The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  “Anyway, another two miles and we’ll be in Rugeley. That’s where we need to be.”

  Vince asked Peter, “Why Rugeley?” but it was Roger that gave Kindl an answer.

  He said, “It’s our home town. Our Mum stays at Hagley Road.”

  “I know where Hagley Road is,” said Vince with a single nod. “It’s just before the town centre.”

  “I’ll tell yer what,” said Pickle. “Why don’t yer fine gentlemen come back with us to our place? Yer can get some rest and refreshments, and then I’ll take yer to Hagley Road maself.”

  “You have wheels?” Roger asked.

  Pickle smiled. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Roger looked confused and said, “I don’t know. Does it?”

  Chapter Three

  Karen Bradley stepped out of her house and had a quick scan around the street. She had checked Pickle’s room, but he wasn’t there. She could see Terry by the gate and Rowley by the concrete wall.

  Still dressed in the clothes she had on for bed, Karen strolled over to Rowley in her bare feet, wearing a long Snoopy night shirt that came to her knees and a pair of black pants underneath the shirt.

  Rowley turned and could see Bradley approaching.

  His head dropped and his eyes magnetically gazed at her legs. Realising what he was doing, he shook his head and raised his head.

  “You getting a good look,” Karen teased the man. “You putting these legs in your wank bank for later?”

  “Er ... no, chap.” Stephen blushed, cleared his throat, and became jittery. “I ... I was just...”

  “Relax,” Karen laughed. “I’m just pulling your pisser. These legs haven’t seen wax in months and are probably hairier than yours. Where’s Pickle?”

  “He left with Vince. I don’t know where they went.”

  Karen nodded, turned around, and could see Elza Crowe leaving her house. Without saying another word to Stephen, Karen walked away and called over to Elza.

  Elza Crowe was dressed in black dirty trousers, a black shirt, trainers, and was wearing a long grey cardigan on top of her shirt. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, as it usually was. She turned around and saw Karen coming over. “What’s up, Bradley?”

  Elza seemed a little short with Karen, but Karen chose to ignore it.

  “You all set for this run?” she asked.

  Elza nodded and said, “Just waiting for Ophelia and Stephanie to get their arses in gear. Terry’s going to show me how to use the RV ... the motorhome ... or whatever the fuck you call it.”

  “Well, good luck.” Karen smiled and added, “If you come back with a van full of those tins, that’ll be us set up for the next few months. We’re really excited about this.”

  Elza produced a faint smile. “No pressure then.”

  Karen laughed. “None at all.” Once she finished chuckling, she asked Elza, “I know you, Ophelia and Stephanie are pretty tight, but don’t you think an extra person should go along?”

  Elza smiled cynically. “You mean ... you?”

  “Well ... not necessarily me.” Karen licked her lips and began to chew the inside of her mouth. “I heard Joanne was interested.”

  “That dopey bint from number four?” Elza scoffed. “No chance. I’d be better off taking a dead cat.”

  “Aw, come on. She’s okay, when you get to know her.” Karen felt obliged to stick up for Joanne Hammett. Elza and Ophelia were hardly popular in the street. Some people thought they were strange; others were afraid of them, and the two characters didn’t do themselves any favours. They were hardly sociable at the best of times.

  “Joanne’s a fanny,” Elza continued with her Joanne bashing. “Any sign of the dead and she’d shit into her silky knickers.”

  “She has to learn,” said Karen. “We all have to learn … eventually.”

  “Not on my run. Anyway, I thought Pickle was going to teach Joanne and some others how to kill those freaks. We don’t have room for passengers that have come to simply enjoy the ride.”

  “He took Joanne and young David out a few days ago,” Karen began, “but there were no Snatchers about. Haven’t seen any for a while.”

  “Anyway, like I said before: I’m having no passengers,” said Elza. She turned and smiled at Karen. “Three’s enough, although I’d take you, if you’re interested.”

  “Loved to. Haven’t been on a run for ages, but it’d leave a lot of inexperienced people behind. Pickle doesn’t want that.”

  “Pickle,” Elza snickered. “That guy’s on a power trip.”

