He knocked the door gently and waited for a response.
Nothing.
Just under thirty seconds had passed and he tried again. This time the knocks were a little louder, but there was still no response from behind the door.
This time he banged the door with his fist and yelled, “Yoler! We gotta go! Move it!”
Still no response.
“Shit.”
He tried the door and realised it was probably bolted, maybe even barricaded as well, and used his shoulder to force the door open. Eleven shoulder barges later, the door opened slightly, breaking the lock, and Craig could see that there was a set of drawers placed against the door. Two angry kicks at the door later and there was sufficient space for him to squeeze through and enter the bedroom.
Out of breath, he gazed at the empty bed and could see that the window had been opened. It looked like that the young woman had decided to pass on Craig’s invitation to go back to Colwyn Place with him and try and survive out there on her own.
He was disappointed that she had decided to flee, but why did she do it in such a way?
Was she scared of him?
Why didn’t she just walk out of the house, through the front door, rather than making her leaving so dramatic?
Did she want him to think that she was still in the room, sleeping? Is that why she barricaded the door and went through the window?
His feelings were slightly hurt that she thought so little of him, but then maybe she had bad experiences with men. Since the apocalypse began, some people had turned into monsters, and Craig thought that maybe she had seen the ugly side of what the apocalypse could do to people, especially men.
He sighed and decided that he may as well stay the night and continue with his journey the next day. He then realised something. His head quickly turned to the left and glared at the corner of the room, near the door.
His bag! His bag full of supplies had gone.
“Bitch,” he snapped. “Fuck!”
He ran his fingers over his face and kicked out at the bed in frustration. If he was going to continue with his mission, he was going to have to do it with zero supplies and would have to scrounge on the way there and on the way back.
He turned and punched the wall with his left hand, the stick still in his right, and regretted immediately when his hand began to throb with pain.
With his face still flushed with rage, Craig could see a piece of paper sitting on the side table, to the right of the bed. He walked over and looked down on it. He picked the piece of paper up and could see words had been written on it in blue biro.
It read: Nothing personal, Craigy Boy. Just trying to survive. Good luck. Y.
He screwed the piece of paper up into a tight ball and tossed it across the room. “Silly girl.”
*
Quint walked around his home and smiled when he walked into the kitchen and looked at the two boxes full of tins, still not believing his luck. He opened his cupboard above the sink, and reached up to the highest level and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. His wife hated the smell, so he always had to smoke outside, but now he could do anything he wanted. He never smoked much anyway, but he always kept a couple of hidden packets in case of a stressful day.
He looked inside the packet and could see that there were seven left. It was his last packet. He pulled one out, threw the packet onto the side, and popped the stick of poison inbetween his lips.
He opened his cutlery drawer and pulled out a lighter that his wife used to use to light candles on a night, and sparked up. He took a long drag and sucked the smoke into his lungs. He breathed out the excess smoke and smiled as a small rush could be felt as well as the giddiness that made the room sway as if he was on a ferry on choppy waters, and looked up as the blue smoke snaked and swirled its way up to the kitchen ceiling.
He took another drag and decided to go upstairs, to the bathroom, and trudged his tired legs up to the landing, the ash falling on the carpet as he did this.
He looked around in the dusky area, once he was on the first floor, and could see the three bedroom doors were just how he had left them a couple of months ago. They were shut, and the fifty-seven-year-old had been sleeping on the sofa since he had closed the rooms.
He had no intention of entering the room where he and his wife used to sleep, make love, and sometimes argue. He also had no intention of entering the other two rooms where his son and daughter slept for years before both leaving to go to Keele University.
His daughter had managed to finish her course and went on to become a PT teacher, however, his son, who went to study history, didn’t finish the first year.
Seven years ago, Quint and his wife received the heartbreaking call from their daughter that their son, Ian, who was only two years younger than their daughter, had died.
He had been out drinking with his classmates one night and all six of them, being intoxicated, played about and were play fighting and pushing each other off of the pavement and onto the road. Ian was pushed a little too hard by one of his pals and stumbled onto the road and into the path of an LGV. He never stood a chance and was killed instantly.
Quint shook his head at the thought of it, took another drag from his cigarette, and muttered, “Stupid little bugger.”
When the apocalypse began to snowball, Quint or his wife never heard from their daughter, who stayed in a place called Stone, and assumed the worst.
He opened the bathroom door, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, shut the door behind him and sat on the toilet seat, still puffing on the bad boy. He smoked it down to the butt, lifted the seat and dropped it inside the toilet. He sat back down and puffed out the last of the smoke.
“Well,” Quint began. “I’m still here, darling.”
He lifted his head and looked up to the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing coming from all around him. “Never thought I’d make it this far, did you? Got to admit, I nearly did something incredible, resorting to cannibalism, but gifts from strangers had managed to put a stop to that.”
