's not waste any more time."

They both exited the front door and stepped into the pouring rain that was coming from the black, fused clouds from above. Karen had the shotgun in her right hand and Pickle could see that the fire from the car was burning away, but at least the fire from the house was starting to die.

"Fuck," Pickle said, once he saw Mangy screaming and holding his blood-drenched face. He then saw Wiry lying in the middle of the road, now unconscious, blood still pouring from his large wound and minutes away from death.

"They were kicking the shit out of me," Karen tried to explain.

"Oh, I didn't see that bit. I must have been wrestling with the living-room-guy when yer were hacking away. There's one missing."

"He got away in the car, but we've got bigger problems than that." Karen pointed at the top of the road and saw seventeen Snatchers turning into the street. "There was only seven last time I counted."

"That was before the explosion," Pickle chuckled falsely. "Come on. We can get to the football fields o'er the back garden. Just let them get nearer." Pickle looked at the wounded Mangy and the dying Wiry. "These two gentlemen might be perfect distractions for our escape."

Pickle then looked around the street, and immediately felt guilty for the arriving horde. Once he and Karen had escaped, what would happen to the residents in the street? Would these things arrive in their hundreds and end up crashing and forcing their way in through the houses like what happened in Heath Hayes? There were good people living here, children, and elderly people who had no fight in them at all, just fear.

"In fact," Pickle had changed his mind. "Forget it. Let's leave by going _out_ of the street."

"In order to do that, we need to go back to the cabin that way," Karen pointed at the horde. "Right through those cocksuckers."

"Come on, Karen. This is our fault. There's innocent people in this area. If we run through the back garden, we'll attract them to the centre o' the street."

Karen was exasperated with Pickle's charitable behaviour. "We've just saved these people from those bastard men. Isn't that enough?"

"Yeah, and brought a shit load o' Snatchers to replace them."

Karen puffed out her chest and looked at her friend with frustration. "You need to stop this Mother Teresa attitude, Pickle. You mark my words, your kindness is gonna get you killed."

"And yer mark ma words, young lady, with yer attitude yer gonna be going to hell."

"I think I'm already there."

Pickle never responded to Karen and she could see that he even seemed prepared to go this alone if need be.

"How you used to be a drug dealer, I'll never know." She brushed her brown hair behind her ears and said, "Fine. Let's not waste another fucking second."

Karen handed Pickle her machete and she held the shotgun, knowing that after just two cartridges, the butt of the gun was going to have to be the weapon to finally get them out of there.

As they got nearer to the horde, Karen made two blasts with the gun, the kickback taking her by surprise. The blasts from the gun had managed to damage three heads, and the remaining walking dead continued to stumble behind, with some of them decorated in brain debris from the ones that Karen had just killed.

An exhausted and wounded Pickle swiped one in the side of the head, almost severing it, and it fell. Karen then turned the gun around and smashed two in succession, right in the forehead, sending them to the floor. The remaining eleven almost quickened their pace and Pickle's soft and weak swipe slashed the cheek of a ghoul that was once a female.

Noticing that Pickle was weakening, Karen was like a woman possessed and smashed at anything that came near. "Give me the machete; they're circling us."

Pickle did what he was told and Karen threw the shotgun to the floor and used the last of her strength to take them out one-by-one, whilst Pickle remained behind, uneasy on his feet. Brain and skull flew through the air as Karen made swipe after swipe at whatever came near, and with just the four left, she was feeling the adrenaline wearing off and knew that there wasn't much left in her tank to keep her going.

From out of nowhere, a female with short brown hair, came out of a house and rammed a huge knife into the back of one of the heads of the things. She then drew her cleaver and smashed it into the back of the skull of another, giving it six blows as it fell in a bloody mess. The two that were left were still unaware that this new human predator was around, and continued to stumble towards Pickle and Karen.

With almost the last of her strength, Karen brought the machete down with both hands and it travelled to the centre of the skull of one of the fiends. It split the head in half, and blood flowed out as the embedded weapon had made its way down from the top of the cranium to the jaw.

The remaining one had now grabbed Karen, but she was too tired to fight it off and Pickle was in a worse state. The new female grabbed the thing by the back of the hair and threw it to the ground. She took the machete from the Snatcher that Karen had just killed, and rammed it into the skull of the one that she had just thrown to the floor; she then withdrew it once the thing stopped wriggling.

Karen looked at the small massacre around her and staggered as if she was drunk. She then looked at the girl that looked a few years older than her.

An exhausted Pickle slowly walked over to Karen and pointed at the brown-haired woman. "Karen, this is Shaz." He then pointed at Karen. "Shaz; Karen."

Both girls gave each other a single nod of the head, and Karen wondered how they had met, and guessed correctly that it must have been when Pickle had to go it alone the last time. She never asked, though. She was too tired to be standing around, listening to mundane stories that could keep. She needed to rest.

Pickle said, "Good to see yer again."

"You too." Shaz smiled, then clocked the blood on his left hand, noticing his small finger was missing. "Shit."

"It's okay. It stings a little."

"Stings? Is that all?"

"Once it's wrapped up, it'll be fine."

Karen sighed at the small talk and moaned, "Is this really necessary?" She then tugged on Pickle's T-shirt. "Come on, let's go. I need to get that hand of yours seen to, and I'll make sure you get plenty of painkillers down your neck. I don't want Wolf munching on those things like they're sweets because of his bad back."

Pickle then looked at Shaz and asked, "Yer wanna come with us?"

Shaz looked around the street. She saw the smoked-out house at the end; two men lying on the ground with blood pouring out of them, a car on fire, and a pile of dead, infected creatures around the end of the street. "I could do with a change of scenery."

Pickle noticed Shaz glaring at the damage to the street. She had changed her clothes since he had last seen her, and she looked to have had a wash as well. "It's not all our doing, yer know."

Karen nodded to the floor and said, "What about the shotgun?"

"Leave it," Pickle responded. "Too fucking loud, plus, machetes don't need reloading."

Karen walked over to the pavement and leaned over behind the wall and brought out the canister and stove. "We're taking these."

Pickle smiled and looked around the street. "Well, we survive another day, Bradley." He then looked at Shaz. Her emotions were nil; she seemed cold, and almost looked prepared and dressed for this new world that had been forced upon mankind. But every person had a story to tell. Everyone was normal three weeks ago. He even looked at Karen now, and couldn't believe this tough fucker was a soon-to-be-married nurse who used to look after peoples' needs.

The three of them staggered out of the street whilst being attacked from above by the pouring rain, and Shaz gave an injured Pickle a shoulder to lean on whilst Karen struggled with the canister and stove.

The walk across the football field was going to be hard work, but the hill was going to be even more of a struggle, especially for Pickle who had bruising to his body, a severed finger and a broken nose.

Karen took a sniff of her shirt and exclaimed, "We need fresh clothes."

"All in good time, Karen," Pickle said.

But Karen didn't want to wait.
Chapter Forty Six

Jack was sat in the caravan and was cupping his hot cup of coffee in his hand, smelling the wonderful aroma of the beverage.

He looked out of the window and saw that the day looked darker than it should have been in June. The weather was atrocious and the rain lashed down hard. He had left his new watch in the bathroom, given to him by Vince, and guessed that it was about five in the evening, but it seemed a lot later.

He remained sitting alone, cup in hand, dressed in just a blue dressing gown that he had found hanging on the bedroom door. He took a slurp and felt great after a shave and a warm shower.

He wasn't sure of Vince, and he thought the whole caravan set-up seemed a bit weird, and a little quick, considering the virus had only been officially announced just under three weeks ago. It seemed that some people were happy to hide, others had no choice but to be on the move, whilst a small few were totally organised, as if they knew or were aware that this thing was already coming.

But he knew that Vince wasn't a one-off; there were others like him, and that was proved when Jack had passed the Globe Island to see that Sandy Lane had been closed off. It looked that people had decided to block it off themselves and take matters into their own hands, considering there was no help from the government, if there was still one left.

To a lesser degree, the ill-fated stay at the village hall was a kind of sanctuary or a camp for folk, which included small looting from Paul Parker and a trip to the supermarket that ended in disaster, especially for Gary. But back then it was looting places that were already vacant. It was proving with Vince's trip that people were now robbing from one another, and Jack wondered that if he hadn't have been present at the newsagents, Vince could quite easily have gunned down the shopkeeper, whether he had a family upstairs or not. That was going to be the future; Jack was convinced of it. The brutality of man-against-man was going to grow worse as time ticked by.

He was aware that being in such a camp with mercenaries like Vince was a recipe for a good living, but Jack was still uncomfortable about taking from other people on the outside, especially family-people who were still too scared to venture outdoors. It seemed wrong. And Jack wasn't ashamed to admit that.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Jack asked who was it.

"It's Claire," a female voice came from outside.

"Come in."

Claire walked in with a black waterproof jacket on, the hood completely covering her face.

"Raining, is it?" Jack's tiredness made his banter a little below par, but he made an attempt at humour anyway.

"Just a tad." Claire took off the waterproof jacket and hung it over a chair, and sat down, opposite Jack. She gave him a smile, and he immediately responded back.

He had never noticed before, but he thought she was quite attractive. She never turned his head at first, and maybe he thought that it was simply because he hadn't been sexually active for a while. He kind of guessed that not many people _were_ sexually active, as they had had more pressing matters, but this was the first time in a long time that Jack had looked at a member of the opposite sex and generally fancied them.

Claire sighed, "About what happened back at the newsagents."

"Ah," Jack said sceptically. "Has Vince sent you round to try and win me over?"

Claire looked at Jack blankly and shook her head.

He believed her straight away. Said Jack, "Then what is it?"

"I know what you think we're doing is wrong, but in the long-term, if you stay with us, you'll have a good life."

"For how long?"

Claire gaped at Jack as if he had just pissed her off and didn't like his negative tone. "How do you mean?"

"Look, once this thing is another month or so old, this camp isn't gonna last long. There're others out there just like Vince, possibly a lot more brutal. And there will be many other groups getting formed as a means of protection."

"What's your point?"

"I'm just saying, that when supplies run out, camps will start attacking other camps to survive. I know you think Vince is some kind of tough hotshot, but there's tougher out there. And believe me, I've met some of them, briefly. I mean, what did he do before this happened?"

Claire shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. He doesn't really talk about his life."

"I just worry that it's going to be a bad ending for all of us eventually."

"But hasn't that always been the case, even before all this? Whatever success you become during life, the final outcome will always be death."

Jack glared at Claire and managed a smile. "You should do stand-up, you know. You're a cheery cow."

"That's a fact, Jack. You, on the other hand, are the negative one. Stay with us."

Jack gave Claire a confused look.

Continued Claire, "I can see you're having second thoughts being here. I'd like you to stay. Even give it a few months."

Jack was lost in thought and asked, "Why does Vince want me to stay? Is it because of what he saw when I put those things down? You had three men with a couple of shotguns standing by a blockade; I've got a feeling that you're a bit low on numbers in the old soldier department, am I right?"

Claire never answered him; she just glared, waiting for him to get his theory off his chest.

Jack added, "I might have pissed Vince off back at the newsagents, but he can see I have no hesitation in putting those things down."

Claire finally spoke out and cleared her throat before doing so. "So what are you saying? Vince is trying to gather some kind of army together?"

"I'm just saying that Vince may have already thought about my camp-fighting-camp theory, and is preparing himself for something that may or may not happen in the near future." Jack stood up to pour more hot water into his coffee and remained standing in the kitchen. "You see, these ... runs, these trips outdoors that he goes on, are they really for food and gas?"

Claire nodded.

"You seem to have more than the average person, as far as water and animals are concerned, and then there's the huge vegetable patch. I think you lot will do just fine. But maybe he's out there to recruit as well. If that shopkeeper was alone, he could have been recruited and on this camp right now, standing by the blockade, holding that stupid sword of his."

"I don't understand."

