The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  “So you turned him down?” Joanne asked.

  Pickle nodded.

  “Let’s get this straight.” The rotund Rowley scratched his cheek and grunted, “So you weren’t even gonna put it to a vote or let us know anyway?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pickle, his words drenched in regret. “I handled it badly, but after what’s just happened I think moving to Drake’s would be for the best.”

  “What’s the place like?” asked Joanne, beating Stephen to it.

  “I’m not gonna lie to yer,” Pickle said. “It’s magnificent.”

  Moaning from Vince had halted the conversation and all looked at the injured man. He was sweating and was now shaking his head from side to side as if he was having a nightmare. Karen placed her hand on his head and shushed him.

  She said, “He’s burning up.”

  A voice from downstairs bellowed up the stairs. It was Drake’s voice, and he yelled, “Pickle, that’s the bodies taken care of! We’re gonna head! I’ll keep in touch!”

  Pickle left the bedroom, leaving the door open, and stood at the top of the stairs. “Can yer wait a while?”

  “Why?”

  Pickle looked over to the three standing individuals who all gave him an approved nod. “Because I’ve changed ma mind. We’re comin’ with yer.”

  “Excellent.” Drake pointed at Pickle and told him that he wouldn’t regret his decision.

  “I hope not,” Pickle snickered, and returned to the bedroom where Vince and the rest were.

  More moaning came from Vince, and his eyes suddenly popped open. He looked around and twisted his face as the confusion grew, and then looked down to his hand. He gazed at the injured hand for a few seconds and realised what had happened. He remembered being bitten and Stephen standing over him, ready to strike him with the machete.

  “Vince?” Karen was the first to speak. “How are you feeling?”

  He tried to sit up and could see blood evident on all four individuals that were around his bed, especially Pickle and Karen.

  He asked, “Did I miss much?”

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Vince had told the former nurse that once he was fit he would like to use her thighs as earmuffs. It was an old joke he used to say to Karen and Shaz at his camp, and she laughed it off, telling him that he had more chance of being deep-throated by a nun.

  After the short banter, Vince had managed to fall back to sleep again.

  Pickle poked at Stephen and asked him to get everybody out in the street. He told him that Gail Smith was in his place, looking after young Kelly Danson, and reminded him to also get Old Tom from 3 Colwyn Place. The old guy had always been a recluse when John Lincoln was in charge, but he hadn’t been seen for days, except from the occasional appearance in his living room or bedroom window.

  Pickle, Karen, Stephen and Joanne left Vince alone and went outside. Pickle stood in the middle of the street, with Joanne, Karen and Stephen by his side, and could see that Drake was waiting for him. Drake patted Pickle on the shoulder and told him that he and his guys would wait outside the street, in the lane. It’d be a struggle, but with the space in the back of the pickup and the option of going on the back of the four riders, he was confident that all of the people from Colwyn could be transported back to Stafford, if all wanted to go.

  Two minutes had passed and, thanks to Stephen Rowley, everybody was out. Even Brenda, young Kelly and Old Tom.

  “Yer here!” Pickle spoke up, louder than normal, “Apart from Vince, yer all here! Good.”

  “What’s this about, Pickle?” Terry snapped. “And why the fuck are those pricks hanging about?” he continued to rant, obviously referring to Drake and his men.

  Pickle never responded to Terry’s comments. He took in a deep breath, and said to the people of Colwyn Place, “Put yer hands up if yer lot are sick o’ this shit.”

  “Sick of what?” Paul Smith asked.

  “Have yer had enough o’ people dying, had enough o’ the Snatchers, and had enough o’ the uncertainty o’ what awaits us every day?” The small crowd looked at one another, but nobody gave Pickle a verbal response. “Go on!” Pickle yelled, making some people feel uncomfortable. They knew Pickle was a hard man, but hardly saw him so animated. “Put yer hands up if yer have had enough!”

  The crowd of people began to gape at one another once more, and then they began to talk amongst themselves. Not one person answered Pickle’s query, so he tried once more.

