Chapter Five
The group decided to enjoy a rare fire outside the back of the village hall—although technically it wasn't actually situated in a village—and they opened wrapped-up, pre-made sandwiches and threw on potatoes in order to bake them for their meal. A slab of margarine or some cheese would have complimented the potatoes perfectly, but they had none and were still living on the food that they had taken from their homes a week ago, and hadn't looted that much because there was no need to. The only 'outside' food they received was when Paul Parker would come back from his sole walk that he started to do a few days ago.
They used cutlery and once finished, would wash the utensils and plates as normal, as the hall had a sink, and although no washing up liquid was available, they still had running water, albeit cold.
Kerry Evans sat down and twitched nervously; she sat on a stump that was near the crackling fire and sat her son, Thomas, on her knee while they waited patiently for the men to return from their expedition. She combed back her dark bobbed hair behind her ears and kissed the back of her son's confused head. Yesterday, they had all taken a trip to the nearby stream and had bathed; it had been the first time they had had a proper clean, and although uncomfortable at the time, it was nice not to be surrounded by bad body odour.
As the young Jason Barton and the middle-aged Kevin Houston placed more potatoes on the metal rack that sat on the fire, Kerry and Thomas snuggled together. A handful of deck chairs that were in the hall had been brought outside by some of the group, and two males by the names of Oliver Newton and Sean West stood guard outside to warn others of any potential threats from outsiders. Both individuals stood holding sharpened spears about three foot in length. Apart from dozens upon dozens of sharpened homemade spears that had been mainly made by Paul Parker, the group were not armed.
Inside the hall, Karen West—Sean's wife—was making another huge pot of soup with pretty much anything she could get her hands on—leftover ham, onions, bits of chicken from the legs and wings, amongst other things. When the group had first arrived at the hall, they had trunks full of food that used to dwell in their refrigerators, but the hall's small fridge didn't have the capacity to hold what they had, so all the food that needed a fridge was consumed first before it went stale. They were still surprised that electricity was still running, but for how long? The cupboards were stacked full of everything from baked beans, tuna chunks, ravioli, to pineapple chunks and even dog food, and that was due to the stockpile from last week. Paul Parker's sole excursions of looting empty houses had also helped a great deal. He was the only one brave enough to leave the village hall, and preferred it that way anyway. He only wanted to be responsible for himself, no one else.
The hall was situated on the side of a main road that went through the woods about two miles from Stile Cop and four miles from Rugeley town centre. It felt like the middle of nowhere, but they all knew the place would be vulnerable if a horde of the things would ever appear. The reason why they hadn't come across them since their arrival both baffled and pleased them. They didn't know whether it was the distraction of the surrounding populated villages that were keeping them away, like Hazelslade, Wimblebury, Heath Hayes and Hammerwich, that were only one or two miles away from where they were. While the people dwelled in their village hall, they envisaged the surrounding villages being overrun with those creatures.
Sean West was a scout leader and used the hall for two days a week, which meant he had the keys, and organised the convoy and tried to persuade some residents of Hazelslade that they'd be safer out of the way.
They had all left in cars during the breakout and had parked them, five in all, at a beauty spot car park that sat opposite the village hall, away from view of passing motorists—not that there were many. They had only witnessed three passing cars at different intervals, and a convoy of about six vehicles that went past a day ago. Thankfully, the convoy drove past the hall and continued to go wherever they were going.
The group were thirty miles away from the nearest city, and knew that cities would more than likely have residents in their cars, leaving in their droves and cluttering the motorways, but to go where? At least where
they
were, the population was small and the roads were desolate.
Their cars had hardly been used since their arrival as some vehicles were short of fuel; they didn't want to split the group up, and they didn't know, and didn't want to know, how bad the situation was in the nearby villages.
A silver Mazda pulled up opposite the village hall, and turned into the car park that was heavily hidden by the overhanging condensed trees. The two men got out, walked down the dirt path that led in and out of the area, and arrived at the side of the main road opposite the hall. They trotted across the road, and instead of going through the main door, they greeted Oliver Newton and Sean West with a nod to one another and went round the back, as they knew that was where the rest of them were having lunch.