Quint lowered his head and heard his neck crack as he did this. He added with a reminiscing smile, “I was thinking about our Fiona.” Tears began to fill Quint’s eyes as soon as he began the new sentence. “What would she be now? Six, seven months pregnant?”
Quint wiped his eyes and said with a chuckle, “I don’t know why I’m talking to you. You never listened to me when you were alive, you sure as hell aren’t gonna listen to me now, are you?”
Quint ran his fingers through his heavy grey beard and stood to his feet. He looked over to the bath and said, “Anyway, love. Nice chatting to you. I’m gonna go downstairs and tackle another tin. I shouldn’t really; I should ration them, but fuck it. I think I’ll go for some beans this time.”
Quint wafted away some of the flies that hit his face and decided to leave after his short stay. The vile insects were making his stomach turn.
He was always careful whenever he visited the bathroom, just in case any escaped and were free to fly around his house. Sometimes a couple would escape and he would have to kill them because their constant buzzing drove him nuts. Other times none would escape, despite there being dozens there.
He shook his head. “What is the point of these cunts? Worthless fucking insects. Pointless.”
He placed his hand on the door, ready to go, and took a peep at his wife’s body that lay in the bath. Her head was obliterated from where he had shot her in the face, but it was for the best.
He gazed and could feel the bile rising in his throat as he could see the white maggots in their dozens wriggling around where his wife’s face used to be.
Quint swallowed hard and said before leaving, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, sweet cheeks.” He wafted the flies away from his face once more, and said, “Little bastards.”
He opened the door quickly and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
He trudged down the stairs, looking up to the ceiling and sighing. One of the flies had escaped
.
He jumped up and tried to swipe at it with his hand, but he knew that he needed something more substantial, like a rolled up newspaper. “Fucking vile cunt.”
Chapter Thirty Three
August 27th
Vince Kindl’s dreams had consisted of things that had happened in the past. His dreams took him back to his childhood.
Vince was outside in the street, playing with childhood friends, and his sister was skipping in the front garden. Vince was playing football in the street with his two pals, occasionally having to stop when a car approached, and could see a man staggering up towards their way. Vince’s two friends began to point and laugh at the man stumbling up the road, but a young Vince never bothered. Vince’s face was sombre and never joined in on the laughter.
How could he? The pathetic figure that was struggling up the road was his father, Wolfgang Kindl. The short dream then finished and another one began, this time involving Pickle and Karen. Both were gardening where the vegetable patches were and then they turned, once they saw Vince, and attacked him with the garden tools they were using. It was all very bizarre.
He woke up, and once his eyes opened and he wiped his wet eyes, Vince sat up and swung his legs to the side. He hunched over, lowered his head, and placed his hands on his forehead.
He stood up and went downstairs, dressed in his black boxers and a faded black T-shirt that had seen many years of washes. He entered the living room and peered out into the street to see Terry by the main gate, but nobody by the concrete wall.
It didn’t concern Vince a great deal.
What was one man by a wall going to do if the place was attacked again? It didn’t make any difference last time.
Vince’s breathing became a little shallow and could feel his heart pounding out of his chest. He felt a numbness there and placed two fingers from his left hand on his neck, feeling for his carotid artery. His breathing was becoming more difficult, his heart increased, and he felt like he was being smothered.
“Shit.” He was beginning to panic. “What’s happening?”
He sat down and decided to try some breathing exercises to get his breath back to normal. He took in a deep breath but winced, held it for eight seconds, and then released it out slowly for eight. He repeated the procedure, but every time he breathed in, a pain stretched across his chest.
He placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, trying to recover his breathing.
“Shit, shit, shit. This can’t be happening. Not now.”
He stood up and began to pace the floor. In truth, he had no idea what to do. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He feared a heart attack, but guessed it was more of an anxiety attack. Whatever it was, Vince Kindl felt helpless and was panicking.
He approached his main door and opened it. Maybe some fresh air would make him feel better. He sat on his doorstep and lifted his head up, allowing the soft wind to tickle his features. He took deep breaths in, pleased that the pain in the chest wasn’t there anymore, and continued to do his breathing exercises.
He looked up and gazed at the almost empty street, and was starting to feel better again.
He shook his head and managed a little smile. “Well, that’s never happened before.”
*
Zac Danson’s eyes opened and didn’t know where he was at first.
His eyes stared at the ceiling and released a sad sigh when he realised he was in his home. Worse than that, he was still living in this horrible new world where he had to stay in his house, soaked with boredom, had no friends, and didn’t go to school anymore.
The little boy yawned and wondered what he and his sister could do today.
He then heard sobbing. It sounded like his dad.
Zac rubbed his eyes and sat up when his dad entered his room. He was holding a knife.
“Daddy, what’s going on?” Zac was confused, and gazed at his dad as the grown man approached the side of his bed, shushed his boy, and told him to lie back down.
“Is it still early, daddy?”
“Yes, son,” Jim said, trying to suppress a sob. “Lie down and close your eyes.”
