The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  Vince could see David MacDonald out of the house that he shared with Stephen Rowley.

  He gave Vince a wave, and Vince acknowledged David with a cheeky salute, pleased that he was wearing different clothes after his little accident the day before. Vince sat down on the doorstep and covered up his legs with the bottom part of the dressing gown.

  Vince yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked up, still rubbing his crusty eyes, and could see that David MacDonald was heading over his way.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Vince moaned under his breath. “Give me some peace.”

  “Hi.” David held his hand up, and stopped two yards from where Vince was.

  Vince rubbed his face and sighed, “Hello.”

  “Can I sit down?” David pointed at the spare bit of step that Vince’s arse wasn’t covering.

  “No, you fucking can’t.”

  David took a step back, not expecting a negative answer from Kindl. “Um …Why not?”

  “Because I have nothing on underneath this dressing gown, my pocket rocket and his two amigos are hanging loose, and I find it a bit weird sitting next to a fourteen-year-old boy when I’m dressed like this. Remain standing and say what you have to say.”

  David stood awkwardly, looking down on Vince, and was struggling to find the words.

  “I see Stephanie’s not back yet,” David MacDonald said. “You worried?”

  “Not really,” sighed Vince. “She’s a tough cookie, and she’s with two women that would give Pickle a run for his money if ever a fight broke out. She’ll be fine. Probably had to stay the night in the RV, for whatever reason. They’ve stayed out for the night before.”

  “Me and Stephanie have been talking a lot over the last week or so.”

  “Good for you,” Vince yawned.

  “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  Vince rubbed his face and groaned, “Where is this going? I mean … what is the purpose of you coming over here?”

  David hunched his shoulders and struggled for a response.

  “You like Stephanie, don’t you?” Vince shielded his eyes and turned away from the sun, looking up to David, waiting for an answer.

  David blushed and nodded. “She’s cool.”

  Vince smiled. “She sure is.”

  David clasped his hands together, and began to gently swing from side to side. His behaviour reminded Vince of a shy child and he wondered what else he had to say.

  “So, is that it?” Vince gazed at David and added, “Or is there something else you want to tell me?”

  David unclasped his hands and nodded. “Actually ... I wanted to ask you something … about Stephanie.”

  “I have no idea what you’re babbling on about D Mac. You’re gonna have to spit it out before I go in for my traditional morning shite.”

  “Stephanie looks up to you, almost like a father,” David blurted out. The sentence took Vince by surprise and his throat began to swell when David told him this.

  Vince tried to play it down. “Well, she doesn’t really have any male role models anymore, does she?”

  “I wanted to ask your permission,” said David, and flushed crimson as soon as he finished his sentence.

  “Permission? Permission for what?”

  “Since we’ve been getting on … I … I was going to ask her out.”

  Vince cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. His face remained a picture of confusion for a number of seconds and the only word to tumble out of his mouth was, “Really?”

  David hunched his shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Um…” Vince used the nails on his fingers to scratch the side of his head, just above his ear, and took another look at David to make sure he wasn’t kidding. “Well, for a start she’s more mature than you are.”

  “We’re the same age,” the boy protested.

  Ignoring his remark. Vince continued, “And second of all, we’re living in an apocalyptic situation, in case you haven’t noticed. Take her out,” Kindl cackled. “Where do you plan to take her, exactly?”

  David thought for a moment. “There’s no reason why we couldn’t go for a walk by the river.”

  Vince rubbed his forehead and began to shake it. “You know,” Kindl began, “Sometimes it’s better to keep your mouth shut and give the impression that you’re stupid than open it and remove all doubt.”

  “I don’t get what you mean.”

  “Forget about asking Steph out. It’s not going to happen.”

  “But I really want to go out with her, Vince.”

  “Yeah? And I want to levitate, son, but life can be a cunt sometimes.” Vince’s face became serious and said to David, “The only three things you should be thinking about is getting up, surviving, and going back to bed. That’s it.”

  “I don’t need your permission. I just thought it’d be polite to ask, that’s all.”

  “Fine. But the last thing this street needs is you two groping one another and the place ending up with a teenage pregnancy.”

  “Look, Vince, I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you are. To be old and wise, you need to be young and stupid first. Right,” Vince stood up and said, “I’m going to evacuate the chocolate hostages and then get dressed, so bugger off.”

  Vince watched as a dejected David MacDonald walked back over to the place he shared with Stephen Rowley, and could see the door of number four opening. Joanne Hammett stepped out and lit up a cigarette. She noticed Vince standing and gave him a wave; he waved back.

  “Looks like the hostages are gonna have to wait.”

  Vince misinterpreted Joanne’s niceness as an invitation to walk over and have a chat, and the young woman cussed when she looked up and could see him walking over.

  “Did you get those cigarettes?” he asked her, and clapped his hands together nervously. The usually super-confident Vince Kindl was nervous in Joanne’s company and didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like him.

  “Yes, thanks.” She looked up at the man and said, “Was there anything else you wanted?”

  “Sorry,” Vince chuckled and nodded at the smouldering cigarette. “I suppose you’d like to smoke that bad boy in peace, eh?”

