The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  Snatchers 12: The Dead Don’t Yell

  By

  Shaun Whittington

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author uses UK English

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  Hell is empty, and all the devils are here

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest.

  Snatchers 12: The Dead Don’t Yell

  Chapter One

  August 25th

  As soon as Vince Kindl stepped out of his house, he took in a deep breath and shut his eyes. It was good to be alive. He shut the door behind him and looked up to the burning ball of fire in the sky.

  For the last three days the people of Colwyn Place had nothing but rain. The sun was now back, and there was hardly a white cloud drifting along the blue sky.

  Vince opened his eyes and could see Stephen Rowley by the concrete wall. Stephen had been on the nightshift guard duty and Terry Braithwaite was at the other end of the street, by the gate.

  They needed more people.

  After losing people from Drake’s attack and watching Paul Dickson being whisked away in Drake’s pickup, the place was short on numbers and didn’t feel the same anymore, now that familiar faces had disappeared.

  He looked up and could see a figure waving at him from the person’s bedroom window. It was Stephanie Perkins. She must have just woken up, he thought. He waved back and blew the teenager a kiss, and then made his way over to Rowley.

  Stephen was facing the wall, away from Vince, and could hear the steps coming from behind. He turned around and saw Kindl dressed in black boots, black combats, and had a green T-shirt with “I Hate Christmas” emblazoned across the shirt in red lettering.

  “Morning, chap,” Stephen greeted Kindl.

  Vince nodded at Rowley. “Steve.”

  Rowley flashed Kindl a hard glare.

  “Stephen, I meant to say,” Vince corrected himself and held his hands up. “Anything happened?”

  “Not really.” Stephen grunted and twisted his neck.

  Vince could never get used to Rowley’s habit. It turned his stomach every time he did it. Vince had told Terry Braithwaite the other day that he liked Stephen, but wouldn’t want to be stuck in a lift with him; otherwise he would end up punching him in the throat.

  “Any sign of Drake’s men?” Vince asked Stephen as they both peered over the wall, down the abandoned part of Colwyn Place.

  Stephen shook his head. “I think that’s them finished.”

  When Paul Dickson escaped, Drake ordered two bikers to roam around the Little Haywood area in case he turned up. He never did. The people of Colwyn Place were convinced that Paul was miles away from the place now, maybe even dead, and it appeared that Drake was thinking along the same lines, as his men hadn’t been seen at all the day before.

  “You know what I was thinking, chap?” Stephen said, and then cleared his throat.

  “Let me guess,” Vince said, and held his hand up to stop Stephen from continuing further. “Why doesn’t Tarzan have a beard? Why is dyslexic such a hard word to spell?”

  “Er … no, chap.” Stephen squinted his eyes at Kindl and opened his mouth.

  Vince looked up in thought and continued, “Why do they call it rush hour, when nobody is actually moving?”

  “Are you gonna let me speak?” Stephen shook his head with a straight face and looked annoyed. “I’ve always wondered...”

  “What?” Vince huffed. “Spit it out, Stephen.”

  “Why mopeds?” Rowley looked at Vince for an immediate answer and repeated his question but lengthened it. “Why do most of Drake’s men ride on mopeds? I don’t get it.”

  “I dunno.” Vince hunched his shoulders. “I think they always did, when they were a biker gang before the apocalypse. I suppose the type of bike is a part of the uniform. A bit like the Hells Angels. They ride Harleys, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know, chap.”

  “They do.” Vince nodded. “And you know why?”

  “No,” Stephen sighed.

  “The Hells Angels were originally founded by a group of men that flew in the American Fighter Squadron known as The Hells Angels. After World War Two they couldn't find anything to equal the adrenaline rush they got from flying. Many of the guys had access to the Harleys that were used in the war at almost no cost. I think the deep sound of the engine was a bit of a rush for the guys.”

  “Are you making this up, chap?”

  Vince shook his head. “Why would I?”

  Stephen never responded.

  Vince gazed at Stephen with bemusement and asked him, “Is that it? With everything that has been going on and the people we’ve lost, this is the kind of thing that’s keeping you up at night?”

  “I was just curious, chap, that’s all.”

  Joanne Hammett stepped out of her house and was wearing a dressing gown; her presence was noticed by both men. She took out a cigarette and lit it. Vince was surprised she had any left. Maybe she was rationing them.

  “Is there any more chocolate from that run a couple of days ago?” asked Stephen.

  Vince shook his head. Karen did a chocolate round yesterday and that was the last. “Joanne had the last Twix.”

  “I used to love a Twix.” Stephen smiled and began to reminisce about the old days. “Especially with a cup of tea.”

  “Mmm.” Vince was lost in thought. “I wonder if one finger is enough for Joanne. Maybe she can handle two.”

  Stephen smiled and twisted his neck, this time without the grunt or the clearing of the throat. “You should give up on her, chap,” said Rowley. “She’s way out of your league. You are Stafford Rangers and she is Man City.”

  “True.” Vince nodded. “But with Paul away, she’ll need some new man company.”