“Okay, daddy.”
The little boy did as he was told; he shut his eyes tight and gasped as the knife went into his stomach.
*
Karen Bradley opened her eyes and released a yawn as she gazed at the ceiling. She stretched in the musty smelling bed and gave off a loud and exaggerated moan, enough to wake Pickle in the next room. She began to get dressed and put on her boots, ready for what this day had in store for her.
She rubbed her crusty eyes and contemplated sitting up; but she wasn’t quite ready yet. Almost a minute later, she did sit up and she frowned as her recollections went back to the last time she had done a shift at work. She had had an argument with one of the consultants because of his indecent behaviour towards her. His name was Peter Forrester, but he was nicknamed ‘Filthy Pete.’
Sometimes if she bent over for something, like paperwork or a pen, and he was around he would make comments like, “While you’re down there, love?” or “Oh, go on. If you insist.”
Most comments the middle age man would make towards Karen would be sexual innuendos.
She had been told by her partner Gary that she should report him, but she didn’t see the point. A low grade nurse against a well respected consultant? There would be only one winner.
After his usual derogatory comments, the nightshift became worse because of the workload, and Karen remembered being almost in tears as she headed for her jeep in the hospital car park after her shift had finished.
Despite what she had been through, she couldn’t stop thinking how the world was before. Some days she’d hope it was nothing but a bad dream she was in, even if that meant waking up and never seeing Pickle again. If it was a bad dream, she’d have her Gary back, her friends, her mother, and she would make more of an effort to visit her dad in Glasgow as well as her stepsister Kelly.
She got off the bed and moaned as the soles of her feet touched the soft carpet. She remained standing and curled her feet, her toes going down, and brought them back up again. She crept to the bathroom, dropped her knickers, and sat down and peed in the toilet. She dipped her head and rested the forehead on her hands.
Once she was finished, she looked down at her thigh. There were a couple of temporary scars present. It was from weeks ago, when they were based at Sandy Lane. She was putting on a brave face when she was at Sandy Lane. People saw her as this brave warrior who was also pregnant, but behind the scenes things were very different.
For a short period, Karen had resorted to harming herself, mainly cutting herself on the inside of her thighs, but had managed to overcome this incident, and she had no idea why she did it at the time. She didn’t have the urge to do it now. Maybe the pressure of the new world was becoming too much for her, and cutting herself was a way of relieving the tension. At the time, the pain made her feel more alive when she was feeling numb, but she knew it was wrong and needed to stamp it out quickly. She was okay now, though.
She shuffled her feet towards the window and looked out onto the street. She could have lived in worse places. In fact, she had lived in worse places.
She reached for the narrow top window to let in some air and stood where she was for a couple of minutes, allowing the stray breeze to circulate around the room. Her thoughts went back to the first days once more, remembering fleeing from her house after a reanimated Gary had tried to attack her. She drove to Milford, unsure where she was going, and eventually stopped at the beauty spot to catch her breath. She remembered trying the radio channels and then the Snatchers appearing from around the corner. She had driven through and over them, and even reversed to finish off the rest.
She created a thin, sad smile when she remembered she had spotted a child from a bedroom window that had seen what she had done, and waved her hand at the child, telling them to get down and stay out of sight.
She then began to daydr
eam about her and Pickle’s brief stay at a house in Heath Hayes, in the second week, after the Stile Cop incident, but her thoughts were shattered when she heard a scream.
She opened her window and leaned out, about to call out to the guard to see what was going on, but another scream was heard, and this time she knew where it was coming from. It was coming from the Danson’s house.
Karen quickly left the room, galloped downstairs, and ran out into the street. She feared the worst.
Chapter Thirty Four
Karen ran across the front gardens, opened the Danson’s front door, and went into the living room, but not a soul could be seen. The screams had died as soon as she barged the door open, and all her ears could pick up was the sound of a male crying.
The sobbing was coming from the kitchen.
She placed her hand to her left side and realised she was without her machete, any weapon for that matter. But why would she need one? The Danson family were a normal family, a scared family, and there were no dead around, so why would she need a weapon?
She stepped inside the kitchen and could see blood drops on the linoleum. She looked up and could see the blood drops leading to Jim Danson. He was sitting on the floor, in the corner of the kitchen, blood running off a blade he was holding, and sobbing like a child. The man was inconsolable.
Karen looked at Jim with aghast and was trying to work out what had happened. His knife was bloody, however, she couldn’t see any injury on the man.
She gulped and stared at the man, hoping he was going to explain to her what had happened, but she could see he was in no fit state to talk. He shook and he sobbed, and his behaviour sent a shiver down Karen’s spine
“Jim, what happened?” she asked him.
She received no answer from the broken man, but was then startled when she heard somebody coming in.
Vince stepped into the kitchen and gazed at the sobbing Jim Danson.
“What happened?” Vince asked Karen.
The Dead Don't Yell Page 16