The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  “All we have left in the world.” Eyebrows was still furious, but his anger was beginning to dilute. “Some tins, a bottle of water and petrol.”

  “Petrol but no car?”

  “We thought we could use it to trade for food or … something.”

  “And why should we let yer guys in?”

  “Because... Because...” The flustered man couldn’t give Pickle an answer and seemed at the end of his tether. “Look, are you gonna let us in or not?”

  “Give us a minute, will yer?” Pickle said to the three men.

  Harry Branston took a step back. He, Vince and Terry huddled in a small group.

  “It’s okay,” said Terry to Pickle softly, out of earshot from the three men behind the gate. “We used to get this every now and then when John was in charge.”

  “What did John do?” Vince asked Terry.

  “He used to make the decision himself. If he didn’t like the look of them, he’d turn them down.”

  “What do yer two think?” Pickle asked the pair of them.

  “I know the speaker seems a bit on edge, but we don’t know what they’ve been through,” Terry said. “We could give them a chance. You want to strengthen the numbers, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Pickle nodded. “But not with people who are going to cause us grief.”

  “Like Paul Dickson?” Terry questioned, and gave off a cheeky smirk. “You and John stuck by him.”

  “Paul came as a package with me, Karen and Vince. But these three...”

  “We could give them a two week trial,” Terry suggested.

  “I don’t know,” Vince piped up and turned to Pickle. “I know you said helping out Roger and Peter was the Christian thing to do, your words, not mine, but I’m not sure about these cunts.”

  Pickle looked at Terry and responded to his suggestion. “After two weeks, if we’re not happy with them, we kick them out? Is that what yer sayin’?”

  Terry nodded.

  Pickle began to chuckle. “Oh, they’d love that. That’s too much of a tease. What do yer reckon, Vince?”

  Vince paused for thought and had a look over at the gate, staring at the three men that were now also huddled together, conversing about something.

  “To be honest … I’ve got a bad feeling about them,” Kindl said. “I think if we let them in, it might be the worst decision since Hitler invaded Poland.”

  “A bit melodramatic, Vince,” Pickle sighed. “So we’re agreed then?” Pickle clapped his hand together. “It’s a no. I’ll go and tell them the bad news.”

  Pickle stepped towards the gate and could see now that the three strangers had broken away from their huddle. and Vince and Terry remained behind Pickle. Pickle gave the men a big smile and said, “I’m sorry, guys. It’s bad news.”

  “Why the fuck not?” Eyebrows snarled and smacked the gate with his fist.

  “That, right there,” Pickle pointed at the man, “proves to me that our decision is the right one.”

  The ginger man to Eyebrow’s left spoke for the first time. “That’s shite. We’re just angry because we’re starving, weary.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. But it’s not happening, guys. Yer will need to move on to pastures new.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Eyebrows kicked at the gate and pulled out a knife from his pocket. “If we can’t get in...” Eyebrows seemed lost for words and couldn’t finish his sentence.

  “Then what?” Vince persisted. “You’re gonna cry?”

  “Vince.” Pickle turned to Kindl and added out of earshot from the three strangers behind the gate, “Antagonising them is not helping the situation.”

  Vince turned to Pickle and said in a soft tone. “There’s only three of them.”

  “Only takes one person to cause carnage, if they want. Yer forgot about Sandy Lane? And Drake’s guys managed to jump o’er our fences and into our back gardens o’er a week ago, and that was when we had people in them. We don’t have the numbers to be guardin’ every back garden, the gate and the wall.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Just don’t antagonise them. They’re disappointed, so yer taking the piss is only gonna fuel their anger which could result in some kind o’ spiteful payback.”

  “Fair point.” Vince nodded and took his light reprimand. “Just say what you need to say. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Pickle smiled. He turned and took a step forwards, and went face to face with the three guys once more.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he began. “I hope yer find somewhere safe, I really do, but it’s not going to be ‘ere.”

  “So, that’s it?” Eyebrows held out his arms like a petulant child, knife in his right hand.

  “That’s it.”

  “Can’t we have some kind of trial or something?” the man asked.

  This comment made Pickle suspicious, and wondered if he had overheard them talking when they were huddled together.

  “I’m sorry, guys. It’s a definite no.”

  Eyebrows pointed at Pickle with his knife and growled, “You’re gonna fucking regret this.”

  Pickle stood straight and released a breath out. “I hope not.”

  “We’ll be back, but we’ll be back with numbers, you’ll see.” Eyebrows was annoyed that he wasn’t getting a reaction from Harry Branston and yelled, “You’ll fucking see! Cunts!”

  “I wish you luck, gentlemen. I really do.”

  “Oh, fuck off!”

  His two companions never said a word, knowing that whatever they said wasn’t going to work anyway. They weren’t getting in. Simple as that.

  Eyebrows was still ranting and raving, and Pickle remained calm as the verbal assault continued from the desperate and angry man. Pickle thought that any minute the man was going to calm down, but he wasn’t letting up.

  His two pals grabbed him and gently pulled him back, telling him that he was wasting his time. It appeared that they had lost patience with their companion and had accepted that yelling wasn’t going to get them in; if anything, his behaviour had made things worse.

