Ghostland (Book 3): Ghostland 3 Read online

Dicko scrunched his face in thought and wondered if Yoler was shouting out that kind of information, telling Dicko what the situation was. She was being pinned down. Was this her telling Dicko to attack them? If she was being pinned down, then at least two of them were on their knees, holding down the woman. The group asked Yoler a few questions, but it didn’t sound like they were beating her.

  “Fuck it.”

  He grabbed the wardrobe and tried to walk the heavy furniture out about a foot so he could squeeze through the gap, and by the time he had managed that, he could hear movement on the landing.

  “Let’s get her in the back of the van,” a male said. “We’re gonna have to tie this feisty one up.”

  “Are we gonna go?” the female asked.

  “No,” the same male voice replied. “We have more houses to check and I’m not going back until we have at least five bodies. It’d be a waste of petrol.”

  “Right,” a different male spoke up. “Let’s get her downstairs.”

  Dicko crept along the bedroom and could see that two males had a hold of Yoler, one on each arm, and they were dragging her downstairs, with the female with curly ginger hair in front of them. The female looked to be holding Yoler’s machete in one hand and the shotgun in the other, and was laughing as Yoler called the woman names as she was being held in a shoulder lock by the two men.

  Dicko crept across the landing and went downstairs, following them. He was aware that the woman had the shotgun, but she had it in one hand and it would take a few seconds to drop the machete, aim, and then fire. With the female leading the way, they were almost at the bottom of the stairs, and Dicko drew his knife back and embedded it into the skull of the man to Yoler’s left. He kicked the man’s back, freeing the blade, and the dead man fell over and on top of the woman before anybody knew what was going on.

  The man on the right was punched in the throat with Yoler’s now free hand, and before she could do anything else, Dicko rammed the machete, like a spear, through the back of the man’s neck. He removed the blade as the panic-stricken woman dropped Yoler’s blade and struggled to get the shotgun ready, and then Dicko threw his knife at the woman as the other man tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. The blade caught her in the face. She released a cry, dropping the shotgun, and escaped through the front door with just a superficial cut to the left side of her face.

  She ran out into the road and fell over. She struggled to get back up, and once she did, she headed for the van she arrived in.

  Yoler picked up the shotgun from the bottom of the stairs and went outside. She was in no hurry. She strolled along the road, holding the shotgun with two hands, and could see the woman trying the doors to the van and then checking her pockets. Yoler smiled as it seemed apparent that the keys to the van were in the pockets of one of the dead men.

  Once it was clear that the woman wasn’t getting in the van, Yoler raised the gun at the woman’s legs and pulled the trigger. The ginger woman fell to the floor. She screamed out and placed the palms of her hands on her thighs, and called Yoler a fucking bitch.

  Confident that the woman was going nowhere, Yoler could see Dicko exiting the house and asked him to get the keys to the van.

  He held his hand and shook the keys. “Already got ‘em.”

  Before Yoler could ask him to open the back to let the captured woman out, he began to unlock the van. He opened the shutter door and the short scream of a woman was heard.

  “It’s okay,” Dicko said to the woman. He held out his hand. “Come on.”

  Now Yoler was standing next to him, but this didn’t make the woman relax. Both could see that the interior of the van had old bloodstains on the floor and up the sides, and it stunk terribly.

  “We saw those people throw you in the back of here,” Yoler said. “Come on. Go back to your home.”

  The woman seemed less hesitant and thanked the pair of them as she climbed down. She then looked over to her house and ran over to the main door. Dicko peered at the injured woman by the passenger side. She was writhing on the floor, both legs bleeding, and Dicko felt no sympathy for the woman with the curly ginger hair.

  “What about her?” Dicko asked.

  Still holding the gun with both hands, Yoler said, “I’ve got some questions that need answering.”

  “Fine.”

  Dicko went to the driver’s side and opened the door. He placed the key in the ignition and gave it a gentle twist. He stared at the fuel gauge and could see the vehicle was in the red.