  “You’ll need to behave yourself though, chap.”

  Vince turned and stared at Stephen with his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean ... watch what you say. Some females would take offence to some of the stuff that you tell me.”

  “Yeah? What like?”

  “Well...” Stephen knew there was a catalogue of rude remarks that Vince had said since he met him, but couldn’t think of one at that moment.

  “Well?” Vince widened his eyes. “I’m waiting.”

  “Didn’t you tell Karen the other day that women were just buckets for men to empty themselves into?”

  “That was just a bit of banter. I was just winding Karen up.” Vince laughed and had forgot about that remark. “Me and Karen have been like that since we’ve known each other. It’s just harmless banter between two people that know one another. Besides, she gave me a dead arm after I said it.”

  “Okay, chap, but some women, like Joanne, may class that kind of banter as a sexist remark.”

  “Sexism? Do you think with the world the way it is that we should be worried if people take offence to what others say?”

  “I’m just saying, chap,” Stephen grunted.

  “Well, for your information, Stephen, I’m not sexist,” Vince said with a straight face. “In fact, I have the utmost respect for every woman I’ve slung one up.”

  “See, it’s comments like that, chap.”

  “Oh, fucking shut up.” Vince moaned. “I’m not changing now. If some people don’t like me, then that’s just fine. They can take a seat with the rest of the bitches waiting for me to give a fuck.”

  Stephen decided to change the subject, seeing that Vince was unusual
ly upset, and asked him, “When is Elza and the others going out to that place with the RV, chap?”

  “Sometime this morning,” said Vince.

  The day before, Vince and Stephen had passed a warehouse and investigated the place. It hadn’t been touched, but Vince was convinced that it must have been stocked full of tins, because he recognised the company name. He would have investigated further, but he already had a jeep full of supplies. When they returned, they told Pickle about the situation and Branston immediately wanted the place emptied before anybody else turned up. The street had flourishing vegetable patches, but tins of ravioli, beans and spaghetti was hard to ignore, especially with winter coming up. This type of food could keep for months and tins always had a generous best before date on them.

  On hearing the story, Elza Crowe had approached Pickle and wanted to do the run in the motorhome. She told him that she was bored guarding, and needed to be out. Pickle gave her, Ophelia and Stephanie the job. He liked the girls, and was growing concerned that they, especially Elza and Ophelia, were thinking about leaving the place.

  Vince and Stephen then saw Joanne go inside her house, but she wasn’t inside for long. She ran out of her house of 4 Colwyn Place and went straight into 10 Colwyn Place, Pickle and Karen’s house, without knocking, confusing both Stephen and Vince.

  “That was strange,” Stephen remarked.

  “Maybe she’s touching cloth and suddenly realised she’s ran out of toilet paper.” Vince scratched his head. “Or she’s on the blob and needs to get a tampon from Karen.”

  Stephen flashed Vince a glare, a glare reminiscent of a father annoyed with his son. “Do you have to be so vulgar all the time?”

  “Most of the time,” Vince said nonchalantly.

  Pickle exited the house with Joanne and instructed her to go back to her own home. He then waved at Vince and called him over.

  “Looks like I’m needed,” Kindl sighed.

  Chapter Two

  “What’s up?” Vince called over to Pickle.

  “Need a word with yer, Vince,” Pickle said.

  Vince moved away from Rowley and approached Pickle with slow feet.

  He could see that the ex-con had had a rare shave and his skin looked smooth. Vince rubbed his own chin and said to Pickle, “Could do with a shave myself.”

  “Had to use one o’ those one-blade Bic razors.” Pickle raised a smile and added, “Had to make do with a cold shave, no soap.”

  “Ouch,” Vince snickered.

  “I’m used to it. Same kind o’ razors we used to use in the prison.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Vince asked, already tired of the small talk. “I saw Joanne running to your house.”

  “She said she saw a couple o’ guys in the distance, near the river.”

  “A couple of guys walking by. So what?” Vince laughed and hunched his shoulders. “Man, she certainly scares easily, doesn’t she?”

  “Just thought we should check it out.”

  “Why? It’s probably just a couple of poor survivors, Pickle. We don’t own the river.”

  Pickle smiled. “I thought that maybe we could have a word with ‘em. Maybe they could come back here. Maybe they’re looking for somethin’ like this place, some kind o’ sanctuary, and they don’t realise they’re passing such a well set up camp.”

  “Admit it,” Vince said with a smirk. “Nothing’s happened for days and you, Harry Branston, are bored.”

  Pickle said with a smirk, “Are yer coming or not?”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Good.” Pickle nodded. “Go and get yer blade. We go on foot.”

  “Now?”

  “Aye, now. Problem?”

  “Well…” Vince rubbed his tummy, raising his eyebrows at his friend and said, “I was about to drop the kids off at the pool.”

  Pickle moved his head back and screwed his eyes. “Er ... what?”

  “I was gonna honk out a dirt snake.” Vince could see that the penny hadn’t dropped with Pickle and sighed, “Go for a shit.”

