“I can’t do it,” Paul said, shaking his head. “It’s not me.”
He looked to young Stephanie, could see that she had taken her blade out, and nodded his head. Whatever she was planning to do, Paul urged her to do it quickly.
She brought her knife down onto Ponytail’s right foot and he released a scream. Average went to run over to Ponytail, but was dragged back by Paul and thrown to the floor. Paul pulled out a blade from his back pocket and drove it into Average’s chest. He pulled out the blade and walked away from the deceased Average, and made long strides over to the screaming and injured Ponytail. Paul grabbed the man’s ponytail and pulled him backwards. Ponytail fell to the floor, lying on his chest and with Paul’s knee in his back so he couldn’t get up.
“You didn’t leave me a choice,” Paul whispered into Ponytail’s left ear, leaning over. He placed his blade on his throat and dragged it across, making Stephanie turn away in revulsion as the blood pissed out of Ponytail’s throat.
Paul stood up and watched the blood running out of the man’s neck. He then bent over, took the knife out of Ponytail’s foot and walked the two yards over to Stephanie and gave her the knife back. She thanked him and then he held out his hand. She took it and he gently pulled her onto her feet.
“You okay?” he asked her.
She nodded and brushed herself down. She then turned to Paul. “It’s good to see you again, Paul.”
Paul Dickson smiled and said, “Likewise.”
Stephanie looked down on the two corpses and said, “Friends of yours?”
“Only bumped into them a couple of days ago. I didn’t know they were like that. Sorry.”
“When I mentioned losing my people,” said Stephanie. “You looked worried.”
“I thought that maybe Pickle or Karen, or both, had been killed. No offence to Elza and Ophelia.”
“Well, Pickle and Karen are still alive, last time I saw them.”
Paul smiled and said, “Good.”
“It’s a shame you can’t come back.”
“It’s safer for everyone that I don’t.” Paul looked around and added, “Besides, I’m kind of liking life on the road. Were you serious about the food in the warehouse?”
“Sure.” Stephanie nodded. “Grab as much as you can, in case we come back for a second run.”
“Will do.” Paul smiled.
“Maybe you could hang around. If I take Karen and Pickle to the warehouse, even Joanne, you could have some kind of reunion.”
“A nice thought.” Paul smiled at the sweet kid and added, “But it’s better to just disappear and cut our losses. Time to move on.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s for the best.”
The two individuals had ran out off words and Stephanie decided that she needed to get back. She didn’t know how long it’d take to get back to Colwyn, especially with her erratic driving.
“I’ve got to go,” said Stephanie.
“Okay.” Paul smiled and opened his arms.
Stephanie stepped towards the man and the pair of them hugged. She didn’t know him that well, but it was good to see him. And for Paul it was nice to see a friendly face, a face that he knew.
They broke away from their embrace and Stephanie insisted that she needed to leave. She was kind of hoping that Paul would offer to drive her back most of the way and then disappear in case any of Drake’s men were hanging about, but she knew that asking him for such a favour would be selfish on her part. If Drake caught Paul, he’d be dead, plus Paul seemed to be heading north, and going back to the Little Haywood area would put his progress back.
The offer never came anyway, so Stephanie said goodbye to the ex-resident from Colwyn Place, climbed into the RV and shut the door.
Paul Dickson smiled and waved Stephanie off as the vehicle moved away. He glared at the vehicle and never moved until it was out of sight. He turned on his heels and looked up the road. The bag on his back was only a third full with food and some liquids. It was supplies that the three of them shared, as Paul was the main carrier, but now he had more than enough to keep him going for another week, whether he visited the warehouse or not.
He thought about the warehouse and decided to go and fill the bag up. He was heading that way anyway.
Chapter Seventeen
Karen took the short walk over to 18 Colwyn Place and gave the door three loud knocks. She turned around and faced the street as she waited, and couldn’t believe how lifeless the place felt, now that the three girls, Pickle and Vince were away.
6 Colwyn Place was now empty, since John Lincoln’s passing, as well as number 9, where Freddie and his mother lived. 13 Colwyn Place had been empty since Paul Dickson had left, 14 Colwyn Place was empty since Beverley and the toddler’s death, thanks to one of Drake’s men, 16 Colwyn Place was empty since the deaths of Ian and Derek Ferguson during the attack, 17 had always been empty since the death of Brian Marley, a man Karen had never met, and the place was now used to store the medical supplies, and Lynne and Sandra’s house was also vacant since their deaths.
Especially with people out, Karen couldn’t help feel a little vulnerable with so many people missing.
She could hear the door opening, finally, and span round to see the face of Jim Danson, a man she hardly knew.
“Hi, Jim.” Karen revealed a warm smile.
Jim smiled thinly, unsure what Karen wanted. He was a thirty-four-year-old thin man, dark features, had tried to keep clean shaven for many months, but stubble was present, and was average in height. He looked older than he actually was, and it was clear that the stress of living in an apocalyptic world was taking its toll on the man. His clothes were crumpled and an odour was coming from the father of two. Karen could hear his wife asking Jim who was at the door.
“It’s Karen,” he said.
Jim cleared his throat and asked Karen what she wanted.