  He took the key out, went around the front of the vehicle, and met up with Yoler. The injured woman was a foot away, still moaning, and Yoler had the gun pointing at her head.

  “The van’s in the red,” Dicko announced to his female companion. “So it’s not worth taking.”

  “Okay.” Yoler nodded. “I’ve got a few questions to ask Ginge here.”

  “Well, hurry up,” said Dicko and began to yawn. “I wanna go to sleep soon.”

  Yoler opened up the old style shotgun and could see there were two barrels and one cartridge left. She snapped the gun shut and asked the injured woman her first question.

  “What were you going to do to that woman? Why take her?”

  The ginger hair woman laughed and spat on Yoler’s boots. Dicko could see she was an individual in her forties, ugly, and her teeth needed serious work.

  Yoler persisted, “Where are you based? Where’s your camp?”

  “Not far from here,” she said, and then looked Yoler up and down. “Wanna join? I’d love to find out what your thighs taste like.”

  Yoler swallowed her anger and asked another question. “Is this a meat wagon?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Are you cannibals? Are you—?”

  “We’re not animals, love. We’re just trying to survive.” The ginger haired woman winced with pain and said with gritted teeth, “Once upon a time you and I probably had a family, passed each other on the street. I may have stolen your car parking space, ran on a treadmill next to you at the gym. Shit, I may even have served you at the restaurant my husband and I used to own, but times are different now. My kids are dead, my husband and friends are dead, and—”

  Dicko jumped when Yoler pulled the trigger and the gun went off. The ginger haired woman’s chest took the hit and she died immediately.

  Dicko turned and looked at Yoler, holding the smoking gun, as if she was in trouble, and said, “I was actually quite interested in what she had to say.”

  “I wasn’t. She was boring me.” Yoler huffed. “Let’s get her in the back of the van. I’ll give you a hand with Laurel and Hardy in the house.” Yoler looked at the shotgun. “May as well put this in with them.”

  “Okay.” Dicko nodded in agreement. “Once we’ve done that, I’ll drive the van to the end of the road and into the field, just in case more come looking and spot it.”

  “Okay.” Yoler blew out her cheeks and said, “Let’s get it done. And then tomorrow we go to the wholesalers, before going back to Donnie and the rest of the crew.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Next Day

  Donald Brownstone woke up and immediately got to his feet. He stretched his back and groaned with the pain. Sleeping on the floor was killing him. He decided that the best way to get rid of the smarting was to move. He crept through the dusky cabin and gently opened the door, then stepped out and winced when the daylight assaulted his sensitive eyes. Once his vision was restored, he could see young Grace, with her back to the cabin, building a fire with wood she had collected.

  “Morning,” Donald called over.

  She turned around and smiled.

  “Bit early for that, isn’t it?” Donald grinned and added, “We’re not doing breakfast anymore. Just lunch and dinner, you dig what I’m sayin’?”

  “I know.” Grace shrugged her shoulders. “I was bored. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Donald stepped down to the ground and had a look at what she had built. He looked at
the woman and gave off a thin smile. The poor thing had gone through so much. She had lost her dad, her younger sister had been killed, and her mother had been raped by a gang of mercenaries. At least they eventually found each other again.

  “Be back in a bit,” he said to the girl.

  Before he took one step forwards, she spoke up. “Where are you going?”

  “I set out some snares, six in all, so I’m going to check what we’ve caught.”

  “Rabbit?”

  “Well ... hopefully,” Donald laughed. “But it might be grey squirrel soup for lunch and dinner.”

  “Never tried squirrel,” Grace said.

  “The meat’s tough, but it’s edible.”

  Grace folded her arms and seemed unsure what to say to the big man she barely knew. Donald wasn’t a man that normally engaged in small talk.

  “Yoler and Paul aren’t back yet,” she said.

  “I know.” Donald smiled. “I don’t think he likes being called Paul. Best to call him Dicko.”