"Think about it, the camp's only weeks old. I think Vince is out there in hope to come across a house with a tormented and disgruntled man who has just lost his family, because it's obvious the rest of the residents on this camp don't have it in them. Vince then asks the father to join the camp; the father agrees, as he's attracted to the idea of food and water, and is thrown into a situation that me and Johnny was in, proving to Vince if they would be worthy and useful to him."

Claire shook her head, mocking his theory. "Vince is quite picky who he chooses. He wouldn't just pick _anybody_. Most of the people on here are too old to fight anyway."

"So I'm right?"

She giggled and this was the first time Jack had seen and heard her laugh, and he grinned back at the fact that something as simple as a giggle could enhance one's attractiveness.

Claire stood to her feet, and said with sincerity, "I was checking to see if you were okay, that's all."

Feeling twangs of guilt, Jack walked over and gave her an apologetic look. "I've been through a lot in the last few weeks," Jack confessed, and placed his hand on her shoulder as a way of apologising. "So I'm a little messed up at the moment."

Claire leaned forwards and kissed Jack on the lips, and he responded. He quickly broke away from the passionate embrace and gaped at Claire suspiciously. "Did he tell you to do that as well?"

There was hardly a response from Claire. She should have been insulted, but instead, she kept her emotions in check. "No," she said calmly. "I kissed you because I wanted to." She then put her waterproof jacket back on and left Jack's caravan, leaving the door wide open, signifying to Jack that she wasn't entirely happy with his paranoid outburst.

Jack shut the door to stop more rain getting in and soaking the carpet, and looked around where he was staying. It had been the most comfortable he had been since his stay in the Glasgow hotel, but to remain this comfortable and to have an abundance of food made him feel guilty, especially now that he knew that the leader of this camp was happy to be living in a comfortable way due to the stripping of others.

Overall, Jack didn't like Vince. He thought that he was out for himself, and being a part of the camp was some kind of power-trip for the man.

Jack had made a moral decision.

He wanted nothing to do with the camp.

He wanted to leave.
Chapter Forty Seven

By the time they had reached the cabin it had stopped raining; Pickle had collapsed against the outside of the fence, and Karen wasn't very far away from passing out either. They rattled and shouted over the closed gate for Wolf to open it. Once he did, he helped Karen move Pickle onto the sofa and never asked about the presence of Shaz, he just greeted her with a warm smile.

Wolf was trying to fuss around Pickle, but all he was doing was getting in the way.

"What happened to him?" asked Wolf.

"We ran into a bit of trouble in the street." Karen pointed towards the kitchen. "Fetch me a tea-towel, and get me some of those painkillers in the drawer."

Wolf did what he was told, and also brought in a glass of water for Pickle to swallow the pills. Once Pickle swallowed the painkillers, he winced once Karen ripped the tea-towel and began wrapping it around the stump where his little finger used to be on his left hand. Pickle grimaced again and put his right fist into his mouth and bit on it as she was finishing off.

"This is all I can do," Karen said apologetically. "The loss of blood isn't that great with this kind of injury. You really need microsurgery, but you'll be amazed how the body can repair itself over a period of time."

Pickle managed a joke and said, "You mean the finger will grow back?"

"No, fucktard. But it _will_ heal, eventually." Karen then placed her hands on his body and shook her head. "Possible broken ribs. In the old days they used binding, but it's bollocks. Just don't bang into anything. Your nose is also broken. We'll just keep your blood-flow under control, and your nose should be okay over a period of time."

Feeling useless, Wolf announced to Karen that he was going to check on the new guest. Karen nodded without looking at the elderly man.

Shaz sat on the damp grass and welcomed the rest; Wolf had appeared from inside the cabin and then sat his weary body next to her.

Shaz was unaware of what to do next.

"Wolfgang Kindl." Wolf held out his hand.

Shaz shook it, "But people call you Wolf?"

"Most of the time," he cackled, and shuffled his backside on the grass of the garden to get comfortable. "You?"

"Sharon. I usually get called Shaz." She gawped at the old man and felt a little uncomfortable sitting next to him. She wondered the last time he had washed or even changed his clothes, as the smell coming from him was horrendous. Shaz added, "I hope you don't mind me being here. I won't stay long."

"You're welcome to stay for as long as it takes." He patted her knee affectionately like her Granddad used to before the lung cancer took him.

Wolf released a long sigh and moved his head from side to side. "Harry's in a right state. What kind of barbarians would do that to somebody, to cut his finger off."

"I think they had a run-in a few days before."

"Still, it doesn't excuse it." Wolf was almost in tears, and Shaz took a look at the old man and thought that his nickname was a little misleading.

With a name like Wolf, Shaz was expecting someone with a bit more bite to them, rather than a smelly old man who apparently had an old shotgun hiding in the cabin. Although Shaz was grateful for being allowed to stay, she did harshly think that Wolf having the three of them staying in the cabin area would be good security for the old man.

She thought: Was he taking her in as an act of kindness? Or, was he allowing people to stay as a way of him remaining safe in such a dire world?

"You like tea?" asked Wolf.

Sharon nodded.

"Good." Wolf then slowly stood up and made a moan as his knees cracked. He then bent his back and walked towards the cabin and picked up the stove and canister. "I can make you some whenever I want with this, and not wait until I've got a fire on. Takes ages anyway with a fire."

"How's your water system?"

Wolf nodded. "Not bad. I've also put some buckets out to catch rainwater. And I've got that barrel over there. Put a spot of bleach in and Bob's your uncle."

"Your sink not working?"

"Yeah, but I prefer to use rainwater first for drinking before having to use the tap. I have no idea what state the stream is in. But now we have a stove, I can use the sink to my heart's content, now I can boil the water."

"Probably best to collect as much rain water as you can. If your running water goes tits up..."

"I know."

Wolf disappeared inside and Shaz could hear him asking Karen if she wanted a tea or coffee.

Shaz lay back on the wet grass and placed her hands behind her head to look up to the murky sky. Her mind thought back to the last three weeks of her life.

She could feel her eyes getting heavy and tiredness making its way through her shattered body. Her blue eyes suddenly widened once she felt a little drizzle of saltwater on her face. It was trying to rain again.

She rubbed her face and went back to the position she was in before. The occasional drizzle could be felt on her countenance, but this time the tiredness was too powerful to be ignored.
Chapter Forty Eight

Claire sat in the caravan and put her head into her hands. She then threw her head back and rested it on the couch, her neck completely exposed. She was lost in thought and began thinking about that first weekend when she woke up in her caravan to see the news on the Sunday morning.

She spent most of her time ringing her family members and friends. She found out that some had no idea what was happening, but some mentioned that some of these things were trying to get into their house. She lost contact a few days after, and since then she had never felt so alone.

Claire's ex-boyfriend made contact to see how she was, but never heard from him after she replied back. She was frightened, and spent most of her time stuck in the caravan, hoping that those things didn't appear on the caravan park. As soon as the breaking news was announced on SKY that two members of the Royal Family had been reportedly shot by security, there was a rap at the door.

Claire stood up, petrified. She peered through her window and saw a guy called Vince with two other guys, standing outside her place.

She finally opened the door and was informed by Vince that he was going round each caravan to see how people were, and then they were going to block off the road to stop any 'Rotters' from getting on the camp. The two men behind Vince were carrying shotguns and were local farmers. Vince asked Claire if she wanted to tag along, and for some reason she said yes.

There were many macabre scenes to be witnessed whilst she tagged along with Vince and the boys, when checking on the remaining residents. One caravan had been found with the residents inside, dead. They had committed suicide. Inside the caravan was an elderly couple that had taken an overdose and had died in their sleep, the pair of them were found in their pyjamas, holding hands.

The very last caravan was approached and they could all see that there was blood smeared on the inside of the windows. They advanced towards the caravan with more caution, and as soon as the door was kicked open, three deceased beings stumbled after them, fell down the steps and landed on the grass.

The three were originally a mother and her two teenage boys. All had turned, and no one could fathom how it had happened.

Because of the announcement from the TV, they knew exactly how to deal with the infected, but it was easier said than done.

Both men carrying guns hesitated, but Vince brought his up straight away and put a cartridge into the head of the mother that was already face down on the floor. The head was obliterated and he took out one of the boys with another head shot. Whilst Vince began to reload, he told one of the men to finish off the other boy, but both men hesitated. Claire took one of the shotguns off one of the men and stepped forwards. She aimed, then fired.

This experience had affected Claire and the afternoon was spent burying the deceased, once the infected caravan had been dealt with. When she got back to her own place, she threw up, and had a lie down.

Vince had later knocked her door, told her that he had blocked the road, and that he had an idea to turn the caravan park into a secure camp. He then asked her if she wanted to be involved with runs and guarding the blockade. He must have been impressed with her lack of hesitation, and she said yes to his proposal.

Her reminiscing came to an end once the tears began to form in her eyes. And just like every evening, she cried.

*

In the light rain, Jack had taken a walk around the camp and had bumped into a resident that was walking back. The resident said hello and made a weak attempt at humour, commenting on the rain being good for ducks.

Beaten by the rain, he went back to his temporary accommodation and took the waterproof jacket off. It had been a while since he had heard from Vince and thought that the man was either busy out on another run, or guarding the roadblock that he had created before he had taken complete control of the site.

Jack searched through the cupboards and pulled out a large glass. He then continued with the searching and noticed a bottle of diluting orange juice. He smirked, and welcomed the break from drinking tea and coffee; his tongue was getting coated with the amount of hot beverages he had consumed. He couldn't really complain because when Johnny had found him, outside the factory, he was almost dying from dehydration. Now he had his pick of drinks, but was still adamant on leaving the place.

He stood motionless and thought of Johnny. _Poor bastard_. The trouble with Johnny was that he had no fight in him, and probably would have become a meal for those things eventually. But what Jack didn't like, and still felt anger towards Vince for this, was being forced in that situation where they had to 'prove their worth' by killing those things, like some kind of horror-initiation test. Unfortunately for Johnny, he had failed that test miserably. He had a crowbar and only one of those things to kill, and he still got bitten!

The diluting juice was put on hold once he came across a bottle of South African Shiraz. He pulled out the red wine and, with it being a screw-top, he unscrewed the bottle and poured the delightful red stuff into the glass, almost filling it. He put on the radio and despite only picking up a French station, he left it on and went over to the couch with his glass full of wine.

It had been nearly three weeks since he had touched alcohol. He tried to remember the last time he drank the hard stuff, and his face filled with wretchedness when he realised that it was when he had too much whisky when he was with Gary in Jemma Marlow's house, when he was looking for Kerry and Thomas.

All four of those people that Jack had just thought of had all perished.

His throat had become hard with emotion but his eyes were dry. He took another gulp of wine and noticed that the bottle looked like it was nearly done. It appeared that there was only a third of the bottle left.

"Fuck it!"

Jack took another over-generous gulp as he walked over to the bottle, and poured the rest into the half-full glass, filling it once again. He then made a soused smile and thought about Karen, Pickle, Paul and Jade. He wondered how their woods adventure had panned out, and hoped that they were okay. Members of the people in the village hall also entered his mind, and he mainly thought about the demise of Oliver and Lee at the sports centre. "Poor bastards."

There was a rap at the door that almost made Jack spill his drink. Before he could ask who it was, Vince walked in and immediately made a disapproving look at his guest.

"What are you looking at?" Jack was clearly drunk and Vince walked over to take the glass away from him. There was a little struggle and the red wine went all over Vince's clothes.

Vince grabbed Jack by his shirt and snarled, "I was gonna ask you to go out on a trip as we need diesel for the generators, but you've obviously got other plans."

Jack took an awkward step forwards and slurred, "I'm going on no trip with you, _Vince_."

Vince smiled and looked at Jack. He looked like a broken man. "What's your problem, Jack? We give you a roof over your head and you're still feeling sorry for yourself. We've all lost people we love. I have a sister in Ireland, and a mother somewhere. When the outbreak happened, I went to the house, but my mother and father weren't there."

