The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  She kept on running, noticing some familiar faces in the crowd like Sharon Bailey, Jack Slade and Bentley Drummle. More faces could be seen, and it appeared that a lot of the deceased from Sandy Lane and Vince’s camp were in the crowd. Karen gasped when her eyes had spotted Lee James, Rick Morgan, the obnoxious Jimmy Mac, Jasmine Kelly, Simon Benson, Luke John, Nicholas Burgess, Sheryl Smith, Kirk Sheen, and Karen’s old classmate Daniel Badcock.

  As soon as Karen reached the finish line, she found herself sitting down next to a fire. This was the start of the second dream. She looked round and it took a minute to realise where she was.

  Pickle was sitting next to her, KP was sitting opposite her, Janine Perry was to her left, and Jamie Thomson was standing near the wooded part of the beauty spot. It looked like he was doing guard duty. Karen then suddenly knew the situation she was in. It was the first week of the apocalypse and she was at Stile Cop with Pickle and the rest.

  At this point she had returned from work and had to escape a reanimated Gary. This resulted in Karen fleeing in her jeep, only to be carjacked and then having to flee the dead on foot up Stile Cop Road. Then she met a man called Oliver Bellshaw. After he assaulted her, she managed to respond by attacking the man with his own axe, and then she met Pickle.

  She had her head bowed and rubbed her eyes. Karen heard Pickle’s voice coming to the right side of her, asking her if she wanted something to drink. Karen lifted her head up and looked at Pickle. She released a shriek once she saw that half of his face was covered in his own blood and a bite mark was present at the side of his neck. He had turned, but somehow he was still managing to talk like a normal person.

  He quickly leaned over, grabbed Karen by the cheeks, and moved in on her. It looked like he was about to kiss her on the lips, but instead he bit into her face, ripping her lips away.

  *

  Karen stirred and opened her eyes.

  She sat up in bed and the first thing she did was to check her lips with her fingers. She felt to the side of her to make sure that Kelly was still there, and then began to think about the weird dreams that had taken place. She remembered the placard with Pickle Will Die in Two Weeks on it, and then she thought about the campfire dream where Pickle had turned.

  Normally, she wasn’t a believer in dreams meaning anything, but she couldn’t help thinking that it could be some kind of premonition. Were the two dreams linked? Was Pickle going to die and reanimate as a Snatcher? Was that going to be his eventual fate? In two weeks?

  Karen shook her head and released a slight chuckle, reprimanding herself for being so ridiculous. Or was she?

  She then felt wetness underneath her left thigh and knew straightaway that Kelly had wet the bed. Karen sighed and got out of bed. She was going to have to wake Kelly up and change the sheets.

  She didn’t want to wake the child, but she couldn’t allow her to lie in her own urine.

  Now that the sheets were soaking, Karen thought that Kelly was going to wake up eventually anyway. Her attention then moved away from the dreams and the bed wetting episode when she could hear voices coming from outside.

  She recognised the guard’s voices from her street, but what were they shouting at, and why?

  She could see a glowing from behind the curtains, making her face scowl, wondering what was happening outside, then could hear whistles being blown by the guards that were on duty. She opened the curtains and peered out to find every single vehicle that the street had, including the RV, was in flames.

  Seconds later, her bedroom burst open, giving her a fright and making her shriek. It was Pickle.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” she asked Pickle in an angry whisper.

  “Fucked if I know.” He walked over and looked out of Karen’s bedroom window, moaning, “Fuck me.”

  The pair of them were in shock, and gazed helplessly at the burning vehicles that had been lifesavers over the weeks.

  Pickle groaned, “I can’t believe this is happening. How did they get by Rowley and Paul, our so-called guards?”

  “Who would do such a thing?” Karen asked him.

  “I have an idea.”

  Pickle moved away from the window and headed for the stairs.