  “You don’t seem too bothered.”

  “I’m not. They can handle themselves. Hopefully this will be the last time, for a while, that we’ll be missing breakfast. Depends on what they bring back.”

  “If they come back.” Grace didn’t share Donald’s confidence.

  “Oh, they’ll be back.” Donald clapped his hands together and huffed, “Right. I better go and check those snares.”

  “Can I come with you?” There was almost pleading in her voice. They were alive, but the boredom was contaminating their minds.

  Selfishly, Donald wanted to be on his own. He knew he had a whole day with the group, and that thought alone depressed him.

  “I’d be better on my own,” he said. He felt terrible for the young girl, but alone time was needed for Brownstone. “Anyway, if your mum wakes up and sees that you’re not here, she’ll freak.”

  “Okay.”

  “Laters, kiddo.”

  Donald walked into the trees and had a rough idea where the four snares were. If Yoler and Dicko came back empty handed, the whole area of the woods would have to be littered with snares. The pond near the camp was a Godsend, but they still needed to eat.

  Donald reached the first snare and sighed that it hadn’t been touched. He released another groan and went to snare number two.

  Snare number two delivered better results. A dead hare had been caught, albeit a skinny one. Donald untied the dead animal and reset the trap. He held it up and shook his head. The hare alone wasn’t enough to fill him up. He pulled out a carrier bag from his pocket and placed the animal in. He walked a few yards north and then stopped. He had forgotten where he had placed snare number three.

  He snickered at himself and groaned, “Donald, you fucking idiot.”

  He then looked ahead and saw a bush.

  “Ten yards left of the bush,” he murmured. “Of course.”

  He finally found the third snare and placed his hands on his hips like a petulant child. “Give me a break.”

  There had been no luck with the third snare and Donald wasn’t confident as he headed for the fourth and final one.

  “If it’s like this now, fuck knows what the winter’s gonna be like.”

  The man could hear a noise and became stealthier with his feet, picking them up as he progressed through the bracken.

  He could see the tail of an animal near where he had set up the snare, and moved a few more steps to see a Golden Retriever digging in to Donald’s catch. He couldn’t make out what the animal used to be. He guessed a squirrel, but with its guts out and the dog devouring half of it anyway, the animal was beyond salvaging.

  The Golden Retriever turned and snarled. It was very unlike a Golden Retriever’s nature to be so aggressive, but things were different. This dog was starving, and nobody was going to take it off of him.

  Donald shook his head and decided to allow the dog to eat his catch. There was nothing more he could do now. He walked backwards, keeping an eye on the canine. He guessed that it was probably a domestic pet a year ago, judging by the collar it was wearing, and he was surprised as it continued to gnash and snarl and slowly progressed forwards, following Donald.

  “Don’t make me do this, Fido.” Donald pulled out his blade. “I had a dog like you when I was a boy. This ain’t gonna be easy.”

  The dog continued to go forwards and a few steps later, Donald’s heel caught an exposed tree root. He tumbled over and the dog attacked Donald, seeing his predicament as a sign to attack.

  The dog went for Donald and the burly man held out his forearm horizontally to protect himself. The dog’s teeth were felt through Donald’s fabric, but before the Golden Retriever could sink its teeth into Donald’s flesh, he rammed his blade into the side of the canine’s neck and twisted the knife as the animal yelled and whimpered.

  He threw the dog off of him before it bled out onto his clothes, and quickly got to his feet. Donald brushed himself down and looked at the animal he had destroyed. He didn’t blame the dog. It wanted to survive and saw Donald as a threat to its meal that it was devouring, or even Donald as a meal himself. Attacking a large man like Donald was an ambitious attempt on the canine’s part, but starvation led to desperation.

  “Sorry, pooch,” Donald released a sad sigh and looked at the dead dog on the floor and the rabbit in his bag.

  “Fuck it. Looks like it’s Retriever soup today.”