"Where were they?"

"My father has a little place somewhere; they're probably hiding up there. Or dead."

Jack scowled at Vince and told him, "You winced when you mentioned your father's name."

Vince snickered, "That's because the piece of shit used to beat the crap out of me. I don't give a toss about him."

"Yeah, well. I still don't like you," Jack blurted out, taking Vince by surprise. He remained standing on his unsteady feet; he staggered towards Vince, and poked his forefinger into Vince's chest. "This whole ... camp thing is a power trip for you, ain't it? People are looking up to you, asking: _What do we do now, Vince? Oh great one_. Ain't that right?"

Vince released an impatient sigh. He was convinced that having Jack on board was something the camp would benefit from, but he was proving, in the short time he'd been there, to be a little unpredictable. Vince eventually answered Jack's query and announced, "Someone has to take control."

"I know why you're in charge; it's because you were a nobody in the old world, ain't that right, Vince? It's like bullies. When you're out on the town, having a drink, it's very rare you see a lawyer or a doctor eyeballing people and starting fights, you know why?"

Vince tried to remain patient and humoured his drunken guest, "No, Jack, I don't. But I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Because they already have respect in the workplace. People who don't have respect in the workplace are the ones that end up in fights. They can't get respect in the workplace, so they try and get it outside by using another method."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Vince began to laugh. "How many bottles of that wine did you drink?"

"What did you used to do for a living?"

"None of your business," snapped Vince.

"Tell me."

Vince threw his arms in the air, and decided to play Jack's game, although he didn't know where he was going with it. "Okay, I used to drive a forklift truck."

"And now this has all happened, you have a second chance to make something of yourself, rather than just a minimum-wage fork lift driver who used to take orders off of some fat foreman you probably detested."

"You're a cock, Jack."

"Yeah, well, I'm leaving this messed up place."

There was a silence that covered the two men, and although he was trying to hide his disappointment, an exasperated Vince said, "Good. Pack your things and leave."

"Hit a nerve, did I?"

Vince never answered. He just glared.

Laughed Jack, "I'm going anyway."

"But you can leave the jeep." Vince's announcement was delivered with a devilish smirk. "I'm taking the jeep from you for wasting my time."

"Are you now?"

"Yes."

"So you're throwing my arse out of here, with no wheels?"

Vince's smirk remained on his face. Despite no verbal response to Jack's question, or any kind of head gesture, Vince's continuous glaring and smirk suggested that his intention was to leave Jack in limbo.

Jack added, "Then I'll make sure I bring those things back here. All I have to do is get their attention and watch them follow me all the way back to the blockade, possibly in their hundreds. And they'll never go away; you know that. How's a couple of old shotguns gonna cope with that? Eh?"

"You'd be ripped to pieces eventually."

Jack nodded. "And your camp will be constantly surrounded by the dead. And they would never go away; they'd just grow in numbers, like pins to a magnet. I've seen it for myself."

"You hated stealing off of that shopkeeper, yet you're quite happy to put peoples' lives in danger because you were denied your vehicle? You don't realise that I could have you killed in here right now, and nobody would give a fuck."

"So why don't you?"

Vince couldn't give Jack an answer.

"It's because you're bluffing. You like me, don't you? And the whole _I'm taking the jeep_ is to keep me here. Why?"

Again, Vince couldn't give him an answer.

"I'm leaving _with_ the jeep. Don't make me do anything stupid."

Vince looked at Jack's eyes. He was drunk, but he meant every word he said.

Said Vince, "I'm not the arrogant, ego-maniac you think I am, Jack. I'm sorry you're paranoid and you don't like me. And I'm sorry you think I'm only here to feather my own nest and would leave these people in the shit if the going gets tough. I'm here for the long haul. For better or worse."

Vince put his hand in his back pocket, and Jack gulped and sobered a little when he thought that Vince was going to produce a handgun or a knife. Vince pulled out a set of car keys and handed Jack the keys to the jeep. "You can leave in an hour. Get yourself sobered up. Me and Claire are going out." Vince then headed for the door, and then turned back round as if there was something else he needed to say. "Try not to drive over any mines, fuckwit."
Chapter Forty Nine

"Just the two of us?" asked Claire.

Vince nodded and jumped in the pick-up truck. Claire noticed that he was in a foul mood and wondered if it had anything to do with Jack, as she knew he had gone to visit him in one of the spare caravans.

She refrained from asking him what was wrong, and sat in the passenger seat in silence. She didn't even ask him where they were going. She assumed it was the same as ever. There was a pub called The Lodge a mile up the road, and she guessed that that was where they were going. She guessed right.

As soon as Vince pulled up outside the pub, they both stepped out of the vehicle and gazed around the vacant street. One solitary body lay twenty yards away from them on the pavement, and neither one was sure whether it was a person that had been killed, or it was a reanimated being that had been destroyed.

They both took a look at the entrance of the inn and Vince finally spoke. "Just take what we need. You try the kitchens; I'll try the living arrangements upstairs."

"Okay."

Vince tried the door. It opened with ease. This gave them the indication that whoever used to run the establishment, wasn't there anymore.

Claire took out a hunters knife from her back pocket, she wasn't entirely comfortable with a gun, and they both entered the place and skulked around the dark part of the lounge area. It appeared to be vacant. Claire took the sports bag off of her back and went into the kitchen.

Vince opened a door that led upstairs. He thought about calling out, but instead he crept up the carpeted stairs making no noise whatsoever. As soon as he reached the top, he looked across the landing and could see that there were four closed doors. He guessed that two were bedrooms, one led to a kitchen, and the other door led to a living room.

He approached the nearest door and placed his ear against it. Not a sound could be heard. He pulled down the handle and slowly opened it. It was a bedroom, but it looked like it didn't belong to anyone. It had no character to it, and Vince guessed that it was a spare room. The owners of the pub had either kids that had grown up and flown the nest, or, they were a childless couple.

He left the room, still being quiet, and went for the next door. This room appeared to be the main bedroom. It was a typical room with a double bed, a set of drawers, a cupboard, and a dressing table with a mirror.

He checked the cupboards and it seemed that one was only half-empty. It looked like that the male had taken his clothes and fled the place, but the female hadn't. Why?

Vince took out a couple of black bin liners out of his pocket and began filling up the bags with the clothes that were left in the cupboards, as well as male and female underwear from the drawers. Once he filled the two bags, he went to the top of the stairs and threw them down, then went back to check out the other two rooms.

The kitchen was small, poky, and he could smell a repugnant smell coming from the now defunct fridge, as if the food inside was rotting. He couldn't get out of the place quick enough and decided to try the final door before going downstairs and giving Claire a hand.

He placed his ear against the door; he was greeted with complete silence. The whole pub was silent. Even Claire was making little noise downstairs.

He pulled down the handle and slowly pushed the door, allowing it to swing fully open. His nose was greeted with a dreadful smell, and he should have turned on his heels and walked away, but his intrigue was too strong for him to do that. He kept the living room door open. The room was drenched in darkness; the curtains were closed, and the stench grew so bad that he lifted his shirt up over his nose in order not to breathe in any more fumes from whatever was giving off the smell.

Vince stepped further inside and gasped a little when he saw a lone figure, standing in the corner of the room. It reminded him of the end of a scary film from years back called The Blair Witch Project.

It never moved, and Vince peered around the couch to see the carcass of a body of an animal, which clearly used to be a German Shepherd, as the head was still present. Vince should have walked away, but with the ghoul's back towards him, he turned his shotgun round, ran at the creature and smacked the back of its head with the butt of the gun.

Its head squished against the wall and its body dropped like a stone. He looked at its face in the darkness and could just about make out that it used to be a female. The lady of the pub, perhaps.

It explained why only the clothes in the male's cupboard was taken. Maybe she was the wife, became infected, and he then locked her in and decided to leave. But the dead dog didn't make sense. Why didn't the man take the dog with him? A dog would run through fire for its master; surely he could have saved his pet.

Vincent sighed and went downstairs to see how Claire was getting on.

*

Something had stirred the woman, but she had no idea what it was. She rolled over to her side and could see the time on her iPod station telling her that it was 3:14am. She was confused for a few seconds why she wasn't in her bed, and then realised why she was sleeping on the leather sofa.

There was only ever one reason why she slept downstairs on the leather sofa, and that was on Saturday nights/Sunday mornings, without fail. Every time her husband drank beer on a Saturday night, he would snore like a hog with asthma.

Sometimes she would go to bed before him so she could sleep before he made his way upstairs, but his snoring was sometimes so loud, especially if he was lying on his back, it would wake her up anyway once they were sleeping together.

They both worked all week and their treat at the end of the week would be a Chinese takeaway. She would always have the Kung Po Chicken, whereas he would mainly have a Beef Curry. This was then followed by her husband going into the living room to watch the football.

Her husband was a mad Liverpool fan and would watch Match of the Day every Saturday night, right through to midnight. During the ninety minutes of watching his favourite football programme, he would traditionally drink his six bottles of Perlenbacher beers, his favourite. These beers were the result of her sleeping on the couch. He always snored heavily with a few beers inside him. She didn't know why she just didn't stay up, wait for him to go to bed, and then sleep on the couch.

It had been a story she had moaned about for years whenever she used to catch up with her close pals. Her friends would argue that the soused individual should sleep on the couch himself, whilst _she_ remained in her bedroom.

That would happen on the odd occasion, but sometimes he'd be so forgetful with the alcohol that he would automatically stumble upstairs to bed anyway, where only a crane could move him once he was in his soused, comatosed state.

On this particular early morning, she had lasted well. She sometimes usually went downstairs to the couch before one or two am, but had lasted till three.

She sighed as usual, grabbed her dressing gown, and left her partner. She then looked in on her seven-year-old boy who was dead to the world, with his Phineas and Ferb quilt covering most of his body. He was sleeping like an angel as usual, legs wrapped around the quilt, lips puffed out, and snoring slightly with the mild cold he had picked up from primary school.

She then crept downstairs, turned off the fish tank in the kitchen, because the noise from the water filter drove her nuts when she was on the couch, and went into the living room that was situated below her own bedroom. She then pulled out a brown blanket from inside the leather footrest and threw it on the couch.

Then it was time to sleep.

But as soon as she got herself prepared for a night on the sofa, she was disturbed once again. _For fuck's sake!_ This time, in the early hours of the Sunday morning on June 10th, she could hear a stumbling coming from upstairs. She shook her head, thinking that her husband was getting up for a pee, and was still drunk.

Before they were married, he had got so drunk before that he walked into a cupboard, had a pee, then walked out of the cupboard and went back to bed. On another occasion when they visited her mother's, they both went out and she woke up to find her future husband, sitting on her mother's stairs, naked, and peeing all over them. He was completely oblivious to what he was doing, and at two in the morning, she had to use towels to soak up the wetness, use lots of spray, and had to put the towels in the outside bin.

She crept upstairs, and was hoping that she could catch her husband before he made a serious faux pas. But he only had six bottles of beer, she told herself. It wasn't as if he had gone out with the lads on an all-day bender.

She then thought, maybe it was her son, Spencer, that had got out of bed.

She reached the landing and suddenly stopped on the edge of the last step of the stairs. Her body refused to go any further, and she couldn't understand why.

She could hear, coming from her seven-year-old's bedroom, a slopping noise. It was a weird predicament. She was supposed to be his mother, somebody that would do anything for her child, but her legs were refusing to move.

She finally called out, "Spencer. Baby, is that you?"

The slopping had stopped, and she could now hear shuffling noises coming from the room.

"Honey?"

The landing was in complete darkness, and a silhouette of a tall man slowly shambled out of her son's opened bedroom.

"James? What were you doing?"

She received no answer from her husband.

Oh God, you didn't pee in Spencer's room, did you?

She reached for the light switch. Once she had found it, she flicked it to see the landing fill with light. Her eyes were blinded for a few seconds, but once they could see properly, she released a terrifying scream.