  Despite poor Kelly lying in her own urine, Karen got dressed and followed Harry out to be greeted by the intense heat from the burning vehicles, smoke billowing into the air.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  By the time Karen had reached outside, every member of the street were out, except for Kelly. Pickle was disappointed but calm about the situation. What was done was done, and any kind of ranting would not undo what had happened.

  Pickle stood in the middle of the street, all vehicles ablaze, whilst Karen remained by her doorstep. Everybody else either stood and watched with shaking heads or had their heads in their hands.

  Vince approached Pickle and said, “Rowley and Paul never saw anything until the vehicles were set alight. They reckoned they saw three figures running away, back over the garden fences, but it was too late to chase them.”

  “Probably our three visitors from before.” Pickle nodded. “Must have came o’er the back garden’s fences and waited for both o’ our guys to be looking elsewhere.”

  Vince leaned over and whispered to Pickle, “I’ve noticed before that Rowley, especially when he’s by the wall, stares out for ages. He loses himself, loses concentration.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone,” Pickle sighed. “It’s a boring job, especially guarding on a night.” He then tried to joke, “And the pay isn’t great either.”

  “Now what?” Now Bonser had come over and stood near the two men.

  “All we can do is watch the vehicles burn.” Pickle looked at the two men for a response, but there wasn’t one. “At least we have what we need. We only used to go out on runs to top ourselves up for the winter. Besides, we were running out of petrol anyway.”

  “That stuff that Stephanie brought back will keep us going for a while on its own,” said Vince.

  “Yeah,” Pickle nodded, staring at the burning RV. “Thank God we moved the stuff into her house, rather than keeping it in the RV, which Karen suggested.”

  “Getting water’s gonna be a pain,” Stephen Bonser huffed. “We’re gonna have to go to the Trent on foot, bring back less with us.”

  “You don’t seem bothered,” Vince said to Pickle, looking at his calm manner. “You okay?”

  “I’d be more worried if they smashed up the solar panels.”

  “And you think the people that did this were the three guys from yesterday?”

  “Without a doubt.” Pickle nodded. “Yer said that Rowley saw three men running away. I also seem to remember that the ginger guy was holding a can o’ petrol when they were at the gate. That’s probably what they used to set the vehicles alight. Looks like they were greatly offended by the refusal.”

  “Well, at least they didn’t attack the houses,” said Vince.

  “No. These guys weren’t animals. They were just desperate and pissed off when they were refused help.”

  “Burning our vehicles was a bit fucking out of order, though,” huffed Vince. “Don’t you think?”

  “O’ course. But they never attacked anyone directly. If ever I bump into them in the next couple o’ days, while we’re out on a run, or whatever, I wouldn’t harm them.”

  Vince was surprised by Pickle’s comment and said, “But that Bear character did something similar.”

  “Theodore Davidson wanted people to die at Sandy Lane,” Pickle corrected Vince Kindl, and began to pick at his left ear before adding, “Don’t forget, from what I’ve been told, the dead were already in the camp, thanks to Bear, before the tanker blew up and enticed more from afar.”

  “What do we do now, Pickle?” Bonser asked. “Just stand here like a couple of fannies while the vehicles burn?”

  “Aye,” Pickle nodded. “That’s exactly what we’re gonna do? Me and Vince will stay with Rowley and Paul. Everyone else can get back t
o bed.” Pickle looked at the residents that were out, including Karen, and turned to Bonser and winked at the man. “Go, tell everyone else to go inside and tell them that there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Will do,” Bonser said obediently.

  They all retreated back into their homes, one by one, Terry, Joanne, Danny, Gail Smith, amongst others, apart from Karen. She came over to Pickle and asked if people were going to be safe tonight.

  “Don’t worry yer pretty little head,” Pickle said with a chuckle. “Yer Uncle Pickle is here?”

  “I was thinking about Sandy Lane,” Karen remarked.

  “This is nothing like it. Get back to bed, back to that little girl.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “I’ve got clothes and sheets to change anyway.” She turned away and took four steps forwards before turning around to face Pickle once more. “The fire might attract some Snatchers.”