  Donald bent down, pulled the dog’s head back by its ears, and dragged his blade across its throat. He crouched for a couple of minutes and watched as its throat bled all over the grass.

  He then lifted the dog, and carried it as its throat bled out onto the ground, but not as profusely as before. He made his way back to the camp. The dog was going to have to get stripped and gutted before young David woke up. The little man was never going to touch lunch and dinner if he found out that dog meat was in it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dicko was the first to wake and sat up immediately, making his back cry out in pain. He rubbed his lower back on the left, and swung his legs around so his feet were now touching the floor. He had spent the night on the couch and Yoler was in one of the bedrooms.

  He stood up straight and stretched like he used to when he used to attend the gym.

  The gym. He smiled.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  When the apocalypse was in its infancy, Dicko was trapped in his home with his son and couldn’t go anywhere for two reasons. His wife had taken the family car on the Saturday, the day the disaster was officially announced, to go shopping with their daughter.

  The other quandary that Paul Dickson had was that they could have left, but his fear was that his wife and daughter might have returned to an empty house. They never came back.

  He sat down on the couch and leaned back, thinking about the days when he used to work, go to the gym, and be with his family. He would give his life up for one more simple day like that.

  He thought back to when he had to return to the gym, to get water. His neighbour looked after his son, Kyle, while he went out and he turned up at his regular place and had to break in. He remembered going into the dark reception area and being frightened to death. He entered the gym and saw a regular that he recognised had turned into a Canavar, or as some people called them from his area, a Moaner, Lurker or Snatcher. Some of the Colwyn Place residents from Little Haywood called them Creepers. He was taken by surprise by two of the dead in the gym. Back in the normal world they were fitness instructors, and Dicko had to remove them. They were his first kills.

  His reminiscing was interrupted when he heard the sound of footsteps coming from above him in one of the bedrooms.

  “Jesus, Yoler,” he sniggered to himself. “You’re like a rhino.”

  The feet of Yoler Sanders made their way to the ground floor, and Dicko greeted her with a smile when she walked through the door to the living room.

  They both greeted each other with a ‘good morning�
� and the female sat next to her male companion and released a breath out, resting her large blade on her lap.

  “Christ.” Dicko put his hand over his mouth and nose. “Your breath stinks.”

  “Cheeky bastard.” Yoler took a peep at Dicko and added, “Yours ain’t so good either. Smells like a cat has shat in your mouth.”

  “Alright.” Dicko smiled at her predictable defensive response. “Calm down, woman.”

  “There’re toothbrushes upstairs. We can use them.”

  The two of them sat in silence and gazed at the clock on the fireplace. It had stopped working, and the hands stated that it had ceased working at 2.34. Whether it was am or pm, neither knew.

  “I wonder how many survivors are left,” Yoler mumbled to herself.

  “That’s funny,” Dicko responded. “I was just wondering how many Canavars were left.”

  “Do you think there’re more Canavars than people left in the UK?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s a funny name, isn’t it?” Yoler said.

  “What? Canavars?” Paul rubbed his hairy chin and queried, “I heard it was some professor that coined the phrase.”

  “He mentioned it on some of his interviews when he was on the news, when this thing had just started.”

  “I don’t remember seeing him. I must have had a different channel on.”

  Yoler nodded. “He was Turkish, I think. He was an expert in biological sciences from Edinburgh University. Canavars is Turkish for monsters.”

  “Speaking of which.” Dicko pointed at the curtains of the living room. There was a foot gap between the curtains and he saw a body walking by. He was convinced it was a Canavar and went over to the window to have a look. He saw it stumble away, but it wasn’t the lone Canavar that concerned him, it was the two men that were checking out their van.

  He continued to watch and saw the two men, both carrying bats, put the dead creature down. They dragged it to the side of the road and then continued to check out the delivery van, checking the doors.

  Dicko went over to the arm of the chair and picked up his machete.