Read Online Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry by Shaun Whittington - Free Book Online
Authors: Shaun Whittington
Tags: Zombies
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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 you, 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
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 you, 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