  Eventually, the three men disappeared out of view, but Pickle was aware that the man in the middle’s threat may not be just hot air. Pickle thought that if he was going to do something, he was going to do it soon whilst his anger was fresh. He told Vince and Terry to stay alert, and went back to his house to grab a machete and then do a tour of the back gardens, just in case.

  These three guys could strike at any time.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Now having no bag of supplies, Craig Burns decided to go back to Colwyn Place at Little Haywood. He guessed that journey alone was going to take a couple of hours on foot and he would be almost dying of thirst once he got there, but now after being robbed by the young girl there was nothing else he could do.

  He was in two minds whether to stay at the house and wait until the morning. It was late and he wasn’t sure, especially now that September was close, how long it’d be before darkness turned up.

  He decided to risk leaving right away. His throat was already dry and was unsure whether his body could wait another twelve hours until the next morning and then make the two-hour walk back to Little Haywood.

  Craig took the only thing that he had left, his hockey stick, and left the premises, heading back through Milford.

  He passed Shugborough Hall and had now began to walk along the country road with trees to either side of him. It was risky, but it was the quickest way to get back to Colwyn Place. His walk was only ten minutes old when he heard a rustle coming from the left of him. Craig began to pick up the pace and could see that two of the dead had already stumbled out of the woodland and onto the road.

  Trying to hopelessly follow him, the two dead were losing ground as Craig picked up the pace and began to lightly jog away from both of them. He turned around and saw the two males stumbling like two drunks on a Saturday night.

  “You’re gonna have to do better than that, lads,” Craig chuckled
to himself.

  He hit a steep incline and knew that the two freaks were going to struggle with it. He reached the top of the hill and looked over his shoulder, seeing that the two dead were almost motionless, desperately trying to get up the hill but failing miserably. He relaxed a little and his jog had turned into a stroll again after seeing the distance between him and the two Creepers, as some residents from Colwyn occasionally called them.

  He looked up to the dark blue sky and could see a couple of grey clouds sneaking across to suffocate the already dying sun, and guessed he wasn’t far away from night time.

  He picked up the pace and could hear the thin sounds of mopeds coming from in front of him. He recognised the sound straightaway and knew no other vehicle sounded like that.

  Despite the truce that had been formed a week ago by Drake and Pickle, and the two men he had bumped into earlier that turned out okay, he decided to hide in the woodland to his right and let them pass.

  What if it wasn’t Drake’s men and it was some other thugs on two wheels? What if it were Drake’s men, but decided to beat or kill Craig for a sick thrill? Truce or no truce, Drake had admitted to Pickle that he had some bad apples in his large group that were sometimes hard to police. When Drake had heard of the toddler being killed when one of his men entered Beverley’s house, he wasn’t a happy man.

  Craig crouched down, ten yards into the woods, and patiently waited for the bikes to pass, clutching onto his hockey stick with his right hand. His ears pricked up when the clumsy sounds of dragging feet came from behind him. Because of the growing sounds of the engines, he didn’t hear the noise from behind until a few seconds into his crouching. He only heard the movement from behind once they were getting closer, a few yards away.

  He turned and could see six of the dead shambling towards him. He had no idea why they just happened to be heading in his direction.

  Had they seen him enter the woods or heard him? Or were they going in the direction of the engines?

  Whatever the reason, Craig was fifteen yards away from being eaten alive and had to do something ... quick!

  He peered over his shoulder, assessing how far the dead were, and then looked forwards and wondered if he had time to cross the road and over to the woodland at the other side before being spotted by the bikers. He then thought about staying in the woods and running around the six dead and going further in. But evening wasn’t far away, and the woods were quite dark already because of the suffocating greenery.

  He peered over his shoulder again and could see that the nearest one of the six was only a few yards away. He had to do something.

  He stood up and lashed out at the first ghoul with his hockey stick, a female, and the dead being’s response was to stumble backwards a little, but the strike wasn’t enough to put her down. He brought the stick crashing down on top of the skull this time, and watched as she dropped to the floor.

  The other five had found a little zest in their feet and began to encircle the man, forcing him to step out into the road. All five stumbled out, one falling over and hitting its face on the tarmac. Craig raised his hockey stick, ready to put the five down, but four mopeds came over the brow of the hill to his left, distracting the dead and making all five turn their heads towards the bikers.

  It was Drake’s men. Craig looked and could tell by the attire.

  Craig swung his stick at the nearest ghoul but missed, and took a quick look to his side. The four bikers had parked up. They switched off their engines, stood by the side of their bikes, and looked over to Craig and his five dead followers.

  A big guy with a light beard released a sharp whistle and held his hand up and said to Craig, “It’s okay, man. We’ve got this.”

  The five ghouls were now ignoring Craig and headed the ten yards or so it was going to take to get to the four smiling men. The big bearded biker pulled out a sword from the side of his bike and swiped from the side, taking off the head, from the nose up, of the nearest Snatcher. The other four stumbled towards the giggling bikers, who had not a shred of nerves, and the bearded swordsman kicked one away and took the head off of the nearest one. The rest of its body dropped and its head rolled along the tarmac, its mouth still snarling.