  “I’ll ask again,” Pickle grunted. “How many o’ yer have had enough o’ this?”

  Apart from Terry and young Kelly that was by Gail Smith’s side, and had no idea what was going on anyway, everybody raised their hands.

  “Right. Good.” Pickle clapped his hands together and added, “We’ve been given an offer by Drake.”

  “What kind of offer?” Terry was the first to speak up, and already didn’t like what Pickle had said. He wanted nothing to do with those WOE pricks, despite what they had just done to clear up the street.

  “He’s offered all o’ us residence where they stay at Stafford. It’s at the old hospital. We’ve seen the facilities that they have and they’re impressive. Better than yer could imagine.” Some people began to talk amongst themselves, but Pickle continued, “Initially, I turned him down, which he took well. But after what’s just happened.... We’re just never gonna be safe here. We stand a better chance in Stafford. We—”

  “No fucking chance!” Terry Braithwaite snapped.

  “Come on, Terry.” Joanne wiped her eyes and cried, “We’ve just lost Stephen and Danny. We can’t go on like this. That’s seven people in one week.”

  “It’s him!” He flashed Pickle a wide-eyed glare. “He’s cursed! As for going back to their place…” Terry shook his head and couldn’t help a snigger. He looked up and stared over at Harry Branston and pointed his finger at Pickle. “You remember what they did? What they did to our people?”

  Pickle nodded. “Aye, and I remember what we did to theirs.”

  “We were protecting the camp.”

  “Aye, we were. It started out as a friendly search for a couple o’ guys they were after, but your reanimated daughter and yourself started the ball rolling.”

  “Bollocks. You started the ball rolling, by bringing Jez and Craig in. That’s who they were looking for.”

  “I didn’t know that they were wanted men at the time. We did tell them they had gone elsewhere, then they searched the place and bumped into yer daughter in the cellar that no fucker knew about.”

  “This is not on me; it’s on you.”

  “We, Drake and I, could have talked the problem through. But being stupid enough to tie yer dead daughter in yer basement, who killed one o’ Drake’s men, and then yer losing it and then you killing one o’ the guys had prevented that.”

  “She was all that I had left.” Terry took a few steps forwards and was grabbed by Paul Smith, but was shrugged off. Terry’s face was full of rage, and there were tears in his eyes. “I’m not fucking going.”

  “Drake can’t control all of his men and know everything about them, just like John Lincoln and I didn’t know you had a Snatcher tied up in yer basement.”

  “Fuck off, Pickle.”

  “Fine.” Pickle nodded the once and said, “All the people that want to come, stand next to me. All the ones that want to stay, stay where yer are.”

  People left the crowd and the people that remained where they were and wanted to stay behind surprised Pickle. Why? Did they think they could make the place work, or didn’t they still trust Drake, despite that he and some of his men had helped to kill the beasts and clean up the street?

  Brenda Hatchet, Old Tom, Paul and Gail Smith and Terry were not going and stood together. Young Kelly was standing by Gail’s side and had no idea what was happening.

  Pickle never asked if they wanted to change their minds. He took their decision and said, “Right, everything that’s here, including the medical supplies, solar pane
ls, the lot … is yours. I wish yer all the luck in the world, people, I really do.”

  “Are you going now?” The rotund Brenda asked.

  “We’re gonna get Vince out o’ his bed soon, then we’ll leave. Drake said that it’s an open offer. We will come back here in a week and ask yer guys once more.”

  “Don’t bother,” Terry snapped. “They’re fucking killers.”

  “We’re all killers, Terry,” sighed Pickle. “Well, most o’ us, but these killers, as yer call them, are offering us a place to stay.”

  “You’re a using bastard, Pickle,” Terry snarled. He took a step forwards and grabbed Harry Branston by his shirt with both hands. Karen and Stephanie protested, but Pickle waved them away and allowed Terry to have his rant. “You’ve said yourself that you’ve been from one camp to the next. Then you come here, to a place that has everything, and now that a better offer comes along you want to take it.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Pickle said calmly. “We’re all invited. What’s wrong with going for something better?”