Her husband was naked, covered in contusions and was littered with blue veins, as if he was ill, or ... dead. Around his mouth was blood, fresh blood. And whatever he had taken a chunk out of, he was still slowly chewing.

"Spencer!"

*

Shaz woke with a startle, and crouching over her was Karen. Although it had been a dream, what she had dreamt about had really happened just over two weeks ago, and this had been the seventh time she had to re-live the nightmare once again.

"Sorry for waking you. Bad dream?" asked Karen.

Shaz nodded. "You could say that." Shaz slowly sat up and began to rub her eyes. "What is it?"

"I want you to come with me before it gets dark," Karen said. "Pickle's asleep. Wolf's snoozing in the living room."

"Where?"

"Back to the street; we need fresh clothes. We all do."

"I..."

"This is the last time, I swear. Then we stay up here for as long as we can." Karen spoke with conviction.

"But after what happened with those guys—"

"Don't worry. They're gone; we'll be straight in and out. Pickle and Wolf may want to smell like shit, but I need new gear."

Shaz sighed, "Okay. Give me a minute."
Chapter Fifty

The truck slowly reversed back, giving the jeep just about enough room to squeeze through the gap that had been left. Once Jack had drove through the opening, he put his foot down and never looked back. There was no sign of Claire when he left, and he assumed she either wasn't told of his leaving, or she wasn't giving a shit.

Vince had one of his guys to check over the jeep to see if Jack had taken food and water with him before leaving, supplies that belonged to the camp. To Jack's credit, he had never stolen as much as a water bottle, and this impressed and surprised Vince. He wished he stayed, but he knew that Jack had a moral compass that wouldn't allow him to be as ruthless as the rest of them. In a certain way, Vince admired Jack's principles, but was convinced it was going to get him killed one day.

Jack was still a little drunk when he went over the brow of the hill, and looked in his rear-view mirror to see that the blockade and the camp was no longer in sight. He thought about Claire and that kiss.

Was Vince behind it?

Did Vince think that if Jack developed some kind of love interest he'd find it more difficult to leave?

Or was it for real?

Did Claire really like him?

Jack shrugged it off and bypassed The Ash Tree pub to his right and knew, looking at the sky, he was going to have to find a place to stay because the night wasn't far away. He decided that he would try and pull in on a country lane, away from a residential area and also away from the woods. He knew it'd be dangerous whatever he did, but if he left the keys dangling in the ignition and went to sleep and one or more of those things came to the jeep, Jack could get out of the danger area within seconds and drive somewhere else. The jeep was a tough vehicle, Jack had Johnny to thank for that, and could easily ram through many persistent ghouls if need be, which was something that had already been successfully proved.

With his crowbar sitting on the passenger seat, Jack veered left and went through a country lane that led into the small town of Brereton. Knowing that the alcohol could have an effect on his concentration, he drove at a steady twenty and looked at the fuel gauge. _Half a tank. Not bad._

This had been the first time he had been on this main road that led into the town of Rugeley, and the place, eerily, looked reasonably clear. There were no bodies strewn along the streets, no bloody limbs, crashed cars or burning properties.

It was all a little bizarre.

Jack made a decision and turned the jeep another left. The quiet, main road had given him goosebumps, and he wondered if it possessed hiding looters that were ready to strike, and _that_ was the reason for the lack of life.

He was aware of two camps in the one town. There was Vince's and the Sandy Lane area, where the main road had been blocked off, probably to create a small village of their own, like the one Vince was running. It wasn't inconceivable that Jack could be carjacked if he had kept on driving on the Brereton road, and these potential bandits could be members of the Sandy Lane camp.

The whole road could be some kind of trap. Or was he just being paranoid?

Going up a street, of name he had forgot, he came to a three-way road and drove by Ravenhill school and went straight on into an industrial estate where there used to be businesses, before people turned and began to eat one another.

He slowed the vehicle down and could see movement in the windows of a factory. The jeep came to a stop and Jack wondered if there were any kind people left in the world and, if there were, would they put him up for the night? Jack stepped out of the vehicle and walked round.

Apart from the factories to the right, the country road was surrounded by farmland. Jack took a few steps forwards and before crossing the road, he took a gape to the left and right. Some habits were hard to break.

As soon as he reached the other side of the road, Jack heard a voice call out, "Don't fuckin' bother!"

Jack looked up at the factory window that appeared to be a paper recycling place, and saw five figures, some holding baseball bats. "Ye come in 'ere, an' we'll knock fuck out o' ye," the same voice warned.

"Charming," Jack muttered.

He turned on his heels and went back to the jeep. Before he could get in, he heard another voice call out from the window. "It's alright, mate. You can stay if you want. Just bring yourself and tha' beast to the side o' the factory, and we'll let you in."

Why the sudden change of heart, Jack thought.

He ignored the comment and went back into the vehicle. He drove away and smiled to himself. He had no idea if he was being mistrustful and that the second guy was being genuine. Was it the vehicle they were after?

"Fuckers," Jack mumbled. "Seeing the jeep probably had changed the groups' mind. They'd probably beat me half to death and take the vehicle."

Jack moved on and hit thirty as he drove around the windy lanes, and went past a farmhouse. He thought about stopping for a second, but decided to look for accommodation in the morning, when he had all day to do so. The sky was growing darker, and he guessed that in another hour it would be pitch black.

He turned left and the vehicle went up a steep road, and once he reached the top of the hill to a flat part of the road, Jack suddenly realised where he was. If he followed the lane for another two miles, he'd be entering the village of Hazelslade. He decided to head for Hednesford, as he knew of a place that was well hidden and away from the main road.

As he continued to drive along the road, he looked up to the spectacular site of Stile Cop. The huge hill was a beauty spot and one of the highest points in the area. He briefly remembered taking Kerry up there one night for a passion session, but their session was short-lived.

After two minutes, when he and Kerry were making love in the back seat of the car, Jack had realised that eyes were watching him, and saw two men and a woman looking into the vehicle. Their presence frightened the shit out of him and caused a tussle once he got out of the car, half-dressed. Unbeknown to Kerry and Jack, Stile Cop was a hot spot for dogging on an evening, but the naive pair had no idea.

His reminiscing came to a halt as he reached the crossroads. He reduced his speed and wanted to continue ahead to get to his destination, but a speeding car from nowhere came out from the right of the crossroads and smashed straight into the side of the vehicle.

The airbag failed to inflate in front of Jack's face, and the jeep halted once it had swerved to the left and hit a tree.

*

He had no idea where he was going, but knew that in a matter of hours, the Ford Focus would soon run out of petrol. He adjusted his glasses and winced when he pressed his foot down to use the foot pedal. His knee was still smarting from the assault a few days ago by the large man they called Pickle, who was with three others in the back off the pick-up truck. Even though the farm that he and his three colleagues were staying at was only another mile away, it scared him that he was gong to be staying on his own, now that the other three had been attacked.

He knew they were being greedy by going into the street for more supplies; they had enough back at the farm, but Gordon, his greasy, pony-tailed friend, convinced the leader of the small mob that the nearest populated place of Rugeley, the Pear Tree Estate, would be easy picking for them.

It was going perfectly; people hid in their houses and it was a simple task of walking in with little resistance, but it had suddenly gone pear-shaped. Gordon had made suggestions that once that particular street was cleaned out, they should search through the dozen or so more, before finally going back to the farm on a permanent basis.

He was as surprised as any of them when the huge man, that had fucked his knee up, had returned, and even more surprised when he was loading the car and saw that crazy bitch running across the road with a machete and then swiping at Gordon before hacking the arm off of his other friend. Panic had kicked in and he jumped into the Ford Focus and never looked back. He knew if any of this colleagues had survived and eventually found him, especially if it was Gordon, they'd kill him for sure. So was going back to the farm really the wise thing to do?

He went past Slitting Mill, turned left on the Hednesford road and headed for the Stile Cop road. He saw a burnt out Porsche to his left and as his car went up the massively steep road, he could see a few bodies to the side, near the grass bank, opposite the cemetery.

As the car got to the brow of the hill, he could see that down the road was littered with crushed bodies. "What the fuck happened here?"

He slowed down, turned left, and pulled into the Stile Cop beauty spot, and noticed that it wasn't much better there either. He got out off the car, hoping that this place could be a safe haven for one night, and stepped out onto the sandy floor. He was torn whether to go back to the farm or not, but he was in fear from his colleagues—if they were alive—that he had left in the lurch.

He looked around the beauty spot. People had been here. It was obvious.

There was a black patch on the ground where a fire or two had been lit, and he guessed that maybe a small gang had dwelled up here for a few days before moving on. But it wasn't the old fire that made him curious, it was the amount of bodies that were on the floor. He couldn't count how many altogether, but some had been shot in the cranium.

He shook his head and could not fathom what had happened up here. It appeared that nowhere was safe, and thought that maybe he should stay at the farm and stay awake, and just hope that none of his guys would turn up, especially that psycho, Gordon.

He heard a moan from the side of him as if one was still alive; he jumped with fright and jumped into the car once he saw at least three of the fifty-plus bodies, wriggling and trying to move along the sandy surface.

The car screeched out of the place and he closed his eyes when the Ford Focus ran over the deceased bodies lying on the tarmac, and once he had got by the last body, he decided to go straight across the crossroads and head for the farm. He looked over his shoulder to see if there was anything behind him, turned back round and breathed out a sigh of relief.

The last thing he saw was the side of a black jeep that his car then collided with.
Chapter Fifty One

Once both exhausted girls had went by the football field, they walked into the street, both carrying bags. Karen made a joke that the remaining residents of this particular street must have been sick of the sights of her, but Shaz never responded to Karen's chat.

Shaz pointed to a house on the left and said, "I'd been staying in there for a bit. The house was empty when I turned up, and it has a cupboard full of clothes."

"Good." Karen nodded. "It'll be good to get some new clothes while we can. We've got detergent back at the cabin from the looting, but I feel a bit uncomfortable wasting water just to wash clothes. Seems a bit of a waste, especially if Wolf's water system packs up. It's not great as it is, and we'd have to end up using the stream in the woods."

Changing the subject, Shaz looked around and said, "There's always the option of staying in one of these houses, if you get sick of the cabin."

"There is, " Karen agreed, "but to be honest, that cabin is the safest we've been since this shit started to happen. Pickle's also paranoid about people in general. I mean, it's only been three weeks since the outbreak and we've come across _these_ fucks," Karen pointed at the dead body of Wiry. He had eventually bled to death. "So what's it gonna be like in the long-term?"

"About what happened here," Shaz spoke up. "I was napping. If I could see you and your friend were in trouble, I would have helped earlier. It wasn't until the explosion—"

"That's okay." Karen smiled and patted Shaz's shoulder. She was liking this woman already. "You don't have to explain. Why should you have helped? You didn't even know who we were."

Karen scanned the street and noticed that the guy with the black, greasy hair with the cut face, was missing. After she had swiped his face with the machete, she became somewhat distracted with everything else that had been going on. The blood where he once lay was present, but he had disappeared somewhere.

They walked into the house and Karen took a look around the ground floor, the bag was hanging off her left shoulder. "How did you manage?"

Shaz replied, "Like everybody else; I used everything in the cupboards and rationed it."

"Clothes upstairs?" Karen had no idea why she asked such a silly question. Of course the clothes were upstairs.

"Bedroom," Shaz said. "I'll be up in a sec." Sharon took a walk into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of flat vimto from the cupboard and swallowed the whole lot down. She made an exaggerated _ah_ sound, belched softly, and then made a decision to go upstairs and help Karen fill her bag.

Shaz looked around the place she had called 'home' for a few days, and thought about her own house. She had literally been on the run since she witnessed the macabre scene of her husband killing her child, and she had been hopping from one house to the next ever since.

The longevity of her stay always depended on how safe or unsafe she felt.