Jack Slade and Gary Jenson emerged by the fire and sat next to their partners, or in Jack's case, his ex-partner. Because the threat of any of those things had been zero since they had arrived, they were a little more relaxed than when they first turned up at the hall. They weren't becoming complacent, as they knew the threat was always there, just relaxed. They had already agreed that any sign of them would mean a run to the car park across the road and a mass exodus from the area.
There were fourteen in the group in all, but there was eleven round the back, Paul Parker was missing and there were two standing guard out the front. They were sitting round the campfire tucking into their soup, and whatever else they could get their hands on.
"So what was it like out there?" Jemma Marlow asked the question, unsure that she was ready for the truth. Gary and Jack looked at one another, and the rest of the group knew the answer was going to be grim from their facial expressions.
"Not good," Gary sniffed.
"In what way, do you mean?" Kerry quizzed Jack, although it was Gary that was speaking.
The group were aware that young Thomas Slade at six years old, and Yoler Parkinson at eight years old, might need to be protected from the truth, but Jack spoke all the same. How on earth could he protect his son from something that was surrounding them? Thomas wasn't stupid; he knew the world from last week had changed, and his 'holiday', which is what Kerry had called it, was nothing more than a group of people huddled together in fear of their lives.
Jack said, "We travelled to the outskirts of all four villages."
"And?" Kerry sighed.
Jack released a sigh, wrapped in unsatisfactory news. "And…they're everywhere. There're dozens in each village, which technically means we're surrounded."
"There's loads of them," Gary interjected. "Not too sure the cars are strong enough to get through the crowds, we need a fucking handglider—sorry." Gary apologised straight away, forgetting in his frustration that there were children present. "Or we could ditch the cars and go through the woods, but that has its own dangers. They seem to be in the populated areas, but once they realise there's no food, they'll leave."
Jack said, "So they could either move further out, or further in, towards us."
"So what's the plan?" A nervous looking Ian Jenson who was Yoler's father, and no relation to Gary Jenson, chewed on a nail on his middle finger of his left hand, and awaited an answer from someone, anyone.
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "If anyone sees anything, we leave the area. That's all we can do."
"And what happens if these things come out on a night, and end up surrounding us?"
"We've already been through this," Gary intervened. "Our options are limited. If they surround us, then I suggest we try and make a run for it. Because if there's just a few, there'll be more to come."
"But I can't understand why they would come here anyway, especially during the night," Kerry spoke up. "We're in the middle of nowhere. There's no light or noise that would attract them here. Even if they pass where we are, if we're not making a noise, there's no reason why they should try and get in. They might just walk past the hall."
"Unless they can smell us," Gary said.
The group fell silent, and Gary's unwanted, yet, realistic comment, hushed the camp, albeit temporarily.
"Is that what the radio station said when you were in prison?" Jemma quizzed, eventually interrupting the quietude with everyone now waiting for what Gary's next sentence was going to be.
"They didn't know for sure. But I assume they must be able to smell you to a certain degree."
"What gives you that impression?" Ian Jenson threw another query at the twenty-six-year-old.
"I dunno." Gary shrugged his shoulders. "Just a guess."
"You said they were determined buggers."
Gary nodded and added, "When me and Jack were at Stile Cop...when we ran from them, they kept on following us. Some of them even walked through flames to get to us and followed us up the Stile Cop Road. They just never gave up; they're like robots."
"So, back to the
smell
theory. If there's hundreds of them," Ian Jenson began to try and lighten the mood, and stood to his feet and comically raised his arms out. Thomas and young Yoler began to giggle, "and I get in the middle of them and pretend to be one of them by moaning, rolling my eyes and walking like a drunk, I wouldn't get away with it?"
Gary smiled. Aware that there were children about, he leaned forward and whispered in Ian's ear. "You'd be ripped to pieces within seconds."
Ian's hilarity soon stopped when Gary made his announcement and he sat down.