  “No, he’s not.” Karen was taken aback by Elza’s comment and protecting Harry Branston came instantly, without a thought. “You hardly know him.”

  “I’m not gonna argue with you, Karen.” Elza looked the twenty-three-year-old former nurse up and down. “I know you and Pickle have a bond.”

  “Just don’t slag him off again,” Karen hissed, clenching her teeth together. “He’s doing his best.”

  “Or what?” Elza laughed, making Karen’s blood boil. “What are you gonna do, Kaz?”

  “What’s wrong with you? One minute we were having a decent conversation, and the next…” Karen scratched her head and was confused why Elza’s attitude had suddenly changed for the worse. “Is it that time of the month? Do you want me to go and get you a blood plug?”

  “Just fuck off, Karen.”

  “You know, I used to like you,” Karen began. “But today ... not so much. In fact, you’re a bit of a cunt.”

  “You’ve got an ugly mouth for such a pretty girl,” Elza said with a smile. She then took a step forwards and pressed her forehead against Karen’s. “Fancy your chances, do you?”

  Suffocated by confusion, Karen shook her head. “Why are you being like this? We’re on the same team.”

  “Sometimes you can be okay, Karen. But other times you can be a right whiny bitch.”

  Karen looked at Elza with perplexity. How do you respond to a comment like that?

  “Excuse me.” Elza looked over at Terry and gave him a wave. “I need to see a man about an RV. Enjoy washing those clothes today.”

  Karen watched as Elza walked away from her and headed for the main gate. Maybe she should give the woman a break. Karen didn’t know the woman well, and thought that maybe she was so abrupt and rude because she was hurting today, missing a loved one.

  She huffed, her blood still boiling, and went back to her place.

  It was time to get dressed.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of boots made a tired and clearly bored Terry Braithwaite more alert. He stretched his eyes and gave them a quick and fierce rub.

  He nervously clasped his baseball bat and went nearer to the gate as he heard footsteps, trying to get a look at who was approaching, putting the whistle in his mouth and ready to blow, just in case. Each guard now wore a whistle around their neck whenever it was their turn to guard. The whistles were a new thing, and came from a sports shop in Hednesford that were brought back from a rare run by Stephen Rowley and Craig Burns.

  He breathed out a relieved breath once his eyes picked up Pickle and Vince, but there were two other guys with them that Terry didn’t recognise.

  The four men stood silently by the gate and waited for Terry to slide the gate open, but all the guard did was stare at the men in confusion.

  “Any time this week, Tezza,” Vince moaned.

  “Um...” Terry scratched his head. “Who are these two guys?”

  Vince explained, “Just two fellows that need our help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the Christian thing to do,” said Pickle with a smile, but deep down he was becoming annoyed with Terry’s reluctance to open the gate. “Now, Terry, please open up.”

  Terry glared at the two strangers that were with Pickle and Vince, and eventually opened up.

  “Thank fuck for that,” Vince huffed, and was the first to walk through and entered the street of Colwyn Place.

  “Jus
t being careful,” Terry snapped at Kindl. “Just making sure our people are safe. For all I know, these two could have taken you hostage.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Vince laughed. “And as for making sure people are safe... Didn’t you keep your dead daughter in your cellar for months?”

  Terry bit his bottom lip in anger and turned around. He paced over to Vince. Pickle remained at the side, standing next to Roger and Peter, and decided not to get involved.

  “You say anything about my daughter again,” Terry snarled, “and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  “No, you won’t.” Vince smiled and walked away from Braithwaite and looked to be heading back to his place.

  Pickle cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed, and said to Roger and Peter with a sprinkle of sarcasm, “As yer can see, we’re pretty close, a tight unit in here. Almost like family.”

  “So I see,” said Roger with a mocking tone.

  “Why don’t yer two gentlemen go to my ‘ouse at number ten. Help yerself to drinks and stuff in ma kitchen. I’ll see yer in a minute, and then we’ll take yer both to Rugeley.”

  The two men nodded and strolled over to 10 Colwyn Place whilst Pickle jogged over to Vince.