After the small invasion of the four bandits, as well as a few ghouls, Shaz felt that the stay in the street was unwise, and felt lucky to be offered to stay in such a place like the cabin, and was grateful to Pickle for asking her, even though it wasn't his place. She had remembered the cabin as a child when she used to play on Cardboard Hill, but back then children never went near it. To the kids it was either uninteresting to them, or they were too scared to approach it, because the older children had filled their heads full of horror stories about the place.

Because it had been years since she had been up there, she was unsure the place still existed until Pickle gave her the invite. It had changed somewhat since her childhood, and the huge overgrown greenery and the fence that surrounded the area that prevented anyone from actually noticing the cabin, was never there before.

Shaz heard a thud coming from above her and assumed that Karen had already started picking out clothes. She turned and began to walk upstairs. She walked into the bathroom and had a wee. After wiping herself, she stepped back out of the bathroom and went into the master bedroom.

Her face was devoid of emotion; her eyes glared, but never blinked, and her body never flinched once she saw the cold steel pressing against Karen's throat.

The greasy-looking man had his left arm hooked around Karen's neck, and with his right hand he held the blade.

"Well, well, well," he said in a mocking voice. "I have the pleasure of two bitches for company."

The man had long, greasy hair, tied back. He looked like he needed a good wash, had a terrible smile inbetween all of his facial hair, and a huge cut to his face that now looked like it had stopped bleeding.

"So what did you come back for?" he snarled in Karen's ear. "To finish me off? More food?"

Karen winced once she smelt his breath and he had noticed this, and reacted by squeezing her throat tighter with his left arm as if he was insulted by her reaction. The blade was now pressed harder, drawing a little blood.

He growled down Karen's ear, "If it wasn't for you and your male friend, we'd be okay."

Karen responded, "It's greed that has caused you and your friend's downfall, not me. We just took from empty places, and not from people."

"Proper little girl scout, aren't you?" His anger produced spit to leave his mouth. Some dribbled onto Karen and ran down her ear, but she never flinched. "You and your friend have fucked things up for me, good and proper."

Karen laughed mockingly, which Shaz thought was a brave—or maybe, stupid—thing to do, considering that the man she was mocking had a blade to her throat. "It's called karma. You set up a roadblock and gunned down a middle-aged couple because they didn't give you what you wanted. God knows what else you've done."

"Just trying to survive, darling." He then began to make Karen squirm a little by nibbling her ear. She was certain that this man was getting no sexual buzz from his actions; he was simply trying to press her buttons.

"What do you want?" Shaz asked, her fingers stroking the cleaver tucked in the back of her belt.

"You know what? I don't really know," he cackled, and looked at Shaz. " _You_ can get out of here, darling. But this one is staying here with me. We have some unfinished business to take care of. Go on, leave!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," announced Shaz.

He then moved the knife from Karen's throat and placed the blade against her cheek. "She's cut _me_ , now it's my turn to cut _her_."

Karen remained motionless; she was scared, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of him knowing this. She could feel his breath on the back of her head and gave Shaz a wide-eyed look as if she was trying to communicate with the thirty-year-old.

Karen dropped her head a few inches, feigning tiredness, then quickly threw her head back and connected with Mangy's nose. He released a painful yelp, and she then stamped on his foot, speedily turned around and tried to prise the knife out of his clutches by grabbing his wrist with both off her hands. It became a struggle, until Shaz ran over and struck his wrist with her cleaver.

Mangy released an awful scream, and his disbelieving eyes grew like saucers once he could see his hand hanging off of his wrist, blood escaping plentifully onto the carpet.

"You stupid bitch!" he screamed, and continued to look at the damage to his hand.

Karen grabbed the bag off of the floor, whilst the injured man fell to his knees in the corner, and she calmly began taking clothing items from the cupboard, whilst the injured man fell onto his back and writhed about.

"Any preference?" she called over to Shaz, over the male screams, but Shaz shook her head and just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Once the bag was filled, Karen threw it over her shoulder and told Shaz to fill hers. Then they were leaving.

Karen walked past her and opened the door. "You coming or not?"

Shaz filled her bag and then pointed at Mangy; he was still on the floor, sobbing with the pain. "What about him?"

"Leave him. He deserves everything he gets."
Chapter Fifty Two

"Where are they? They should be here by now?"

Vince was pacing up and down on top of the HGV that was blocking the Armitage Road, and was waiting on a vehicle that had been sent out over an hour ago after their own pub excursion.

Claire quickly turned her head, making her blonde ponytail swing from side to side, and held her finger out to Vince, telling him politely not to utter another word. "I can hear an engine," she said.

Vince brought up the shotgun, and aimed it at the brow of the hill, ready for whatever was going to emerge over it.

It was one of his own, as he recognised the pick-up truck straight away, and this made Vince breathe some relief and even managed a smile across his face. The vehicle stopped by the HGV and waited for the thing to move so they could go through and into the camp.

Vince climbed down from the truck and sauntered over to the vehicle that had just arrived. Vince looked at the back of the truck and grinned at the faces of the men when they got out of the vehicle. Both men were carrying shotguns, and Vince asked Claire, who had just sat in the HGV, ready to reverse it back and allow the truck in, to hold on for a minute.

He took a look at what they had. "There's a shit load of stuff here." Vince beamed and patted both men on the shoulders, who took the praise and seemed rather smug with themselves.

The driver said, "We had to drive a bit further out, up through the countryside, but we saw an abandoned house and basically everything that was in it is in the back of the truck."

Vince then scowled in confusion, furrowing his brow, and pointed at the two large canisters. "Is that what I think it is?"

Both men from the pick-up truck looked at one another and smiled; they were certainly in Vince's good books on this particular evening. They both nodded, and the driver added, "Two large canisters of fuel; the one on the left is diesel, we've marked them."

Vince looked to see that they had marked, faintly in chalk, _petrol_ and _diesel_ on each canister. "Petrol stations?"

"We tried the two that we had passed," the passenger was speaking now and began to pick his teeth with his forefinger, "but they were completely empty and raided."

To quash Vince's confusion, the driver pointed at the labelled canisters and said, "We siphoned some cars to get those."

"Fuck me," Vince laughed. "You've certainly done well tonight, lads. The diesel will be great for the generators. You can never have enough."

Claire wound the window down of the HGV and asked if they were coming in or not. Vince held his hand up at her, rudely, as if he was gesturing to the impatient woman that he was still talking and she shouldn't interrupt.

The passenger spoke, "We came across the diesel just by chance."

Vince folded his arms. "Oh?"

The driver added, "A couple of miles up the road, there's a bit of a smash. Some sporty car and a black jeep."

Vince turned around and could see that, with her window wound down, Claire could hear every word and knew that there was a good chance that inside that black jeep they were talking about was Jack Slade.

"Did you get a look inside?" asked Vince.

The driver shook his head. "We saw the bodies slumped in their seats, so we just took the gas."

Vince nodded his head and motioned for Claire to reverse the HGV back, and allow the pick-up truck through. She never responded; so he motioned again. Again, the HGV never reversed back, in fact, Claire never even started the engine.

Vince turned around and glared at the twenty-seven-year-old. He looked at the two men and released a sigh. "Give me a minute, will you?"

Both men nodded obediently. The driver asked, "What's going on?"

Ignoring the driver, Vince looked at Claire. "It was _his_ decision to leave."

"I know." Claire bit her lower lip. She liked Vince. He had been good to her, but she felt under all that bravado was a man who had a kind heart. "You can't just leave him there, Vince."

"We don't even know it's definitely him."

Claire stared at Vince with those big, beautiful eyes of hers and nodded. "It is."

"I don't give a shit. He's made his bed. He can lie in it."

"He'd be a good addition to the camp. You know that."

"Yeah, once he gets rid of his soft attitude." Vince smacked the side of the HGV with the palm of his right hand, clicked his fingers and pointed at Claire. "They said that the men were slumped in their seats, so he might be dead."

She huffed, "He might not."

Vince rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He looked back at the two men who stood patiently for their leader to make some kind of a decision.

"Okay." Vince scratched his head full of grey hair. "Can you gentleman keep guard for half an hour or so? We're gonna have to go out and pick up Claire's _boyfriend_ ," mocked Vince.

Protested Claire, "He's not—"

"Well you seem to like him, don't you?"

Claire never answered.

"Move the lorry back," Vince instructed Claire. "We'll both go out in another truck." He then pointed at the pick-up truck that the two men had returned in. "I'm not looking for him with a pick-up truck full of food and gas. If any looters out there jump us, they'll think their Christmases have all come at once."

Claire started up the engine of the lorry and reversed back with a wry smile on her face.

"Are you sure about this?" one of the men called out.

Vince nodded and joked, "I'm done arguing with her. Besides, we don't wanna be pissing her off too much. I think she might be on the blob. And in my book, anything that can bleed for a week and not die, is pure evil."

Both men began to cackle, but Claire was less than impressed.

"Come on," he looked at her morose face. "Where's your sense of humour?"

"It went weeks ago," she calmly spoke.

"Okay, we're going, lads. We won't be long."

One of the men called out, "But it'll be dark soon, Vince."

"I know, guys," Vince pointed at a determined Claire sitting in the HGV's driver's seat. "But there's two ways to argue with a woman. And let me tell you that neither one works."
Chapter Fifty Three

Both Karen and Shaz strolled through the street and both, in unison, turned around as if it was the last time they would see it. At the end of the street was a road to the right that led into the heart of the estate, and Karen wondered that with the amount of action that this one street had seen, what else was going on in the others, even the whole town.

She remembered how her own street was when the outbreak was first announced, when there were scores of them. But was that still the situation now? Or had some rotted away and fell to the floor in pieces, and the new danger for the town now were individuals willing to kill others for their own survival.

Suddenly, behind the girls around the corner of the street, five beasts emerged and headed for the young women, whilst their backs were turned.

"Karen." Shaz's voice was controlled when she had heard shuffling behind her, and both women faced the five ghouls lumbering towards them, rather quickly.

Karen shrugged, took off her bag, and pulled out her machete, "Jesus, these ones are really quick. Do we run or get rid?"

Shaz, without making any verbal or physical response, dropped her bag and pulled out the cleaver. She stepped forwards, struck the first one and killed it, but she struggled to release the embedded weapon. "Shit!"

The thing fell on top of her, dead. And as she struggled to get the thing off of her, another one, whose left part off the face was hanging off, made its way towards her. Karen ran forwards and took half the cranium away from a once-male that was completely naked, apart from a dirty pair of Kermit the Frog boxer shorts it was wearing. It fell with a large amount of blood gushing out onto the road as it made impact with the concrete.

Karen then set her sights on the female who was dressed in Lycra. It appeared that her trip to the gym had somewhat been rudely interrupted by the apocalypse. Karen took a swipe at the thing who simultaneously reached out to grab her, and the machete took its right hand off.

Unbothered of the loss of a limb, it continued to walk towards Karen, who was now a little distracted that her new friend was struggling to get free and had the dilemma of another one heading towards her. The thing lashed out with its left hand, and Karen side-kicked it into the stomach. It fell backwards, giving her precious seconds of breathing space, and she went over to the struggling Shaz and struck out at the ghoul that was yards away. It fell to the floor, but Karen had no time to help Shaz get up, as the two remaining beasts quickly moved towards them.

Shaz struggled to her feet, whereas Karen quickly walked backwards on the road and fell over onto the pavement. Her heels had hit the kerb, and the back of her head had taken a knock. She dropped the machete onto the floor, and she was sprawled out onto her back.

The back of her head received a little trauma and she could see the disgusting thing getting nearer, and then it fell on top of her. She grabbed the thing by the throat, desperate for its mouth to be away from her flesh, and winced as its smell assaulted her senses. She took a quick second to look at Shaz's predicament, and she seemed to be in a far less dangerous state.

Shaz was trying to avoid her attacker, but had no weapon, as the embedded cleaver remained in her first victim. It appeared that Shaz was trying to entice the thing away from the other body, so she could have a few seconds to make a run for the cleaver and try and prise it out.