  Joanne smiled. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

  “Okay,” Vince gulped and flushed a little. He turned around and saw Stephen Rowley sitting on his doorstep and decided to make his excuses to leave before things became even more awkward.

  “Excuse me.” Vince stepped away from Joanne, tightening his dressing gown. “I need to speak to Stephen about something.”

  “Okay.”

  Vince scratched the back of his head as he strolled over to Rowley, still trying to tighten the dressing gown. Rowley was grinning like a Cheshire cat and said, “Alright, chap? How’re you getting on with Joanne over there.”

  “Getting nowhere,” Vince sighed.

  “So you get her cigarettes and you think she should be your sex slave? Is that it, huh?”

  “Don’t be daft.” Vince shook his head. “Although it would be nice.”

  “Anyway, chap,” Stephen began and cleared his throat, making Vince screw his face in disgust. “Any news on the girls?”

  Vince sighed and shook his head.

  Elza and Ophelia were tough women, and if it were just them that was missing, Vince wouldn’t have been so concerned. But it was Stephanie he was worried about, despite what he said to young David, and he was trying his best to hide it. Surely the run was a simple one, out for a few hours at least.

  They must have run into trouble, Vince thought.

  He had mentioned his concerns to Pickle the evening before and Pickle told Vince to wait until the morning. If the girls weren’t back, then Pickle would allow him to go and look for them. They knew the place where the girls were going and it was simple to get there, so getting lost was an impossibility.

  Both Vince and Stephen could see Craig Burns leaving his house, with a bag over his back and his hockey stick in his hand. He gave the gu
ys a wave and headed for the concrete wall.

  Stephen asked Vince, “Where’s he going, chap?”

  “He’s off to do some recruiting, or whatever they call it, to see if he can bring any survivors back here. We can’t manage with the people we’ve got.”

  Craig gave the two men a wave and Vince called over to him, “You leaving us?”

  “Somebody has to do it,” Craig laughed and gave Vince the thumbs up. “I might be a few days.”

  “Going on foot?”

  Craig nodded. “It’s the best way.”

  “Good luck,” said Vince and joked, “And try and bring back some decent talent.”

  “Will do.”

  Stephen and Vince watched as Craig climbed the concrete wall, shook hands with Paul Smith before going over, and then began to saunter down the old Colwyn Place that was in a mess.

  “What did you say to the young boy earlier on?” Stephen asked.

  “Who? David?”

  Stephen nodded. “He looked to be in a foul mood when he came back.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. It wasn’t anything important.”

  “He spends most of his time in bed.” Stephen shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t really see much of him, to be honest, chap. I think he goes to bed because he’s bored.”

  “Probably ripping the nut off of it,” Vince said with a smile. “Dirty little bugger.”

  “Ripping the what?” Stephen twisted his neck and looked confused.

  “Ripping the nut.” Vince sighed and added, “You know, badgering the one eyed witness.”

  “What, chap?”

  “Jackin’ the beanstalk, doing the old hand-to-gland combat.”

  The penny finally dropped with Stephen and the rotund man screwed his face and said, “Ew, that’s disgusting.”

  “I remember being that age.” Vince began to reminisce, looking up and wearing a daft smirk on his face. “I used to have a tossing sock. I suppose you have to when you’re that age, otherwise your bed sheets would end up looking like a plasterer’s radio.”

  “Okay,” Stephen huffed. “I’ve heard enough. I’m off.” Rowley walked away from Vince, shaking his head, and headed over to the concrete wall to have a chat with Paul.

  “What?” Vince laughed and held out his arms. “Something I said?”

  He never got a response from Rowley and then saw Pickle make an appearance. The former inmate had been out of the street and walked through the gate once Jim Danson had opened it. With his hands on his hips, he peeked around the street.

  “Still no RV?” he called over to Vince.

  “I think something has happened.” Vince watched as Harry Branston took the short walk over his way.

  “We’re not that blessed with gas these days,” Pickle began and pointed over to the Ford Focus, the pickup, the jeep and the Zafira, and said further, “Apart from the pickup, we haven’t used them for ages because we had to siphon them to top up the RV and the jeep. But I know yer worried about Stephanie, and I wouldn’t let yer go out there on foot.”

  “It’s just a short journey,” said Vince. “If I’m going to look for her, it’ll have to be in the morning so I have plenty of daylight to play with.”

  “So yer want to go now, is tha’ what yer sayin?”

  “Yep. Not sure waiting another day is a good idea, especially if the girls have broken down or something. They could have walked back on their own, but I have a feeling that the run has been a success and they’re probably too paranoid to leave the RV alone, especially if it now has food in it.”

  “Personally, I would have sent one o’ them on foot to come back here, and left the other two to guard what they had taken.”

  “The fact is … we don’t know what the fuck is going on. But they’re not back. I know they’ve done this before when they went to that farm, but this was a simple three miles up a straight road.”

  “Yer wanna do this on yer own?”

  “I don’t know.” Vince rubbed his face and moaned, “The girls are missing, Craig has just left. I don’t wanna be leaving the street with hardly anyone left, leaving only a handful of people here.”