  “We’ll take care o’ any strays, if there are any. On yer go.”

  Karen smiled, walked back over to him and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.”

  Pickle could feel his throat swell and his eyes getting damp. He cleared his throat and snapped falsely, “Just get back inside before I give yer a kick up the arse.”

  “Was that a I love you too?” she giggled and walked away, back into their place.

  “Bugger off, Bradley,” he snickered.

  Chapter Forty

  It was dawn, and Vince Kindl and Stephen Rowley stood by the concrete wall. Both men were armed, but kept their blades away. Stephen had a blade in his pocket and Vince had earlier returned to his house to get his machete.

  Vince and Stephen continued to glare over the wall, looking down the old and abandoned Colwyn Place. Vince glanced over his shoulder as the minutes ticked by, looking at the burning vehicles, and decided to converse with Stephen Rowley.

  “Another couple of hours,” Vince began, “and it’s gonna be sunset.”

  “Tired, chap?” Rowley asked. Both men were still peering over the wall, their fronts pressed up against it.

  “Yep,” Vince sighed. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this tired since I spent the night with Marie Farringdon.”

  “Who, chap?”

  “Marie Farringdon.” Vince smiled and shook his head. “She was a right goer, I can tell you. She was a classy girl.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Vince nodded and said, “She had all her own teeth, and she had Love and Hat tattooed on her knuckles.”

  Stephen Rowley scratched his head and said, “Shouldn’t it be Love and Hate?”

  “Yeah,” Vince sighed, “but she had a finger missing.”

  “Oh.” Stephen narrowed his eyes and wasn’t sure if Vince was joking or not.

  “You never seem to talk about old flames, Stephen. What’s your story?”

  “A gentleman never tells,” Rowley said with a smirk.

  “Has there ever been a special somebody in your life?” Vince asked. He then turned his head and said, “Have I asked you this question before?”

  “I don’t remember, chap. And no, there hasn’t been a special person in my life, apart from my mum and my sister, Emma.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t sleep with your sister, can you?” Vince chuckled. “Unless you live in West Yorkshire.”

  Stephen Rowley grunted, cleared his throat and twisted his neck. He looked over his shoulder and could see that the flames were finally dying. Thankfully the vehicles with gas had little, and the others were empty, so there was no explosion as such or a massive wave of flames.

  Rowley seemed hypnotised by the flames and jumped when Vince slapped him on the shoulder.

  Vince pointed over the wall. “Our first strays.”

  Stephen looked over and could see two of the dead in the distance. They were at the bottom of the road, but would soon be by the wall.

  The two of them watched as the dead slowly made their way down. They could see that the two monsters were female, young, both wearing blood soaked dresses, and had nothing on their feet.

  Vince could see that the one on the left was in a worse condition than the other, and was missing half a face; the top half of the dress was torn and a breast was hanging out.

  “I don’t fancy yours much, Stephen,” Vince laughed.

  “Come on, Vince,” Stephen sighed. “Once upon a time that was somebody’s daughter, sister even. You shouldn’t say things like that, chap.”

  Kindl nodded in agreement. “Having said that, the one on the left looks alright.”

  Stephen shook his head in disgust.

  “Come on,” Vince laughed. “Don’t be so serious all the time. The trouble with you is that you need your hole.”

  “My what, chap?”

  “You need to get laid. You’re all uptight, serious. When was the last time you did it?”

  “Did it?”

  “You know,” Vince sighed, “the last time you roasted the broomstick, did the hokey pokey, stuffed the turkey, when was it?”

  “None of your business, chap,” Stephen huffed and turned away from Vince, clearly upset.

  “I reckon you got little action, back in the old world,” Vince spoke, still looking at the two dead females that were approaching. “I reckon the best way you could have got laid would be to crawl up a chicken’s arse and wait.”

  Stephen never responded, making Vince smile.

  Vince pulled out his machete, as the two ghouls got nearer to the wall, and said, “Right, time to punish some bitches. And not in a good way either.”