  “You’ve been bad news ever since you set foot in here. For months we did okay. Yes, we lost a couple of people on runs, like Brian Marley, but never have we lost so many in the last week or so.”

  “I’ve already told yer before that I wasn’t in charge when the street was attacked.”

  There was a deathly silence in the street and it appeared that Terry had finished his rant, but he still had a hold of Pickle.

  “Finished?” Pickle smiled.

  “Yeah.” Terry’s eyes widened. “I’m fucking finished.”

  “Now, let me go, before I lose my temper.”

  “Lose your temper?” Terry mockingly laughed. “What the fuck are you gonna do, faggot?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Terry began to laugh. “Why? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names—”

  Terry doubled over and released Pickle. He had been punched in the stomach. But Pickle wasn’t finished there. He took a step back and as Terry raised his head, Pickle palmed him on the nose, breaking it immediately. Terry fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose, moaning.

  Pickle looked at the palm of his hand and wiped it on his trousers before addressing the crowd once more. He told them, “We leave in five minutes. So yer have five minutes to change yer mind.”

  There was no response from them and the former inmate sighed. He turned to the people that wanted to leave and told them to get a bag and pack.

  “I’ll go and see Drake and tell him how many are going,” Pickle said, and then looked over at Karen. “Better get Vince off his arse. He can rest as much as he wants once we get to Stafford.”

  “Sure,” said Karen.

  Pickle began to stroll towards the battered entrance where a blood covered pickup and four bikers waited patiently.

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Pickle had informed a delighted Drake that eight people from Colwyn Place, including himself, of course, were going to be leaving with him, and then he returned to the street.

  Karen and the rest of the leavers went inside to gather their personal belongings and were out within five minutes. The older members of the street like Joanne Hammett and Stephen Rowley hugged their friends who were staying, like the Smiths, Brenda Hatchet, but others like Terry and Old Tom decided to go indoors.

  Young Kelly was by Paul and Gail Smith’s side, and Karen went over to the three of them as the others were starting to leave. Craig Burns led the way, with David MacDonald and Stephanie Perkins behind him. Stephen and Joanne helped Vince out of his house, his arm around each of their shoulders, and slowly made their way to the exit.

  Vince was exhausted, in a daze, but he was aware what was going on. He told Stephen that whatever the decision, wherever Pickle and Karen went, he would follow.

  Only Pickle and Karen were left to exit.

  They stood in the middle of the street. Pickle looked over his shoulder and nodded over to the damaged gate.

  “I’ll get that fixed before we go,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” came a voice from behind him. It was Terry. He had exited his house, holding a tea towel on his bleeding nose and was carrying a toolbox with his other hand. “I’ll do it myself.” He then looked over to the small amount of people that had decided to stay and reassured them, “We’ll be fine. We don’t need Pickle and his mob.”

  Karen remained by Pickle’s side but remained silent.

  Pickle held out his hand to Terry. “Let’s not leave on bad terms. We’re not gonna be strangers. We’ll pass through now and then, to check up on yer.”

  “That’s big of you,” Terry scoffed, ignoring Pickle’s hand.

  Pickle tried to swallow his anger and bit into his bottom lip before saying, “I’m gonna head. Best o’ luck, people.”

  Pickle walked away and Karen took a couple of steps forwards to little Kelly and held out her hand, but Kelly shook her head and grabbed a hold of Gail Smith. Gail put her arm around the little girl’s shoulder and gave Karen a thin and an apologetic smile. It appeared that Kelly had made the decision to stay with the Smiths, despite the fact that her family had been killed by her deranged father in the same street.

  The thought of going out there, where the Chompers were, as her brother Zac used to call them, terrified the life out of her.

