Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry by Shaun Whittington
Authors: Shaun Whittington
Tags: Zombies
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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 was 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 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 was 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 while 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
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 was 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 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 was 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 while 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
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