With her one hand, Karen tried with all her strength to push her assailant away; her right hand was outstretched, feeling for the machete that was frustratingly only a few yards away.

Because she was holding the thing back with the one hand, she could feel that the Snatcher was winning the battle as she was weakening. She decided to forget about the machete and concentrate more on not getting bitten.

With both hands, she grabbed its neck and pushed it further up. Its mouth opened, and Karen retched when she saw that the thing's mouth was littered with maggots. Some of the things fell out and landed on her shirt, but she tried to not let this affect her, as she had more pressing matters to be concerned about than a few insects. The maggots continued to wriggle excitedly and a couple fell from its left nostril, which told her that its insides were completely infested with the flesh-eating insects.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a whizzing sound could be heard and the head of the thing exploded. Karen quickly threw her head to the side as blood hit her in the face, and the thing became motionless. She moved the ghoul off of her and stood up immediately, brushing off the few maggots that were aching for flesh. She then realised what had happened and rapidly scanned the area of the street, and then tried to look in the windows of the houses belonging to the next road.

Shaz had finally managed to get the cleaver free whilst her 'admirer' was still trying to catch her up. But before the exhausted woman had chance to strike, the front of her attacker's skull received trauma from 'bullet number two' that had originally entered the back of its head. It fell to the floor with a slump, and the fall to the concrete increased the damage to its head.

Both Karen and Shaz were stunned and out of breath.

They looked at one another, and the two women, who were both sprayed with blood and drenched in sweat, slowly peered around the area that was devoid of human life.

Shaz then became a little distracted when she saw the maggots pouring out of the mouth and onto the road of Karen's, now defunct, attacker that had received a bullet from a mystery gunman. She pulled a face and asked, "How did _that_ happen?"

"Insects are attracted to decomposition," Karen explained robotically, not even eyeing Shaz, and proceeded to look around to see where those damn bullets had come from. "Flies will lay eggs in skin openings and in entrances to the body; nose, ears and mouth. Maggots will hatch and start eating the decomposing flesh. But forget about that. My question is: Where the fuck did those bullets come from?"

"I don't know."

Shaz tried to look at every window—not just the windows in the street they were standing in, but the windows that belonged to houses in other streets, behind. "Are we being watched?"

Karen Bradley shook her head. She was unsure. "Possibly, but whoever shot those things must be friendly and no danger to us, otherwise we'd both be dead by now."

Shaz put the cleaver into her belt and squatted to the floor in the middle of the carnage of the bodies they had just killed, and the bodies from the day before that Karen and Pickle had executed. "This place stinks."

Karen was trying to get her breath back. Once she had given up scanning for the shooter and was reasonably sure his or her action was in the girls' best interests, she looked around at the fresh carnage that had taken place, and wasn't impressed with their 'work'. "For fuck's sake. Five of them, and we needed help with that."

"We were tired before we came down," was Shaz's defensive response.

Karen's facial expression was in agreement with Shaz's comment. "Maybe I should have waited till the morning. Don't tell Pickle. I don't want him knowing about this." Karen giggled, "I'll never live it down."

"I think we should go."

"I think that's a great idea."

An exhausted Karen threw the bag of clothes over her shoulder, Shaz did the same, and both girls strolled their way out of the street and onto the football field. They both looked up at the hill that they had to climb, and both released false laughter, knowing that the cabin was going to be a bitch to get to.

Karen kept on repeating, 'I should've waited till the morning', over and over again, as if she was punishing herself for making the spontaneous decision to go and get clothing.

"Look on the bright side," Shaz tried to appease. "We'll sleep like babies tonight."

"That's for sure," Karen responded; but she _wasn't_ sure.

Karen's mind wandered; it plagued her psyche that she didn't know who the shooter was. She never actually heard the gunshots and wondered if the shooter had had a silencer attached to his/her rifle, or maybe they just couldn't hear the shot over the yelling and groans coming from both the women and the ghouls combined.

Whether the gun had a silencer or not, who was the shooter? Ex-army? A soldier that had escaped and fled his position? Or just a random psychopath with an arsenal of weapons and was now finally putting them to some good use?

She had no idea, and knew that, exhaustion or not, this was going to mentally torture her when she finally settled down to get some shuteye.
Chapter Fifty Four

The smashed and crumpled vehicles had been stationary for the last half an hour, and the Vauxhall Corsa was smoking at the front. The man inside was unconscious, moaning a little, but the dashboard had been pushed and crushed so much, due to the impact, that a lot of debris had been inserted into his stomach and chest. The man was losing blood and was minutes away from death.

The other man, Jack Slade, wasn't wearing a seatbelt when the impact occurred. He had minor whiplash and had hit his head on the dashboard when the Corsa ploughed into the side of the black jeep. He had been unconscious, but was finally coming around.

For a moment, Jack thought he was waking up in his own bed. He looked around the inside off the jeep. His eyes then saw the state of the Vauxhall Corsa, and had noticed that both cars were sitting in the middle of the crossroads. To the right of him was Stile Cop beauty spot, Hazelslade was straight on, and the road to the left led to Longdon.

He then realised what had happened.

He realised that he wasn't at home anymore, and he was probably never going to see his home again. He understood that Thomas was deceased, and that the world had turned into an apocalyptic place.

His realisation had depressed him, but before he had any more time to dwell on this and burst into tears, a mixture of hideous and familiar moans and groans could be heard to the left of him.

A small group of the dead could be seen coming down the Longdon Road, the road to the left, and they clumsily progressed towards the two cars. Jack struggled to get out. He was beginning to think he was cursed every time he got behind the wheel of a vehicle.

When the outbreak first happened, he set off from Glasgow to Rugeley on the M6 and ended up crashing his Vauxhall Meriva when it got a flat. A jeep he was driving from the supermarket, after Gary's death, had been driven into a ditch when he was somewhat distracted by a set of ghouls. And now this!

The sight of the gang of the dead had given him a shot in the arm, and he suddenly perked up and began to try the doors of his vehicle. Neither one was budging, and he had no idea if this was due to the damage the vehicle had taken, or it was some kind of mechanical failure.

He then realised he had locked both doors once he had left the factory, just in case. He unlocked them both and tried the driver's side again. It still wasn't budging, and this time he was convinced that it was damage to the door that was causing this nefarious inconvenience.

He saw two of them go around the back of the Corsa, but the remaining seven surrounded _his_ jeep. He tried to start the car but nothing occurred. It had died on him. He looked above him and could see the sunroof. It seemed the only way: Break through the sunroof; get on top of the jeep, and hopefully jump off without breaking his legs and being grabbed and ripped apart by these mindless, ravenous freaks, but he was too sore to move properly.

As they reached the jeep and began peering and clawing at the thick pane of glass on the driver's side door, Jack stared into the eyes of these things and was certain that the glass in the solid jeep was good enough and strong enough to hold them off. The problem was that they never gave up. It didn't matter how long he stayed in the vehicle, even if he had enough supplies for a week, they'd still be there, waiting for him to come out.

He had to think of a way to get out alive. But he couldn't think.

Suddenly, Jack could hear a roar of an engine from behind, but he couldn't twist his sore neck round to see who it was. He jumped in fright when he heard a thunderous blast, followed by the sight of blood and brain matter decorating the outside of the driver's side window.

What the fuck is going on?

Jack then heard another blast. He peered out of the window and saw a solitary creature to the left, fall, whilst most of its head left its body in a bloody violent way that he had seen before. It fell to the floor, practically headless.

Jack then heard a scuffle, and saw bodies continuing to fall to the left and he recognised the man straight away. He then gaped to the right, through his driver's bloody window, and noticed the blonde ponytail swinging as the female had approached the two creatures that were by the Corsa. She made light work of their demise with her machete and both had taken a blow each, the second ghoul's head had come off completely. He then watched her go over to the decapitated head and rammed the blade of the machete through its skull.

A month ago this scene would have horrified and repulsed Jack, but now he felt nothing. Although he was happy that his macabre episode had a happy ending, thanks to Vince and Claire, he was baffled how they knew where he was, unless this had been some kind of remarkable coincidence.

Once the conflict had finished, Vince leaned the shotgun against the car, opened the passenger door and peered in. He began to cackle, "Well, looks like we saved your life, Jackie boy. That's a blowjob you owe me."

Jack was confused, and began rubbing his sore head. "But how..?"

"One of my men saw the cars on the way back from a run. Claire had a feeling it could be you."

Jack was stunned and couldn't find his voice, although his bottom lip moved a little. "Thank you," Jack said wearily, obviously still a little concussed.

"Don't thank me," Vince sniffed. "It was Claire's idea. I was gonna let you be, considering you seem to think you're too good for us."

Claire walked over to the jeep and took a look inside. "You okay? How you feeling?"

Jack smiled. Despite his reservations of staying in the camp, he had a soft spot for Claire. "I think it's just a bit of bruising; neck's a bit sore though."

Sighed Vince, "Well, you two can play _hide the sausage_ once we're back at the camp. I, for one, don't wanna be hanging about here for a minute longer." Vince's larking around began to cease and his face took on a more serious look. He held out his hand and said to Jack, "You're coming back with us. No arguments."

Jack nodded in agreement, and was beginning to feel like an idiot for leaving in the first place. He had been out on the road for under an hour, and already he had got himself into a life-threatening scenario that he was lucky to be leaving in one piece.

"What about him?" Claire pointed over to the dying man in the Vauxhall Corsa; he was crushed by the inside of his car, and wasn't far away from death itself.

Vince sniggered, " _He's_ not coming back with us."

Claire shook her head at his dark sense of humour and asked, "What are we gonna do with him? We can't just leave him there. The poor man's dying."

Vince bent down and pulled out a blade from his sock. "I'll take care of him. This is only the second human I've killed, but the guy doesn't deserve to die like this."

"You can't do that," Claire protested. "That's sick."

Vince disagreed. "It's not sick. He's already dying. I'm doing him a favour. If you wanna see sick, put your thumb up your arse and one in your mouth, count to five, then switch thumbs. Now _that's_ sick."

Vince walked away from Claire, smashed the driver's window with the butt of his shotgun and leaned in. The guy was a mess. The dashboard had crushed him, and his abdomen had been pierced and there was blood everywhere. The man looked at Vince with pleading eyes. Vince nodded at the man, took a hold of his blade and drew it across the man's throat, leaving him to bleed out.

*

"Where the hell have you two been?" was the first question Wolfgang Kindl threw at an exhausted Karen and Shaz. Wolf could see that they had ran into trouble, the evidence was all over their face and their clothes.

Karen and Shaz held up their bags and Bradley announced, "Got some clothes. Besides, we thought we'd be back by the time you and Pickle woke up. Wanted to surprise you."

Shaz slumped to the grass beside a fire that Wolf had just started. Karen placed the bag by the side of the cabin and did the same, sitting next to Shaz.

"Where's Pickle?" asked Karen.

"I think I heard him just wakening up," Wolf said. He went into the cabin and asked from the kitchen, "You girls hungry?"

They both replied with a 'yes' and Shaz asked what it was going to be.

"Gonna use those rolls you found. They're a bit stale, but a chicken breast and some relish should make it taste nice."

"I'll get up in a minute," Karen called back. "We're exhausted."

"No problem," Wolf said, feeling more relaxed now they had returned, but was still upset that they had walked off without telling anyone. "You can get the tea on with that stove."

Once Wolf began buttering the rolls in the kitchen, Shaz and Karen got to their feet and placed a cup in one of the buckets, and used the water in the cup to wash their face and remove any sprays of blood that were there. They both sat back down and Shaz looked over her shoulder to make sure there was nobody eavesdropping. Shaz leaned over to whisper to Karen. "About this sniper. Who on earth could that be?"

Karen was lost in thought. "Probably some guy who's escaped from the army. He's probably hiding out in one of the houses and saw our predicament, took pity on us, and used two bullets up to help us out." Karen began to snicker, simply because she was finding the 'sniper incident' more bizarre and surreal than the dead in the street trying to eat them. How messed up was that? "Best to keep it to ourselves for now."