  This time the big bearded guy took a step back and another biker stepped away from his bike, carrying a sledgehammer. “My turn,” the man chuckled and turned to his biker pal. “You’re not getting all the fun.”

  Craig continued to watch and saw the sledgehammer carrier raising the weapon over his head and bringing it down at beast number three, its head almost obliterated. He then swung it to the side, killing the other, and waited for the final one.

  Craig thought it was a strange weapon of choice. If he used a heavy sledgehammer as his main weapon, he’d be exhausted after four or five kills. The gang member seemed to be playing with the final ghoul. Instead of removing it straightaway, he was pushing it back and ducking and diving like a boxer, to the amusement of his other buddies.

  With time not on his side, Craig decided to step in and put down the ghoul himself with his stick, from behind. He struck the thing at the side of the head twice, which was greeted by a chorus of boos from the four bikers.

  “What a fucking party pooper you are,” the bearded man said.

  “I don’t have time for this.” Craig stepped to the side and wiped his stick on the grass. “I need to get back before it gets dark.”

  “And where’re you from?”

  Craig decided to tell them the truth. “Colwyn Place.”

  The four men looked at each other briefly and began to talk to one another in whispers. The talk continued for a further minute and then the big bearded man with the sword spoke up.

  “If you had told us that a week ago, my friend,” he began, “Then you would have been dead by now. But now that Drake has called a truce... What are you doing out here anyway?”

  “Trying to recruit people,” said Craig.

  The bearded man looked to either side of Craig and guffawed, “Not doing so well, are you?”

  “I’ve had some bad luck.”

  The man holding the sledgehammer decided to speak up. He was another bearded fellow, but not as heavy as the swordsman. “It’ll be dark by the time you’re halfway to Little Haywood on foot.”

  “I know.” Craig nodded.

  “Why don’t you come back with us? We can give you a ride back the next morning, seem as though we’re all friends now.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could take me back to Little Haywood … now.”

  “No can do.” The bearded man shook his head. “We stopped for a piss earlier, by the picnic area, and a swarm came out of the woods and onto the road. Those persistent bastards won’t be gone until the morning, and we don’t have enough gas to go to Haywood the long way round. We just about have enough gas to get back to Stafford.”

  Craig had picked up a little anger in the bearded man’s voice, but decided to ignore it. “I’ll risk it on foot, but thanks anyway.”

  “It’s not up for debate, son.” The man with the sword patted his seat behind him. “Get on. You’re coming back to Stafford with us.” He then smiled and said with sarcasm, “If I allow you to go out there on foot, I won’t sleep tonight.”

  The four bikers chuckled to themselves and Craig shook his head, unimpressed with their humour.

  “Fine,” Craig huffed. “I’ll come.”

  The two dead that had been following Craig earlier, had appeared around the bend and was spotted by all five men. The man with the sword laughed and said, “I’ve got this.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  August 28th

  The evening before, young Kelly Danson, the only surviving Danson left from the street, had stayed in Karen’s bed with Karen. The young girl had been deeply affected by what had happened to her father, mother and brother, and couldn’t understand why her dad did what he did. Karen tried to explain to the seven-year-old that her father had become mentally unstable, and he thought
that they were all better off away from the new and cruel world.

  It was hard for the girl to comprehend, and Karen felt like she wasn’t doing a very good job trying to explain to the infant. Pickle had told Karen, before her and Kelly went to bed, about the three visitors that they had, but told her that it was nothing to worry about and the situation had been sorted.

  The pair of them, Karen and Kelly, had gone to bed at ten and spent a lot of time talking, crying, and then more talking. Finally, the exhausted Kelly Danson had drifted off at around one in the morning, to Karen’s relief, and the former nurse fell asleep some ten minutes later.

  For the first time in weeks, Karen’s dreams were polluted with macabre scenes. There were two dreams that she could remember before waking up with a gasp. The first dream was fictional, but the second was centred on an event that really happened.

  In dream one she was naked, running along a desolate road in the middle of the day. It was a weird dream, and it appeared that she was involved in some kind of marathon; however, she had no idea why she was naked in the dream. As she progressed along the road she could hear the sound of a small crowd. She was in Rugeley and passed the Stag’s Leap pub that was situated in the same spot that the Eaton Lodge Hotel used to be. She turned right at the roundabout and ran down the Western Springs Road. She could see the small crowd and a finishing line up ahead, but there was no other runner present in this bizarre dream of hers.

  As she approached the finishing line, some thirty yards away, she passed the first lot of people that were to either side of her, cheering her on. Some faces in the crowd she recognised, others she didn’t. Some of the people were holding up placards, about ten in all, some trying to encourage the woman. Some placards were positive, but others were creepy and negative.

  The positive ones had: Go, Karen. You can do it! and Team Bradley. Some of the negative ones being held read: You’re shit! You suck! But the one that disturbed her was the one being held up by a dead KP. It read: Pickle will die in two weeks.