“It’s okay,” she began, and kept the friendly smile on her features. “I don’t want to come in or anything like that, I just wanted to see if you guys were okay. We hardly see you.”
“We keep ourselves to ourselves,” Jim said with a croak in his throat. “We’ve always done that, even before you lot turned up.”
“I’ve seen you out and about in the past, but the last week—”
“What happened with those men…” Jim interjected, but struggled to finish his sentence. He tried again. “What happened with those men frightened my family to death. My wife and children are too scared to go out. We’re not cut out for this world.”
Karen pitied the man and could understand where he was coming from. Surviving in this new world was hard enough; she couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to survive with a family, especially families that had to leave their homes in the beginning.
She guessed that most didn’t make it.
How could two adults with a baby survive in such a world, or with two babies? Or with kids under the age of eight who couldn’t fathom why they couldn’t play with their toys anymore, watch TV, see their friends, go to school…
Karen said, “It’s not healthy for you or your kids to be stuck indoors all day.”
Jim gulped, and although he looked nervous before saying the words, he snapped, “Mind your own fucking business.”
“Okay.” Karen thinned her lips. “But if you want, I can take your children out and take them for a walk, play games with them, get them some fresh air.”
Jim looked like he was contemplating Karen’s offer, and then he snapped out of his train of thought when he heard the voice of his son.
“Daddy, who is it?”
Young Zac Danson was nine years old, and like his dad he had dark features and was as cute as a button, Karen thought. The little boy stood next to his dad and held his hand. He was still in his pyjamas and Karen now clocked the little girl, Kelly, standing in the kitchen. She had lighter hair than her dad and brother, and looked withdrawn and despondent.
Jim sighed and began to slowly shut the
door. “Just leave us in peace, will you?”
“Sure.” Karen nodded. “I’m sorry. Just think about my offer. It’s not right for kids to be stuck indoors all day.”
Jim paused from shutting the door completely and said to Karen, with just inches left to shut, “And it’s not right to have children living in a world like this.”
“I know.” Karen hunched her shoulders and could see that Jim was ready to close the door fully and said, “There’s nothing you can do about this situation.”
“Yes, there is,” said Jim, before the door was completely closed.
As soon as the door was shut, Karen turned around but paused from walking.
Yes, there is. What did he mean by that?
She turned to look at the front window of the Danson’s house and could see that the curtains were drawn.
A tingle shivered down her vertebrae when she thought about the last three words that had come from his mouth.
*
They were four miles from Little Haywood, from Colwyn Place, and inbetween them sat David MacDonald. He had fallen asleep sitting up.
“Fancy a detour?” Pickle asked Vince.
“What kind of detour? And what time is it?” Vince seemed unsure.
“Well, seem as though we’re trying to add to the place, I thought that maybe we could try and pick up a few people on the way back. I know Craig’s going out tomorrow, but he might not be back for days.”
“Where’re we going?” Vince asked, but never received an answer from Harry Branston, just a cheeky smirk.
The vehicle went by the Springfield’s Estate, situated on the outskirts of Rugeley, and turned right at the roundabout, passing The Stag’s Leap pub and restaurant. Pickle then took the vehicle down Wolseley Road and turned left, passing St Augustine’s church and headed for Power Station Road.
“Are we going back to Colwyn?” Vince turned to Pickle, hoping for an answer this time.
Pickle chuckled and announced, “I’m going to visit someone me and Bentley helped out many moons ago. It was when we went to the supermarket and Lee came back with that tanker.”
“The tanker,” Vince sighed. “In hindsight it was that tanker that destroyed Sandy Lane, being set alight and attracting all those Rotters.”
“Theodore Davidson played a huge role,” said Pickle. “That tanker didn’t set itself alight, did it?”
“Bentley.” Vince smiled and thought of Bentley Drummle. “Now there’s a blast from the past.”
“A couple o’ minutes and we’ll be there.”
“I don’t know,” Vince groaned. “I’m a bit paranoid with all that stuff in the back of the pickup.”
“It’ll be fine,” Pickle chuckled. “Don’t worry.”
Pickle checked the rear view mirror, looking through the small square window to make sure no boxes from the back of the truck were flying out onto the road, and went through the country lane at a steady forty.
He slowed the vehicle and turned into a secluded road, but his optimism was shattered the moment he clocked the house he was going to try. He could see the door was wide open.
“That’s where I was going.” Pickle pointed at the house and then stopped the vehicle.
Said Vince, “Doesn’t look good. Who lives there?”
“A nice girl called Celia. She lives with her parents.”
“Doesn’t look like it now.”
Pickle got out of the truck and told Vince that he was going to check the place out and then they were going to head back. He told Vince that he didn’t need to go with him. Vince nodded and was happy to sit in the truck and wait for Pickle, with a sleeping David next to him.
Harry Branston approached the front door and pulled out his machete. He knocked on the door and called out Celia’s name, but there was no response.
He stepped inside and went into the living room. The place looked like it had been ransacked and not a soul could be seen. He went upstairs and checked out the bedrooms. He walked into the one where the loud buzzing was coming from, and before he went in he knew what was about to greet him.
