Snatchers 8: The Dead Don't Pray by Shaun Whittington

Author:Shaun Whittington [Whittington, Shaun]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2016-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

*

Karen and Sheryl drew their weapons and waited for whoever was approaching. They could hear the sounds of careful footsteps walking on the hard wooden floor. It was two sets of feet they could hear, and their eyes clocked one another. Both girls were nervous, but neither one wanted to show it. What they knew these days was that even after a month or so, some of the living were more dangerous than the dead.

Karen was aware that some of the 'bad apples' that were making people's lives a misery was down to the four hundred or so inmates being released from the jail in Stafford, and had probably now scattered themselves around the Staffordshire area. But if that hadn't have happened, she would never have met Pickle and might have been dead by now.

They took in a deep breath as the boots got nearer to them, and from the side they could see two figures, both holding baseball bats. Two women.

The woman nearest to them looked to be in her early thirties. She had dark hair, tied in a ponytail that reached the middle of her back. She grunted, turned to the side and spat to the floor. Her companion looked to be a few years younger. She was shorter than the older woman, by about two inches, short blonde hair and not the prettiest of females.

The one on the left, nearest to them, turned to the girls, as if she already knew they were there, and released a small smirk. "Hiding from anyone in particular?"

Karen and Sheryl got up, both a little embarrassed, and watched as the two female strangers casually walked towards the stage. They both turned and sat on the stage, facing the front, legs swinging, and their baseball bats sat by the side of them. Sheryl and Karen relaxed, convinced that these girls weren't a threat to them, and sat on the wooden bench at the front and was now facing the women.

"So here we are." Karen was the first to speak, but none of the women sitting on the stage responded. They ruffled through their bags, pulled out a small bottle of water each, and sipped the liquid in silence, both staring into space. Looking at their clothes, it was clear that they had been through a lot. Dried-in blood was evident on their clothing, some on their hands even, and their baseball bats were bloodstained, chipped and worn-looking.

"So, are we gonna get an introduction?" Sheryl asked.

The one on the left nodded, screwed the top back onto her bottle and put it into her bag. "Yeah." The older-looking woman on the left picked up her bat and said, "This is Maria," she then pointed at her friend's bat, "and this is Frieda."

Sheryl swallowed her anger and decided not to bite. It was obvious that the girls were not in the conversational mood, maybe even psychologically scarred—who wasn't?—and probably just wanted somewhere to rest and not be bothered.

Karen tried this time. "Where're you from?"

The woman on the left spoke up again.

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