  “Okay,” Karen gulped. She tried to put a brave smile on her face, but her lips quivered with emotion. She did feel a little rejected, but she never questioned the little girl’s decision.

  Karen walked over to her and kissed her on the top of her head. “I’ll see you now and again, okay?”

  Kelly looked up and nodded; her eyes were soaked with tears that weren’t quite yet ready to fall.

  Karen lost her smile and pointed at Paul Smith. “You look after her.”

  Paul smiled. “With our lives.” He cleared his throat and added, “Get going, Karen. They’re waiting for you.”

  With her machete tucked in her belt, Karen turned her back on the tiny group and walked towards the battered entrance, stepping over the collapsed gate. She could see them all outside of the gate, waiting for her.

  Four bikers sat behind the pickup with their engines on, and it appeared that everyone had managed to fit in the back of the pickup, with Drake and his driver in the front. Pickle was also in the back and told Karen that there was plenty of room in the front, and that he was in the back because he fancied some fresh air.

  “I’ll sit with you guys,” she said.

  Karen was helped in by Craig and sat inbetween Vince and Pickle. Vince looked unsteady, like a drunk, and Karen put her arm around his waist to give him support.

  Drake stepped out of the passenger side and checked to see who was in the back. “Is that it?” Drake asked nobody in particular, but Pickle answered his query.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “Right, you sorry looking cunts,” Drake sniggered and seemed excited with the new people. “Stafford, here we come.”

  “Drake,” Pickle called, stopping Drake in his tracks.

  “What is it?”

  “Just out o’ interest. That guy yer kicked out o’ the truck the other day, yer know, for being disrespectful...”

  Drake laughed, “Wow, Pickle. You really have a soft heart, don’t you?”

  “I was wondering if he got back okay, that’s all.”

  Drake’s face lost its smile. “He died. Found his torn up body a mile away from the hospital. Damn shame.”

  “Oh.” Pickle lowered his head.

  Drake smiled and began to snicker. “I’m just kidding. He’s alive. He came back a little dehydrated, that’s all.” Drake went back to the front of the vehicle, still laughing, and into the passenger seat.

  Karen leaned over to Pickle and said, “I think Vince and Drake are gonna get on like a house on fire. Same sick sense of humour.”

  The vehicles began to move and they were now going over the Wolseley Bridge.


  Pickle smiled and looked over his shoulder to see the garden centre, then looked in front of him and could see the Wolseley Arms pub. He began to reminisce.

  The pub was ruined, windows smashed, and bodies thrown to the side of the pavement. It was in a different condition compared to when Pickle arrived there in the first week of the apocalypse.

  When he arrived in the prison van with KP, Laz, Conor Snodgrass, Janine and Jamie, the place was abandoned, but was immaculate. Back then, the establishment still had food in the kitchens and booze was still available.

  Pickle had checked the cellar when he first went in. He checked the place before everyone went inside and found a reanimated corpse in the cellar, a female, and cracked her head open with the butt of his Browning shotgun.

  “You okay?” Karen asked him, dragging him out of his daydreaming. “You’re staring into space and smiling to yourself like some pervert.”

  “Thinking back a few months.” Pickle cleared his throat, trying to dilute the numbness that was in there.

  “I do that all the time,” she said.

  “Do yer think we’re doing the right thing?” Pickle asked.

  “Yes, I do.” Karen coughed and tucked her dark hanging hair behind her ears. “What Drake has done...”

  “Is better than what any of us could have done?” Pickle smiled, attempting to finish Karen’s sentence. “Meaning ... me.”

  “You need people to build something,” Karen tried to appease her friend, knowing that he was feeling guilty for leaving the other folk behind and giving up. “Drake had a gang of guys before the craziness began. He had the advantage of having a gang of men, plus their families, when this started.”

  Pickle rubbed his chin and groaned, “Maybe I should have stayed.”

  “Why? What’s the point when there’s a better offer available?”

  “But the people that we’ve left behind...”

  “Fuck ‘em!”

  “Karen!” Pickle scolded.