Snatchers (Book 8): The Dead Don't Pray Read Online Free

of flies and maggots began to turn his stomach. He gagged a little and could taste a bit of vomit in the back of his throat, but he winced, closed his eyes and swallowed it back down. The smell of death was something he had been used to over the last seven weeks or so, but this was so much worse.
    "Good," Bentley spoke. "I haven't eaten much in days, and what I have eaten I want to stay inside of me."
    "Seems a bit disrespectful to just dump him like that." Pickle rubbed his chin in thought. "Maybe just a quick prayer."
    "Well, hurry up then." Forty-nine-year-old Bentley kept his T-shirt over his face, and even then he tried to breathe in only through his mouth.
    " Oh God ," Pickle began, looking up to the clear sky with his arms outstretched. " On this day we lose a colleague who sadly passed away to the other side due to —ah, fuck it!"
    "What?"
    Pickle shook his head and screwed his face in disgust. "Let's go before I throw up. The smell's killin' me."
    "You sure?"
    "Aye, I'm sure."
    Bentley laughed as they both headed for the truck, and once they returned to Sandy Lane, the smell of death still lingered in their noses.

Chapter Six
     
    Pickle, Lee and Sheryl took a walk around the ground floor of the Lea Hall building. It appeared that there wasn't enough taken that could affect the people of the Sandy Lane camp massively, but the fact that just two men had come in and helped themselves had made all of them shudder with dread.
    It was still early, and the news of the burglary and Nicholas' death began to spread. Pickle rubbed his eyes and yawned, forcing Lee to tell the man to join Karen back at the house of 23 Sandy Lane and try and get more sleep. Bentley had already left.
    "I'm okay," protested Pickle, albeit weakly.
    "We'll check upstairs and see what medical stuff is missing," said Lee. He nodded to Sheryl, who was standing next to him. "We'll see what's gone, then get our heads down for a few hours when Geoff and Jon Talbot come here for their shift. You get going, Pickle. You look done-in."
    "As long as yer sure." Pickle gave in and was too tired to argue back. Bentley made no apologies when he went straight back to his bed, hoping to get back to sleep—despite the pain in his mouth—with the help of the remaining cheap whisky in his bedroom.
    "I am sure." Lee added, "I think from now on we're gonna make use of the sawn-offs we took at Hednesford, the run that cost Luke John his life. From now on, every guard has a gun, whether they're on barrier or perimeter duty."
    "No training?"
    "I'll make sure every gun is loaded. All they need to do, if they have to, is pull the trigger. Any fool can do that."
    "I suppose if we're being spied on," Sheryl nodded her head in agreement with Lee's statement, "then seeing every guard carrying a weapon might make them think twice about breaking in. We're in the UK. Guns aren't that easy to get a hold of. Most survivors are probably out there with just blades and bats."
    "Right then," Pickle spoke up. "I'll be off."
    Harry Branston moved his tired legs from the Lea Hall building and headed for his house. He crossed Sandy Lane, then let out a sigh when he saw James McDonald—commonly known as Jimmy Mac—coming towards him, fists clenched. Pickle gave the man a polite, thin smile, and hoped he'd be left in peace as he was desperate for his bed. Jimmy Mac had other ideas.
    "I heard what happened." Jimmy Mac's tone was full of anger, but Pickle chose to ignore him and carried on walking, and now had passed him.
    "Hey, I'm talking to you!" Jimmy Mac bellowed, making Pickle stop.
    "Yeah?" Pickle muttered. "Well, I'm not listening."
    "This would never have happened a couple of weeks ago."
    Pickle turned around and took a few steps towards the now quivering Jimmy Mac. "What are yer tryin' to say? This is the new people's fault? An inside job? What?"
    Jimmy Mac struggled for words and could now see his son, David McDonald, and his friend, Charles Pilkington, walking down Sandy Lane