  Vince turned around on hearing the noise behind him, and for a second he thought it was Terry, ready to have a go.

  “What’s up?” Vince asked.

  “Look,” Pickle began and felt awkward. He respected Vince greatly, but he didn’t always agree with some of the things he said. “What yer said to Terry, about his daughter, was a bit out o’ order. Do yer agree?”

  Vince nodded and sighed, “I know. Sometimes I forget what I’m saying.”

  “That doesn’t really make sense,” Pickle chuckled.

  “What I mean is that sometimes I don’t think before I speak.”

  “Just be careful.” Pickle spoke softly, and looked to his side and could see Terry closing the gate. “When you speak, yer words can only be forgiven, not forgotten.”

  “Oh, right.” Vince nodded. “Is that some kind of passage from the bible, a Chinese proverb?”

  “Nope.” Pickle shook his head and a smile developed across his features. “Mental Mickey used to say it to me from C Wing.”

  “Mental Mickey?” Vince guffawed. “Well, he sounds fucking delightful.”

  “He was a pal of Kyle Horan and Jason Bonser’s. Had a PhD in sports psychology.”

  “How did he end up in prison?”

  “Quite a sad story really. I always thought his nickname was harsh, but it’s what they called him.”

  “Okay,” Vince sighed with impatience and repeated his question, hoping to get an answer this time. “And how did he end up inside?”

  “He was a college lecturer and ended up losing his job because he was having an affair with his nineteen-year-old student. His wife left him and he turned up at Cannock College one day, after being suspended, and went into the staff room where some o’ his colleagues were, and began stabbing them.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “I know.” Pickle nodded. “He was eventually overpowered, three members o’ staff were injured, and one was killed immediately after receiving a wound to his heart.”

  “And on that light note,” Vince mocked, “I’m off to finally release a huge brown number and then go for a lie down.”

  “A lie down?” Pickle rubbed his face and added, “And what about our guests that we need to take back?”

  Vince ran his fingers over his scarred face and sighed. “Oh, I forgot about those two.”

  “Forgot?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Pickle began to laugh, holding onto his stomach with both hands, and almost doubled over. “All four of us literally walked through the gate only a few minutes ago. What’s wrong with yer?”

  “I’m losing it.” Vince placed his right palm over his mouth and looked concerned. “The other day I went to the river to collect some water and forgot to take the plastic canisters.”

  “I heard about that.” Pickle was still laughing. “Maybe the Alzheimer’s is finally kicking in.”

  “God, don’t say that. That’s all I need.”

  “Didn’t yer tell Karen once that the best thing about Alzheimer’s is that yer always meeting new people?”

  Vince stood up straight and a large reminiscing smile slowly emerged on his face. “I cracked that joke to Clare as well, months back.” God, Clare. I still miss you. And you, Jack.

  “Maybe karma is getting her revenge,” Pickle said. “Saying stuff like that is not nice, Vince.”

  “I know. If my memory gets any worse I could probably plan my own surprise party.”

  “Come on.” Pickle threw his arm around Vince’s shoulder. “Let’s go and join our guests. Karen will be wondering who the fuck they are.”

  “Okay, but I need to go over to my house and curl one out right now. As for Karen, she’s probably already attacked them, thinking they’re thugs.”

  Pickle gazed at Vince with wide eyes and said, “Shit. Yer could be right.”

  He then began to jog over to the house and Vince ran the other way, heading for his place.

  Chapter Five

  Half an hour had passed and Peter and Roger had been given coffee and biscuits, and then it was time to leave the street, and Little Haywood altogether. Karen hadn’t been seen, and Pickle assumed she was upstairs having a lie down.

  Pickle was driving, Vince was at the other end of the passenger seat, with Peter and Roger sandwiched inbetween the two men. The pickup went over the hump bridge and went by the pub on the right, moving onto the Rugeley Road and passing the garden centre to their left.

  Pickle noticed Roger looking back as they passed the wrecked pub and asked the man, “Bring back memories for yer?”