  “Not too sure I’m comfortable with yer being out there on yer own,” Pickle said, and seemed lost in thought, pondering the options. “Yer need someone to watch yer back, even if it’s someone deemed as a liability. It’s better than nothing.”

  Young David MacDonald stepped out of his house, and wondered why both Vince and Pickle were near his doorstep.

  “I won’t be on my own,” Vince said with a grin.

  “Oh?” Pickle watched as Vince stood next to David and threw his arm around his shoulder.

  “No,” said Kindl. “Because David’s coming with me.”

  David scrunched his face, perplexed, and had no idea what the men were talking about. He turned to Vince. “Um … what?”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Craig Burns had two bottles of water in his bag, along with tins of food and an assortment of other things that were deemed as necessary. He had a knife in his right pocket and the hockey stick was in his right hand. He had jumped the wall over five minutes ago, passing the abbey to his right, and his feet were now slapping the tarmac like a clumsy clown, crossing over the small bridge. His destination was Milford, which was two miles away, and he smiled as he crossed the bridge that reminded him of years gone by.

  When he was nineteen years old, Craig had been to a pub in Cannock with two friends and were drinking and having a laugh with the local girls. Craig and his pals were out of town and drinking in a pub called The White Hart.

  After a while, Craig had noticed that they were being glared at by four guys in their twenties from across the room.

  After minutes had passed and more drinks consumed, Craig had excused himself from his friends and the three girls that they were chatting up, and told them that he needed to visit the little boy’s room.

  Once Craig Burns had finished and was washing his hands, one of the men, who was glaring at Craig and his friends, had stepped in and threateningly placed his forehead against Craig’s.

  Craig was told to leave the pub and that he and his pals should ‘stay away from Cannock girls and shag their own kind’. If the man hadn’t have been four inches taller and wider than Craig, the words that had came out of his mouth would have been laughable, but Craig agreed to do what the man had instructed. It was either that or be beaten to a pulp.

  Craig went back to the table and told his friends what had happened. All three men had decided that it would be in their best interests if they left, so they excused themselves from the girls and had left the bar.

  Craig and his friends got into the car that they had arrived in, his pal’s dad’s Montego, and drove away.

  The four men stepped out of the pub and watched as Craig and his crew pulled out of the car park. Craig could not help himself, probably due to false bravado with the alcohol consumption, and stuck his middle finger up at the four men, calling them names that would be deemed as homophobic to most folk.

  This angered the four Cannock based guys; they jumped into their vehicle, a white Renault, and a dangerous car chase at ten in the evening began.

  For miles, the two cars dangerously hurtled down the dark country road. They went through Milford and ended up on the windy lanes that had claimed many a victim over the years. Nevertheless, Craig’s pal had his foot on the floor and was doing sixty mph. At this point, Craig wasn’t concerned about the men behind; he was more concerned with the country lanes and his pal’s erratic driving.

  The two cars had roared down the Stafford Road and instead of going into Rugeley, Craig’s pal decided to go for a different route and try and shake off their pursuers.

  They turned left, went over the small bridge that led into Little Haywood, but had lost control of the vehicle and crashed the car into a hedge. The white Renault stopped behind them and the four men got out of the vehicle. Because it was Craig that had given the middle finger a
nd had angered the men, he was the main target.

  The passenger door was opened and Craig tried to fight off the men, but with four of them he was easily pulled out of the vehicle and thrown onto the floor. He was then kicked like a football for just under a minute, before the men left and returned to their vehicle, laughing and patting each other on the back on a job well done.

  A bleeding Craig sat up and glared at the four thugs as they went back. He recognised one of them. He didn’t know the other three, but one of them was a man by the name of Kyle Horan, who was quite an infamous thug at the time.

  Snapping out of his daydreaming about events that had happened in the past, Craig continued to walk along the Stafford road, clasping his hockey stick, and remembered a conversation he had with Pickle when both men were talking about the old days.

  The two of them were talking about stupid things that they had done in the past. Of course, if it was a competition then Pickle would have won, hands down. Pickle had mentioned some of the stories of his colourful past, and Craig had told Pickle of the story he had just been thinking about.

  Pickle laughed when he heard the name Kyle Horan, and told Craig that Kyle was an inmate when the apocalypse began and was on the same houseblock as himself.

  Pickle informed Craig that Kyle hung around with a nasty piece of work called Jason Bonser, who was the brother of Colwyn Place’s very own Stephen Bonser, and that Jason was now dead. He didn’t go into detail about how he died. Pickle never told Craig the story of Jason being picked up by Karen and staying in the house at Heath Hayes whilst Pickle was ill with a fever. He never told Craig that he had shot Jason in the leg, and Karen drove and dumped him miles away, only for the injured and determined man to come back and bring a shit load of the dead with him, and then being ripped to pieces.

  Craig released a sigh and tried to switch his mind off, which was easier said than done, and tried to enjoy what was around him: the fields to either side, the birds tweeting above his head, and the wind tickling his clammy features. He liked being at Colwyn Place, but it was also good to be free and outdoors.