  “Oh.” Pickle rubbed his chin and added, “Can’t you just hold it in? I wanna have a word with these fellows before they disappear. If they’re okay, they could be a welcome addition to this place.”

  “Okay,” Vince sighed. “I’ll just clench my cheeks together.” Vince turned and headed towards his house. He entered his place and reappeared just half a minute later, tucking the machete into his belt at his left side. He walked over to Pickle and the two men headed for the gate that was being guarded by Terry Braithwaite.

  Without saying a word, Terry pulled the gate back and watched as the two men walked through, turned right, and then began to walk down Wolseley Road.

  “We turn right,” said Pickle, “just before the bridge, and we’ll meet them down at the bank o’ the river.”

  “What happens if they become hostile?” Vince asked.

  “I don’t think they will.”

  Vince sighed, wanting a straight answer, “But if they do?”

  “That’s when the machetes come into play.”

  The two males strode for a few more minutes and stopped when they reached Wolseley Bridge. They turned and began to make the descent down the bank, and as soon as they reached flat ground and was on the grassy bank, the two men could be seen up ahead.

  Pickle and Vince stood still and waited for the men to approach. The two men stopped walking once Pickle and Vince had been spotted, and a nervous standoff ensued.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” Pickle decided to start talking and try and relax the tetchy looking men. Both of them had their hands on their pockets, telling Pickle that they had blades, but they were no match for the large blades that Pickle and Vince were carrying. “How are we today on this fine morning?”

  The two men were both average in height, had dark features, and both had a beard on their faces. The one on the right was dressed in a black jacket and combats. The one on the left had a brown jacket and also wore combats. The man on the left was the first to speak.

  “How are we?” he said. “Thirsty, that’s how we are. Thirsty and hungry. And before you say anything … that river tastes like piss.”

  Pickle nodded once and said, “I know. Yer definitely need to filter this water.”

  This time the other stranger decided to speak. “We don’t have anything for you,” he said, “so just leave us alone.”

  “We’re not here to harm you,” said Vince. “So stop shitting a brick, ladies. We’ve come here to offer you a place to stay.”

  The two men gawped at one another for a few seconds, and then the man on the left said, “And why the fuck would you do that?”

  “Um ... because it’s the Christian thing to do.” Pickle stood and waited for a further response from the two men, but he didn’t get what he was expecting.

  The two men looked at each other once more and burst into hysterics, confusing both Harry Branston and Vincent Kindl.

  Still giggling, the man on the left said, “Are you two priests or something?”

  “No,” Pickle said sternly. “We’re just good people. And we have a place where a few o’ us are staying.”

  The man on the left groaned, “The last time we were offered a place to stay, the people tried to eat us.”

  “It’s up to yer guys.” Pickle shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no skin off ma nose if yer decide to turn us down.”

  Both men’s faces began to relax and it was clear on their features that they thought Pickle and Vince were genuine.

  “Where’re you headed?” Vince asked the pair of them.

  “Rugeley. We’ve come from Cardiff,” the male on the left spoke. “We’re brothers.”

  “Cardiff? You don’t sound Welsh.”

  “We were working down there, on a construction site when it all kicked off.” The man on the left then introduced himself. “My name’s Peter.” He then pointed at his brother. “This is Roger.”

  Pickle smiled and pointed at Vince. “This is
Vince. I’m Harry, but most people call me Pickle.”

  No hands were shaken, just a nod of the head from all four men as the introductions took place.

  “So, has it took you this long to travel from Cardiff?” Vince asked.

  Peter nodded his head. “We had a vehicle, but we got as far as Warwick before getting jumped by some gang. Been staying here and there, but we’ve always planned to get to Rugeley ... eventually.”

  “And who’s this mob that ... tried to eat you?”

  “Fuck knows.” Peter shrugged his shoulders. “It was a group we met in Bristol, as we were passing through, near Queen Park.”

  “Never been.”

  “Don’t bother. The place was a mess.”

  “Obviously,” Pickle chuckled gently. “Yer end up gettin’ desensitised from all the blood and guts, don’t yer?”

  “No, what I mean is ... the place was obliterated, bombed to fuck. We spent most of our time walking along the Kenner and Avon canal to avoid the rubble after we escaped that mob.”

  Pickle and Vince looked baffled. This could be seen by Peter and Roger, and Peter shook his head and said, “You guys have always been around this area, haven’t you? You’ve never been anywhere near a city?”

  Vince shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Because after a while NATO or the RAF, or ... whoever the fuck it was ... bombed the shit out of our cities to dilute the problem. They probably did this to most countries in Europe as well. Probably did it to Cardiff after we left.”

  Vince looked at Pickle as both men remembered Elza Crowe telling them about a conversation they had with a Londoner at a farm who also claimed that parts of London had been bombed.”

  “After Bristol,” Peter continued, “we went from one town to the next. We reached a place called Tamworth and bumped into four guys, but they were horrible people, especially the leader. We agreed to join them, but we fled during the night. The leader was called Hando.”

  “Hando?” Pickle shook his head and dropped his bottom lip. “Never heard o’ that name before.”