Shaz was about to ask another question, but Karen shushed her as footsteps could be heard coming from the kitchen, followed by the main door opening.

A weary-looking Pickle exited the cabin and walked onto the garden. He greeted the girls and noticed the bag straight away. "Been shopping, I see." He shook his head in disappointment. "Wolf told me."

Changing the subject, and trying to avoid a lecture about going to the street without him, Karen questioned, "How's the finger?"

"Still missing."

Karen almost burst out laughing at the stupidity of her question. "I meant, how are you in general?"

"I'll live. My nose's sore as hell, and ma torso feels like it's been hit with a couple o' baseball bats."

"I couldn't imagine how sore that would be," Shaz said, pointing over to his missing finger.

Pickle smiled and spoke, "I think it's fair to say that it may keep me awake for a few nights. The pain comes in waves; at the moment it hurts like a bastard."

"Have a look in the bag." Shaz stood up on her aching feet and showed Pickle what was in it. "You better have a look now before it gets dark."

Pickle ruffled through the bag with his right hand, and eventually pulled out a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt.

"Ah, black," he spoke with sarcasm. "It seems to be the only colour I wear these days."

Karen said, "There's plenty of underwear at the bottom of the bag as well."

Pickle looked at the girls and his face was full of emotion. Karen turned around and peered over her shoulder. "For fuck's sake, Harry Branston, you're not gonna cry, are you?"

Pickle cleared his throat. "Course not." The topic was quickly changed and Pickle asked Karen, "Any problems back at the street?"

"No." Karen shook her head and gave Shaz a glance. "No problems at all."

"This is the last time we go for a while, okay?"

Karen laughed and began picking at a bit of dry skin on the end of her nose. "We keep on saying that."

"I'm serious. And I don't want yer going down there on yer own again."

"I wasn't on my own, I was with Shaz."

"Yer know what I mean."

Karen seemed annoyed by Pickle's mollycoddling, and was a little embarrassed with Shaz being present. "Look, you went on your own when I was unwell. Just because I don't have a dick, doesn't mean I can't fight. And you should know that by now."

Shaz felt an unstoppable smirk stretching across her face, and put her hand over it to prevent Pickle from seeing it.

Pickle took it well, and snickered, "I suppose I asked for that."
Chapter Fifty Five

As soon as the girls left him to his own devices, he winced and cried out when his hand was simply hanging off. The blood continued to seep out and was soaked up by the carpet. He picked the hanging limb up with his working hand, and knew that he needed to get his injury wrapped up before he bled to death.

Crying, he walked down the stairs. He noticed that the front door had been left open, and he wondered if those bitches had done this on purpose. He angrily kicked the door shut and went into the kitchen. He knew his hand was fucked, and thought he'd be better off without it with the condition it was in.

He took out a couple of tea-towels from a cupboard, put them on the draining board and reached for the cleaver that sat in a wooden block with the sharp knives. Placing his bloody arm on the sink and his defunct right hand, he raised the cleaver and brought it down hard on the tendons that were stopping the hand from departing from the body indefinitely.

He then took his bloody arm and wrapped the tea-towels around the wound. He cried out every time the bloody stump made contact with any kind of touch, and with three tea-towels wrapped around his wrist, he needed to sit down as his head was spinning. He didn't know whether it was the shock or the loss of blood that was making him dizzy and feeling queasy. He thought that it could be both.

He staggered on the ground floor and went through a cupboard under the TV. He found two bottles of red wine, a half bottle of Southern Comfort and an unopened bottle of Jim Beam. He had seen it in films before, and decided to try it. It would have been a cruel twist if he eventually stopped the blood loss, but then ended up dying of an infection instead.

He took out the Jim Beam, plonked it on the floor and unscrewed it with his only hand. He quickly poured the substance over the blood-soaked, wrapped tea-towels where his hand used to be, and cried out with the stinging. The perspiration poured out from him, and his whole body shot up in temperature.

His three associates had gone and he was left all alone. Two were dead, and the other had fled the street in one of the Ford cars.

He had spent most of his life in and out of prison, and welcomed the new, lawless land that had began to plague Britain nearly three weeks ago, but he never expected this! He had had some scrapes with the dead, and there had been a few near misses, but he never thought he could end up becoming disfigured by a woman, for Christ's sake!

Tears of pain ran down his cheeks, and he then fell onto the couch and lay down. A thud was heard in the house and he immediately sat up. "What the fuck was that?"

He walked out of the living room and saw a door in the hallway. A cellar maybe. With the condition he was in, he avoided investigating if there was anything down there. That would be just suicide.

He walked back to the living room and caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. Even without the severing of his hand his machete-cut across his features made him look hideous, but the overall picture was so horrendous that he felt like screaming.

He glared at the glass; his black hair that was tied in a ponytail hadn't been washed in weeks; his teeth were never his best quality anyway, but the severed hand, his dirty clothes, and the huge cut on his cheek above his thick, dark beard, made him look severely unapproachable.

He looked out of the window, and despite the carnage in the street, it seemed reasonably quiet. He was desperate to get back to the farm before sundown, before someone else decided to claim it for themselves. They'd spent weeks stocking up on gas and food, and he didn't want some idiot walking onto the farm and thinking they had hit the jackpot.

He then began to think about his dead pals, and his other colleague that had decided to leave them in limbo. "If I ever get my hands on him..."

The desperation of going back to the farm and living in a place of luxury for many months forced him to go through the pain barrier; so he walked out into the street, whilst the bottom of his arm was throbbing like hell.

He looked at two cars that were stationary, but he couldn't drive with one working hand! He needed someone to drive him. He went back into the house, grabbed himself a knife, and went back out on the street. He was going to have to flag a car down, more than likely on the main road that was a few streets away. He was hoping his horrendous appearance wouldn't put any motorists off from giving him a ride, but only time would tell.

"To hell with it!"

He ran through the cursed street, turned right, and went into another. He could see two of the things up ahead, but was confident he could outrun them, which he did with ease.

The main road was just up ahead, fifty yards away, and he needed to pass the top of a street to get there. He looked down the road and saw that this particular street was heaving with the dead. He had no idea why. Maybe they had saw something from afar, or someone had been killed and the screams attracted more of them from other streets. Whatever the reason why there were so many, they were there, and fortunately he managed to jog by the top of the street without being noticed.

He winced as his hand continued to throb; the cut on the face never bothered him too much. He had been stabbed on two occasions during his lifetime, so he was used to the violence, and although the cut hurt like hell at first, the mutilated arm seemed to have taken away the attention from his face.

He had now finally reached the main road. His neck twisted left and right whilst he walked along it, paranoid of the dead appearing. For two minutes he came across nothing. Then he suddenly heard it. It was the sound of an engine.

The vehicle was in a rush and it quickly came round the bend, giving him just seconds to react. He stumbled into the road and held his damaged arm up. The pick-up truck had no intention of slowing down for the man, and tried to swerve around him. The tyres squealed as the truck swerved to the side, but the left side of the bumper still hit him and he went flying through the air, eventually hitting the tarmac and throwing his knife yards down the road.

The vehicle was now out of sight, and the injured man groaned in pain with his body gaining extra damage, which included broken ribs, bruising, and a broken tibia in his left leg.

He was struggling to crawl, let alone get up, and he knew that his only hope now was if another motorist came by and stopped for him. But what were the chances of that?

The short crawl to the side of the road was exhausting and painful. The pain was a struggle to cope with, but as soon as he saw two dead beasts stumble onto the main road from the last street of the estate, he wished straight away that he was dead.

They spotted him immediately.

He wondered if the screech of the tyres from the pick-up truck had seduced them to this part of the area, but he didn't think about it for too long as he now had more pressing matters to contend with. The two things weren't far away now, and because of the condition that he was in, it now didn't matter if there was just two of them or if it was the rest of the creatures from the whole estate.

He had already come to the conclusion that he was as good as fucked.

They were only a matter of yards away and he thought that although his death was going to be beyond pain, he was going to go out with a fight.

They stood over his battered body, and the things bent down in unison whilst the potential victim kicked out and swung his arms at them, despite his injuries.

His fight was futile and he was bitten straight away. Whilst releasing screams of anguish, he managed to punch one of them. With the only hand he had left, he tried to rip its bottom jaw off, only for the jaw of his assailant to snap shut and bite into the man's bony hand whilst the other ghoul was now crouching over him, and was taking a large chunk from the side of his neck. As the man screamed, the thing was furiously trying to rip a piece of flesh free, whilst blood pissed furiously out all over the road.

Even though his first attacker was chewing and had a mouthful of skin, tendons and muscle, it greedily went in for another bite and the other being had now started working on the other side of his neck, ripping it open with its dirty teeth, the blood spilling plentifully.

The victim was now dead and they continued munching at the neck, devouring some of his tongue, until the head came away from the body.

The brains were next.
Chapter Fifty Six

Vince claimed he knew a short cut back to the camp, but Jack felt that the country-road way was taking longer and Vince was actually apprehensive driving in populated areas, especially on an evening with darkness creeping up. Jack thought that once Vince was in populated territory, he didn't seem as cool and appeared to be edgy. Any kind of vehicle being driven, especially in residential areas, could be a target for potential thieves to carjack, and everybody was aware of this, which made Jack appreciate them coming for him all the more.

Vince may have been the tough guy when it came to robbing innocent shopkeepers or looting houses with unarmed frightened individuals inside, but Jack hadn't yet seen him in action when it came to a shootout with another individual, or a hand-to-hand combat with someone who knew what they were doing. He knew Vince wasn't afraid of violence, that was proved when he hardly flinched getting rid of Johnny, but Jack thought it'd be interesting to see how Vince would act if ever he met his match. After all, he was only a forklift driver. Was he all talk? Only time could answer that question.

Under the black bellies of fused clouds, the day was rapidly losing its battle with the night, and a hazard appeared up ahead that had made the truck come to a stop. A pick-up truck was lying on its side as if it had lost control and tumbled a few times. Jack, Claire and Vince all looked at one another, wondering what to do next.

"I can give it a nudge with this vehicle and move it somehow." Vince looked at Claire and Jack to see if they agreed. The were both surprised that he even waited for approval, and they both responded with nods and shrugs as if to say, do what you think is best.

A lone creature came from behind the newly-found truck as if it had been hiding. Jack looked at Vince with confusion and Vince responded, "I have no idea what is going on."

Claire decided to shed a little light why the single ghoul was hanging around the crashed vehicle. "Maybe there's still people in there. People that are alive. That's probably why it's hanging about."

Jack narrowed his eyes at the lone ghoul and looked at the clothes it was wearing. It was wearing sports attire and Jack thought he recognised the thing.

Vince got out of the car and the creature began to stagger towards him, past the vehicle. It was now ten yards ahead of the vehicle and getting closer to Vince, who stood waiting for it. Jack and Claire remained sitting and saw Vince grab hold of the thing by the hair and jab his knife straight through the left eye. He then released the hair, pulled out the knife and watched it slump to a dead heap.

Vince walked over to the truck and could see a few items scattered across the road that may have been in the back of the vehicle before its tumble, but it was nothing to get excited about, and nothing that was going to improve the camp. Most food seemed to have been already nibbled at by the woods' creatures, and some of the tins were crushed and dented. A few empty bottles of water were also scattered along the road, suggesting that these bottles had cracked once the crash had happened, and the liquid inside had slowly poured out all over the tarmac.

As soon as Vince got to the bonnet-end, he climbed a little to peer inside the opened window. He saw two people inside.

The driver was a middle-aged man; he was most definitely dead. He had no injuries to his body, but his face highlighted that he had been dead for a day or two now. The woman was still hanging on and was muttering something; her lips were all dry and she was severely dehydrated. She was alive, but barely. None of them seemed to have been bitten, and it appeared that maybe the male had had a stroke or a heart attack, and the woman had been there for days because she couldn't, or was too frightened, to get out, and ended up so dehydrated that she was now pretty close to death.