He placed the machete back into his belt and stepped inside, gazing at the three lifeless bodies on the floor, one of them being Celia, and dropped his head. He said a small prayer and raised his head, looking at the butchered bodies.
This wasn’t the work of the dead. This was the work of malicious thugs.
He had no idea the reason why they were killed, whether it was for food or something else, but they had been dealt a shitty hand as far as their death was concerned. Pickle noticed that a severed arm, from the elbow to the hand, was lying next to the bloody bodies and could see that Celia was missing her left arm. It belonged to her, and Pickle guessed that maybe Celia had put her hands up to protect herself and had lost an arm because of this. The thugs must have been carrying swords or machetes.
Pickle wafted away the annoying winged pests and shut the door behind him, making sad steps back down to the ground floor. He stepped outside and walked over to the pickup. He turned around and took one last look at the house and got into the driver’s side.
Vince looked at Pickle. “She not there?”
“No.” Pickle fired the engine and pulled away. “Not anymore.”
“So where to now?” Vince tried to joke. “Shugborough Hall? Drayton Manor?”
“Back home.” A morose looking Pickle sighed, “I’ve had enough.”
Chapter Eighteen
The fourteen-year-old female kept the van in third, and held her breath as she swerved by an abandoned car that she hadn’t noticed on the way there. Maybe she never noticed it before because she was in the back when Elza was driving. She wasn’t entirely sure.
Stephanie Perkins finally dropped a gear when she approached a junction and turned left, passing the hexagonal stop sign in white letters and on a red background. In the old world she would have had to have stopped at the junction, pull up the parking brake, and look out for oncoming traffic, and move once it was safe to do so. But, of course, in the old world this girl of fourteen wouldn’t be driving a motorhome in the first instance.
Feeling the van struggling and screaming out for a higher gear, she slammed her left foot down on the clutch and moved up to third, and then fourth. She felt like she was getting the hang of it, but her calf muscles were beginning to cramp from all the stretching. She guessed that she had a couple of miles before reaching Colwyn Place, and her eyes began to fill when she thought about the demise of Elza and Ophelia, especially Elza.
She had had doubts about Elza, about whether she was mentally stable or not, and was growing uncomfortable in her presence when staying at Colwyn. Despite this, she still cared for the woman, and knew that Elza had a fondness for her. Now she was dead, just like everybody else that Stephanie had cared for or loved, and the only remaining person she had left was Vince. She liked Karen and Pickle, but she didn’t really know them that well.
Stephanie had saved Vince, by dragging him from the banks of the River Trent. She nursed him, she got to know him. And after a very brief stay at Colwyn Place, the two of them went to Sandy Lane, but unfortunately were split from one another when the place was attacked by the dead.
Still in fourth, she continued along the country road, trying to ignore two dead mutilated bodies to her left, and could see a road up ahead, to the right, that she knew she had to take. She turned into the road and began to speed up, but she took her foot off the gas pedal when a deer sprinted out of the bushes and across the road, missing the van by inches.
She braked again, forgetting to put the clutch down, and the van went left and had gone onto a grassy bank. She had stalled the vehicle for a second time.
Cussing under her breath, Stephanie decided to take a breather and rested her head on the steering wheel, trying to get her breath back and getting her heart rate down to a normal level.
An image of Elza’s body skated across her mind and Stephanie could feel her eyes filling again. She leaned over to the passeng
er seat, pulled out some hankies from the glove compartment and let herself go.
With her head bowed and her hands flat over her face, the young girl cried and didn’t manage to get herself together until some five or six minutes later. Her vision was blurred, like looking out of a window during a rainstorm. Despite this, she tried to fire the engine. On the first attempt it failed to start; the second time the engine was running, but she couldn’t move the large vehicle. She guessed that it was stuck in the muddy grass.
She decided to try in a few more minutes, but first she needed to soak up the tears that were drowning her eyes.
She wiped her cheeks with the hankies and then dried her eyes. She then jumped when a small sound came from the driver’s door to her right. She looked and stretched her face with aghast.
There were three of the dead by the door, trying to claw their way through to get at Stephanie. She looked ahead and placed her right hand on the ignition, ready to try the engine once more, and managed a small cry.
Half a dozen creatures were in front of the van and two more had stumbled out from the left side, out of the bushes, and staggered into the road. They joined their other dead beings, surrounding the van, and Stephanie took a quick look in her side mirror and could see more approaching from behind.
She decided not to try the engine again. She didn’t want to attract any more and she thought it’d be better not to be seen. She climbed into the back, over the tins of food, and sat on one of the chairs at the dining table, waiting for the dead to pass.
She placed her elbows on what part of the table she could, as a lot of tins and boxes were on there, and dropped her head in her hands.
A migraine began to engulf her, and she screwed her eyes as her temples felt the sharp needling. Lifting her head up, she began to rub her temples with her fingers and looked around for some water. She was convinced she was dehydrated.
She picked up a bottle that Ophelia had been drinking on the way up and gulped down the rest of the water, about a third of a litre.
She had no idea what the time was. She guessed it was around late afternoon.
The Dead Don't Yell Page 8