Because the group had left their houses as soon as the news of the pandemic hit the TVs, most of them, apart from driving past the odd one, had no experience of being face-to-face with them. So whenever the subject of the beings came up, which was regular, the group always turned to Jack and Gary for information. Not only had they experienced being near them, they had also killed some as well.
Kerry asked, trying to change the dark mood covering the camp, "Is Paul back yet?"
Gary shook his head. "That guy's a strange one. Why does he always insist on going out on his own? I told him that I'd tag along. Another person with a bag, means more food."
"He just prefers it that way." Jemma stuck up for the thirty-one-year-old, who wasn't there to defend himself. "I don't think he likes to be responsible for anyone else, just himself."
"Paul lived in the next village. I think looting houses for food is just an excuse. We still have a reasonable amount left." Kerry spoke up, and a sombre hush fell onto the group. "I think when he's out there, he's really looking for his family."
Chapter Six
The food was running a little short and both needed to sleep properly, preferably in a bed where there was no noise. The van went through the bendy lanes and had only passed two vehicles—a HGV and a pick-up truck full of men. Once they finally arrived at the outskirts of Heath Hayes, they decided to pull up at the very first house on the main road, as the road further on looked to lead nowhere. They had no preferential destination; all they wanted was a safe haven, and they knew that the multi-storey car park was driving them insane. It seemed a good idea at the time, a desperate idea, but three days was enough without warmth, something comfortable to sit on, and their mental health also required a different change of scenery. Even the ex-inmate, Harry Branston, who was used to incarceration, had shown signs of boredom and frustration.
The street was almost car less, as if most of the residents had left in a mass panic. Maybe those things had already been and gone here, Pickle thought. There certainly seemed to be no evidence of killings; there were no mutilated bodies to be seen, and as far as the eye could see, there were no bloodstains. It looked like a normal street, apart from the eerie lifelessness and lack of vehicles it possessed.
The van was parked at the side of the road, and they both got out of the van laboriously as if it was a normal day. They stretched their aching bodies, bending their vertebras into shapes of bananas and basked in the glorious sunshine that shone down above them. They casually walked to the first house, passing the Range Rover on the drive, and peered through the house window.
If there was someone home, then they weren't downstairs, and they hadn't barricaded the house either. Despite the vehicle on the drive, Karen was certain that the house was vacant, but they needed to be really sure. They needed a house near the main road for easy access of escape, if need be, but at the same time they didn't want to impose on a family.
Karen and Pickle decided to go round the back. They carefully stepped without drawing their guns, as they didn't want to frighten whoever could be inside. Once they got round to the uninhabited back garden, Karen noticed that the bathroom's top window was slightly ajar. They both looked at one another.
Karen then peered into the back window and said, "Looks like there's nobody in."
"So why leave the vehicle?" Pickle was referring to the Range Rover on the driveway.
Karen had no answer for him and shrugged her shoulders.
"Yer right." Pickle was now staring into the back window, peering into the empty living room. "It's completely empty. What do yer reckon? Yer think yer can get through that little window?"
Karen gave him a half-serious and a half-jokey look. She placed her hand on her hip and bent her knee, as if she was about to do a rendition of 'I'm a little teapot'.
"You trying to say I'm fat?" She raised her eyebrows as high as she could get them, trying to look offended, but she wasn't fooling anyone.
Pickle half-chuckled, but never answered the question. He wasn't really in the mood for banter. He wanted a bed for the night and the feel of hot water—if there was any electricity available—on his skin and fresh clothes on his back.
He had been wearing the camouflage gear for almost a week, and his own smell was beginning to repulse him. Although Karen had cleansed herself in a nearby stream, he felt that getting cleaned and then putting on the same worn clothes was a waste of time. Karen had managed to come across an unworn T-shirt and a dark pair of jeans that was situated in the back of the van. He didn't know who they belonged to, but they came to the conclusion that it was probably spare clothes Janine had taken when they went into the supermarket, the same supermarket where Conor Snodgrass met his fate. Nevertheless, Karen offered Pickle the clothes, but he shook his head stating that they wouldn't fit his muscular frame anyway.