  Roger turned back round to face the front. “A few,” he said with a recollecting smile. “Me and my ex-girlfriend used to go there every Sunday.”

  “I suppose it brings back a few recent memories for me as well,” Pickle admitted. “When this shit started, me, a female officer called Janine, a male officer called Jamie, and three other guys, KP, Grass and Laz, stayed there for the night. We parked the prison van in the empty car park. Man, we got so drunk that night.”

  Pickle had finished his sentence and was greeted with silence. He took a quick peep to the side and could see the confusion on Peter and Roger’s face.

  Pickle burst out laughing and said, “Sorry. Maybe I should ‘ave explained. I used to be an inmate from Stafford Prison. The officers kindly released a lot o’ us when this thing was announced. If it wasn’t for Jamie and Janine, I wouldn’t be alive today.”

  “Stafford Prison?” Peter queried. “Did you know a guy called Gary Murphy? He robbed a bank and shot some girl in the face. He had some brothers, Jason and—”

  “No,” Pickle interjected. “Never heard o’ him.” Pickle didn’t want the Murphy name to be mentioned in front of Vince, especially as one of them was responsible for his son’s death years ago.

  Pickle looked to the side of him to see if Vince was okay, and Kindl had a quick peep at the former inmate and gave him a reassuring wink. Pickle continued to concentrate on the road.

  Roger had a small chuckle to himself and added, “I used to order fish and chips every time I went to the Wolseley Arms. She always ordered a salad. I swear she did it to make me feel bad.”

  Pickle pressed the accelerator pedal down another half a centimetre and said, “Make yer feel bad?”

  “Yeah,” Roger chuckled. “I had a bit of a belly on me back in those days, months ago. When a woman dumps you, it’s amazing how much weight you lose.”

  Vince glared out of the window, watching the trees and bushes whiz by whilst the conversation was taking place. And then Peter decided to chip in and said, “I can’t stop thinking what state our town is in. I know people have died, maybe even our own mother, but I hope it’s not too bad.”

  “All I can
tell yer is what I’ve seen with ma own eyes,” said Pickle.

  “Have you been there?” Roger asked.

  “Stayed there for a while,” said Pickle. “It’s as bad as you can imagine: crashed cars, bodies, blood ... but no bombs were dropped. Rugeley’s only a small town, I suppose.”

  “Why did you go to Rugeley in the first place? You used to live there?”

  “I stayed pretty much everywhere, but I had a place in Haywood before being sent down,” Pickle began to explain. “Once we were released, we went to Stile Cop as soon as we left the pub. Then went to Heath Hayes, back to Rugeley at Cardboard Hill, where we stayed at a cabin with his dad.” Pickle pointed over at Vince. “Then we went to the Spode Cottage caravan park, then Sandy Lane—”

  “Jesus,” Peter scoffed. “Sounds like you’ve been moving about more than us.”

  “Canavar!” Roger screamed out.

  Pickle faced forwards and cussed, the pickup ploughing into the Snatcher. An explosion of dark blood and rotting guts covered the windscreen and Pickle slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt.

  All four men were panting and had a quick look at one another to make sure everybody was okay. Vince and Pickle stepped out of the vehicle, and Peter and Roger did the same, inspecting the damage. There was no damage to the vehicle, but the ghoul had been obliterated from the torso up.

  Roger and Peter’s face winced and temporarily placed their hand over their nose to dilute the awful smell. Two arms, taken away from the body, lay on the floor next to the body of the Snatcher from the waist down. The rest of its body was over the bonnet and windscreen of the vehicle, and looked like it had been blended.

  “I’ve got windscreen wash,” Pickle began to speak, “but I’m not too sure that that’s gonna cut it.”

  “Try it anyway,” said Vince, standing with his hands on his hips. “I ain’t touching that shit with my hands. Don’t know what kind of crap you could pick up.”

  “Okay,” Pickle huffed and went over to the pickup.

  He sat in the driver’s seat and tried the windscreen wash, something he hadn’t tried since he had been at Colwyn Place, and released a sigh when the liquid squirted over the screen and the wipers cleared enough of the guts away to allow the driver to see properly.