Why didn't she try and get out once the vehicle crashed? Was she initially surrounded by these things? Even with just the one ghoul, was she too scared to go out? Or had she received broken bones from the crash and couldn't escape, even if she wanted to? Vince had no idea.

He began to walk away from the vehicle and saw Jack get out of the car.

"Get back inside," ordered Vince. "We're going."

Jack ignored Vince and this made him nervous. If Jack peered into the vehicle and saw that the woman was alive, he'd demand that she would have to go back to the camp. Vince wanted the camp to be strong, not to be treated like a hospital and littered with injured, elderly people. The place had too many old people as it was for Vince's liking.

Jack walked with slow steps towards the creature that Vince had just destroyed. She looked different, but he still knew who it was. Her dark hair seemed dirty, but she was still wearing the same clothes when they had left the sports centre. Jack crouched down and sadly placed his hand on her white, cold cheek and whispered, "I'm sorry, Jade."

Asked Vince, "You knew her?"

"It's a long story; I'll tell you about it one day." Jack then stood up and had a quick scan around and said under his breath, "I hope the others made it."

"She looked like she could have been a looker," Vince spoke out; it was a comment that Jack thought was a strange thing to say. Vince, still worried that Jack was going to take a peep inside the vehicle, then urged the man, "Let's go."

"Any passengers in the truck?" Jack queried Vince.

Vince paused for a few seconds and shook his head. "No. Nothing."

Jack followed him back to the vehicle and sat next to Claire in the passenger seat. She could see that Jack looked despondent, and before she could ask him what was the matter, Vince told her that he used to know the girl that he had just killed.

Vince could see there was sadness in Jack's face. "You think that's bad," Vince spoke up and then turned to Claire. "Remember that run we went out on last week?"

Claire nodded sadly, and took over the story. "Vince and I, and a few others, went further out and into this tiny village. We went into about three or four houses, then went back because of the Rotters coming from the farmlands."

Vince interjected with a cackle, "Fuckers had eaten a cow. Can you believe that?"

Claire added, "Anyway, we got to this end house and went into the garage to see if there was a car to siphon from. The whole garage stunk of carbon monoxide. I took a look inside and saw a man in the front and a little girl in the back, windows down. I think he gassed himself and her. It was probably too much for them, well, him especially."

"Never slept for two days, did you, Claire?" Vince spoke, this time with sincerity coated in his words.

Claire continued, "She was such a beautiful thing as well. She had beautiful blonde hair, and was wearing a cute Barbie T-shirt." Claire lowered her head and sniffed, "I've seen heads exploding every day, but this really affected me. I'll never forget it."

Vince started the engine and tried to somehow lift the mood. "And on that light note, I think we should now get back to the camp. You fuckers are depressing the shite out of me."

"I lost my son last week," Jack blurted out.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jack." Vince spoke with genuine empathy in his voice, although it was Claire that Jack was talking to.

"My God." Claire gazed at the broken man who looked close to tears. "What happened?"

"Again; it's a long story that I will tell you all about one day."

Vince added, "Maybe we should get drunk one night and spill our guts."

"Sounds good to me." Jack then dropped his head and placed each hand on the side and shook it. Claire looked at Vince and was wondering what Jack was doing. He then lifted his head up, teary-eyed and Jack sighed, "Man, I think I'm losing my mind."

"Maybe you have dementia," cackled Vince.

"Not funny, Vince." Claire said. "Both my grandparents had dementia in their care homes. It was horrible to see."

"Still," added Vince. "The good thing about having dementia is that you're always meeting new people."

Vince looked over his right shoulder, checking his blind spot, and pulled the vehicle away, leaving a smirk on the faces of Jack and Claire.

Jack gazed at Vince. _Maybe he's not that bad. He's a bit sick, but the company could be worse._ He then felt his hand being squeezed and smiled at Claire as the truck zoomed through the lane.
Chapter Fifty Seven

After their meal, the group were in good spirits. The fire roared and although Shaz and Karen had gone through a traumatic experience earlier, it was becoming a hazard that they were becoming accustomed to these days, especially Karen.

Wolf had decided to retire to the living room once Pickle cracked open the wine. Karen said that she wasn't in the mood and opted for water instead, leaving Shaz and Pickle with the alcohol. Wolf politely told the group to try and keep the noise down, and Pickle opted for the sofa to sleep on whilst the girls had to make do with the living room floor. The garden was out of bounds because the rain still fell, although it was now just a light drizzle.

Their backsides were soaked with sitting on the wet grass, but this was soon forgotten once Pickle and Karen had begun to tell Shaz about their story and how they had met.

Shaz had only supped on a half-tumbler of wine, but could feel the effects of the stuff already going to her head. "So let's get this clear," the new woman said. "You two met in the woods. Then..." The alcohol made Shaz pause; she had lost her train of thought. "Then you had a group and some were killed. Had another group, and some were killed..." Shaz begun to laugh, and looked around the cabin. "They say things happen in threes; should I be worried?"

Pickle and Karen knew she had a few drinks inside her, but felt a little upset at the way she described their weeks in such a harsh summary.

"Some o' the people we lost," Pickle began, and had to swallow his displeasure, "were good people, lovers, even kids. I know you've had a drink, Shaz, but please don't mock."

Karen tried to lighten the mood. "Anyway, Shaz, where'd you get that daft bracelet from?"

"Which bracelet?" Shaz began to look at her hands. Her soused state took Pickle by surprise as she had hardly had that much wine. But then again, for a lot of individuals, it could have been three weeks since they'd had a drink, and even a glass could go to someone's head, especially for a person who hadn't eaten properly in under a month.

Sharon finally found the bracelet Karen was referring to; it was hanging off her left wrist. It was cheap-looking and the assortment of beads had all the colours of the rainbow around the elastic. Sharon stared at the bracelet and puffed out a breath that was full of despair. She touched the bracelet with the fingers of her right hand, and looked at Karen with her glassy eyes and finally answered, "Spencer made me this two days before he died. He made it at school. I'll never forget it. It was Friday afternoon, June 8th."

Karen tried to explain. "I'm sorry, I di—"

"It's okay."

"Yer told me before, in a brief summary, that yer husband killed yer son. Are yer in any state to tell us what happened?" In a matter of seconds, Pickle had forgiven Shaz for her crass comments about his group. He missed KP like hell, but losing a child was the worst thing that could happen to an adult, and it was something he hadn't and would never experience, thankfully.

"Nothing to tell really." Shaz was trying her utmost to put on a brave face, but she was losing the battle. "I slept on the sofa because of my husband's snoring, and I woke up to hear noises from upstairs. I went up and saw my husband had reanimated."

"Spencer too?" asked Pickle.

Shaz shook her head. "Thanks to my husband, there was hardly anything left _to_ reanimate."

"How did your husband turn?" Karen asked. "Was he bitten, or...?"

Explained Shaz, "You see, this is the thing. He drank in the house and then went to bed. But before he went to bed, he was putting bottles in the recycling bin, and I heard him shouting at someone. Maybe it was one of _them_ , and he had somehow been bitten or scratched. But he never said anything to me when he came back into the house."

"Maybe he didn't wanna worry yer," Pickle spoke up.

"What happened to your husband after you saw he had turned?" queried Karen.

"I don't know." Shaz nodded in Karen's direction. "I did the same as what you did. I left the house and took the car. It was stolen three days later."

Pickle lowered his head inbetween his knees and then looked up again, his neck cracking. "I'm sure yer Spencer is with God now."

Sharon smiled at the thought. "I hope so, Pickle. I really do."

As Shaz and Pickle continued to converse, Karen decided to get herself a drink of water. Wolf kept a few bottles on top of the sink that had been collected, bleached and sieved. She walked into the kitchen from outside and helped herself. She took a large swig, and Wolf came in from the living room and stood next to her. He peered out of the main door whilst in the kitchen, and gawped at Pickle and Shaz who were deep in conversation.

"Well, they seem to be getting on," Wolf said.

Karen nodded and screwed the lid back onto the water bottle. "She seems nice enough. Wasn't too sure at first, but it's amazing how this thing can psychologically fuck you up."

Wolf made a facial expression to suggest that he agreed with Karen, and he looked at the twenty-three-year-old. Karen glared back at him with her head lowered, but she was joking with her stare. "What is it, Wolf?"

Wolf walked over to the main door and slowly shut it properly, as if he was about to tell Karen a secret and he didn't want the other two to know. He finally asked her, "How are _you_ these days?"

Karen sniggered and was baffled by his query. "Er, fine. And you?"

Wolf ran his fingers through his grey beard and took off his straw hat, revealing his damp, grey hair. He placed his hands on both of her shoulders and gazed at her. "I may be a man, my dear, but I know when someone is pregnant."

Karen burst into hysterics and whilst she did this and kept up her pretence, Wolf remained glaring at the former nurse. Her snickering had finally ceased and she said, "What are you talking about?"

" _You_ know."

Karen half-laughed, lowered her head and began rubbing her eyelids. She quickly lifted her head up to reveal her rainy eyes and pleaded, "Please, don't tell anyone else."

"But you had that wine the other day."

"Yeah, and I was sick as a dog. Just don't tell anyone. I don't want sympathy."

"How long gone?"

Karen sighed and seem to take an age to answer Wolf's question. She slowly shrugged her shoulders. "No idea. Maybe just a few weeks, or a month or so. I could still lose it, with a bit of a luck."

Wolf let go of her shoulders and took a step back. For a minute, she thought he was going to slap her, as she saw the venom in his face. But he was never going to strike a pregnant woman. "That's a terrible thing to say, Karen. That baby is the only bit of Gary you have left. It was Gary you was engaged to, wasn't it?"

She nodded sadly. "Yeah, well, I can't have a baby in this fucked up world."

Wolf took a sip from a cup of tea he had made earlier and wetted his lips. "It's not ideal, but it's still a life. You have a son or a daughter, _Gary's_ son or daughter, growing inside of you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"It means it's gonna slow me down."

Wolf shook his head in exasperation. "You don't mean that."

"Oh, don't I?"

Wolf had sadness in his eyes and looked over both shoulders as if someone could be around, eavesdropping. "Look, children are a gift from God. You see, I..." He paused and lowered his head, as if he was about to say something personal to Karen, but was unsure whether to say it or not. "I was a shitty father, especially to my son. If I could have my time back again..."

Karen could see the hurt and regret on Wolf's face. "You said you had kids before, what were they?"

"I have a daughter _and_ a son."

"And what are their names?"

"Sadie and Vincent." Wolf smiled and gently placed his wrinkly hand affectionately on the left arm of Karen Bradley. "Sadie is forty-one. She lives in Ireland. And the other one is around somewhere. He just lives on the other side of the town. He's the eldest."

"Vincent?"

Wolf nodded. "But we just call him Vince."

Wolf then went back over to the main door and opened it. He looked up to the black sky and called out to Pickle and Shaz. "Better get inside, folks. I think there's going to be a storm soon."

Pickle and Shaz looked up in unison to the depressing clouds, and agreed wholeheartedly with Wolf and told him that as soon as they had finished the rest of their drink, they were going to retire into the cabin. Because of the rain, it was going to be a bit cramped on this particular night, but Mother Nature had forced all four people to stay indoors. Even if the rain had stopped completely, the grass was still soaking wet.

Pickle was the first to get in and walked past Karen in the kitchen. Shaz soon came in and placed her hand on Karen's shoulder and looked out of the window. "That's gonna be some storm tonight."

Karen sighed and looked up at the depressing clouds through the window, "Yep." She nodded her head in agreement. "And I've got a feeling there's gonna be a few more storms to come."
THE END

**If you enjoyed reading SNATCHERS 3:** _The Dead Don't Cry_ **, feel free to email me your thoughts or leave a review where you've downloaded the book.**

Very kind regards,

Shaun Whittington

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