Karen was now carrying two Brownings and handed them both to Pickle to hold; he placed them in the back of his trousers as he was already carrying his shotgun. He looked around to see that the back gardens were quiet; the residential area seemed noiseless as well, apart from a few car alarms crying out in the distance. Karen slithered away uncomfortably through the frosted glass window, which they assumed was a bathroom window, and only had her legs to pull through. Once she was in, and landed heavily on a solid floor, she adjusted herself and left the bathroom to get to the back door and meet Pickle. She opened the door that had the key still dangling from the lock and he smiled.
"Don't mind if I do," he chortled, and inspected the inside of the house. Karen locked the door behind him and the first thing she did was put the kettle on, and placed a teabag in each mug. "At least the electric's still on." After spending a few days at the top of a multi-storey car park, they had often peered over the concrete wall to look out to the West Midland area. Only a handful of solitary lights could be seen in the distance, which suggested to the pair of them at the time that people were either keeping the lights off to avoid unnecessary attention, or, in some areas, if not the whole area, the electrics had gone down.
"Don't yer think we should search the house first?" Pickle asked. "If the Range Rover's still here, they could be hiding upstairs."
"You go ahead, I'm parched."
Pickle shook his head, but didn't react to Karen's unbothered approach. They were both drenched with sluggishness, and had a few long days of doing nothing but kicking their heels on top of the multi-storey car park. The boredom at the time was worse than being in prison, and strangely enough, Pickle found the monotony harder to handle than Karen, who would sometimes sit on the floor with her legs crossed for hours and stare into nothingness and lose herself.
He took out Karen's two Brownings—that were technically
his
, but she had 'adopted' them—and placed them on the table as she waited for the kettle to boil.
Pickle carried his shotgun with both hands in preparation for anything untoward that could occur from upstairs. He walked through the living room and went up the stairs rapidly. He was convinced the house was empty, but a niggling voice in the back of his mind still forced him to err the side of caution. As he reached the landing, he used every last ounce of concentration to scan the area. He looked to the left and right as if he was about to cross a main road.
He opened the bathroom door. Nothing.
He opened the main bedroom. Nothing.
The other two bedrooms looked to have been occupied by two young girls as the first bedroom had posters of Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck, suggesting that the girls was under the age of five or six. The other bedroom had a bed that wasn't made; it was a complete mess, and a huge poster of Robert Pattinson glared at Pickle. He jokingly snarled back at the poster and wondered what happened to the family.
Satisfied that the house was vacant, he shut every bedroom door, stood his shotgun against the door of the main bedroom and began immediately running himself a bath. He trotted back downstairs and was handed a hot cup of tea by Karen.
"Ah," he exaggerated, as he supped on the piping hot beverage. "Heaven."
He took another slurp of the hot beverage and looked around the kitchen.
"Everything okay upstairs?" Karen quizzed.
"Seems to be, but the car outside is still bothering me."
"Maybe they ran out on foot."
"Maybe. But why leave a vehicle like that? It's solid. It would have been perfect."
"Maybe there were too many of the Snatchers lurking around the vehicle."
"But there's no sign of panic. I mean the doors were locked when we arrived. Surely a door would be left ajar if you're gonna flee a scene in panic? There's no marks on the windows from the things trying to get in; the panes are spotless."
Karen's eyes narrowed in confusion, and put her cup down onto the side next to the metal kettle. "Tell me something."
"What?"
"Did you check the attic?"
Pickle's eyes enlarged and his eyebrows travelled further towards the top of his scalp; as his mouth slowly opened, the bottom part of his mandible lowered like a drawbridge. He shook his head.
"We'll check later." Karen then nodded above her, where the sound of running water was coming from. "Bath?"
Pickle nodded with embarrassment. "I'll fill it with cold water once I'm done. I know it's selfish, but it could be my last ever one, albeit cold."
Karen grinned cheekily. "You do stink a bit."
"Cheeky bitch."