  *

  Harry Branston had his arms folded and had been pacing up and down for the last few hours, annoying a nervous Paul Smith. Pickle was getting tired and kept on moving to keep himself awake, whereas Paul looked like he had given up. He was sitting on Terry’s lawn with his head in his hands.

  Pickle stopped walking when he saw at the other end of the street Vince and Stephen looking over the wall. A few minutes later, Vince had pulled out his machete and appeared to have put down two ghouls that had approached the wall. Vince put his machete away, telling Pickle that no more were around.

  Pickle looked to the side when the door of 1 Colwyn Place opened. Terry Braithwaite stepped out, fully dressed with bat in hand, and walked towards Pickle. The big fellow patted Paul Smith on the back and told him to get to his bed. Paul never had to be asked twice, and left immediately.

  “Looks like you have me for company,” said Terry.

  “The fire’s only attracted two so far,” Pickle said. “Probably don’t need yer, Terry. Looks like we kind o’ got away with it.”

  “What happens now? With the street?”

  Pickle shrugged his shoulders. “We carry on. Maybe when Craig gets back—”

  “Look, Pickle…” Terry paused, unsure whether to finish off his sentence. “When John was here, things ran smoothly. You’ve been doing this for a week, and half the people in the street are dead. I don’t want you to think that I’m being unfair, but it’s not exactly running smoothly, is it?”

  “That’s okay, Terry.” Pickle paused and had to swallow his anger. “Yer entitled to yer opinion. But let’s not forget that John was still alive and in charge when we were attacked.”

  “And now we’ve lost five in a week,” said Terry, “with Ophelia and Elza being killed back at the factory, and now the Dansons.”

  “I know,” sighed Pickle. “I’m trying my best.”

  “Well…”

  Terry never managed to finish off the sentence that he had started. His and Pickle’s ears picked up a sound coming from a distance, to the right of them. They both stared at one another, and had a mix of intrigue and nervousness within them, as the engines grew louder.

  “Engines,” Terry murmured.

  “Correct.” Pickle smiled. “Let’s hope they belong to Drake and his mob, otherwise…”

  “A bit early for a visit, ain’t it?”

  Now Vince and Stephen could hear the sounds from the wall, and bot
h men began to make their way over to the other two men by the gate. By the time Vince and Stephen had reached Pickle and Terry, the sounds of the engines were growing, and all four individuals knew that the vehicles were coming to Colwyn Place.

  “I hope that’s Drake’s mob,” said Vince.

  “That’s what I just said to Terry,” Pickle moaned. “Otherwise we may have a little trouble to deal with.”

  “Great. More bad luck.”

  Chapter Forty One

  As soon as Pickle spotted the pickup, and the four bikers behind it, he began to relax. He could see the driver and Drake sitting at the other end; Craig Burns was sitting inbetween the men. Pickle opened the gate himself and the pickup slowly crawled its way through and stopped once it was fully in, parking to the left, near Terry’s garden. The four bikers hung back, outside the street, and Pickle decided to leave the gate open.

  Terry, Pickle, Vince and Stephen Rowley stood at the side of the vehicle and waited patiently, wondering what the hell was going on.

  Drake was the first to step out of the passenger side. The six-four thin man leaned against the side of the vehicle and gazed at the smouldering vehicles, shaking his head. He ran his fingers over his shaved head and wore the same attire he had on when he first visited. He was wearing black combats, a white T-shirt and a black nylon jacket. And unlike his men, there were no WOE letters stitched on his clothing.

  Craig was next to leave and said aloud, looking at the vehicles, “What the fuck happened here?”

  “Thugs,” was Vince’s short explanation, wondering why Craig was with Drake’s mob.

  Craig shut the passenger door and the driver remained in the vehicle. The driver switched the engine off and sat with his head bowed.

  Pickle decided to break the ice and asked Drake, “What’s up?”

  Drake stood next to Craig Burns, placed his hand on his shoulder and said, “Your little friend here stayed the night at our place.”