The Dead Don't Yell

by Shaun Whittington

  Pickle slowed the vehicle down and gazed in the rear view mirror, whilst Danny looked in the side mirror and could see the man’s arm moving.

  “He’s still moving,” Danny remarked.

  Pickle stopped the vehicle altogether and put it into reverse. The pickup shot backwards and went over the man, and again once he pulled forwards. Pickle stopped again and gazed in the mirror once more. He was certain that the man was now dead.

  He slipped the vehicle into first and now the vehicle was moving away from the fields. Pickle had a quick look in the rear view mirror again before going round a bend.

  Pickle chuckled, “He ain’t moving now.”

  He could feel the eyes of Danny Gosling glaring at him

  “Yer okay?” Pickle asked him.

  “Just a bit shocked,” replied the man in his twenties.

  “Yer will get used to it.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yer gonna have to.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “Are you sure about this?” David asked Vince as the two of them were now by the gate of the farm. It was now a small matter of opening or climbing the metal gate and taking the twenty yard walk up the dirt path to the main door of the place.

  Vince shrugged his shoulders, finally answering David’s query. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Vince was the first to go through the gate and David soon followed. Vince was already at the main door, a green door with a brass lion knocker, and David began to jog as he was lagging behind.

  Vince placed his left hand on the top handle of his machete and knocked the green door three times. By the time he knocked again, young David was by his side.

  “And if we get no answer?” David asked Vince.

  “We break in and hopefully find the keys for that thing over there.” Vince pointed over to the tractor that was parked near a barn. “I have a better chance of killing a lot of those bastards with that than with that jeep.”

  “Aren’t tractors slow, though?”

  Vince ignored the teenager and knocked again.

  David gasped once his eyes clocked a man with a grey beard, staring at the pair of them from the front window. David slapped Vince to get his attention, but by the time Vince looked to where David was pointing, the man had disappeared.

  Then the door opened.

  Both Vince and David placed their hands on the handle of their machetes, but never drew their weapons.

  Vince took a step back and could see a tall gentleman greet them. The six foot-one man had a heavy grey beard and gave his two visitors a smile. He was wearing boots, blue jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed since the apocalypse began, and had on an old burgundy jumper that gave off an assortment of smells that wasn’t too pleasurable to Vince and David’s senses.

  “Well, fuck me!” The man released a chortle and added, “Let me guess. You want your ball back, don’t you?”

  Vince and David never said a word. They looked at the man glumly, unsure how to respond.

  “You guys are in the middle of nowhere, so I take it that you’re after something. Am I right?” The man in his late fifties scratched his grey beard and looked down at their machetes.

  There was no response from Vince or David.

  “Have you two cunts come to rob me? If so, come in. I can’t find anything decent in this house to rob, but if you can, best of luck, gentleman.”

  “We need your help,” Vince spoke at last.

  “Ahh, it speaks.” The owner of the farm folded his arms and said further, “And how the fuck can I help you two pair of cunt lickers?”

  David opened his mouth to speak up, but only a noise came out. In truth, despite being armed and being with Vince, he was intimidated by the presence of this man, even though he looked to have no weapon on him.

  The farmer held his hand up and shushed David; he then pointed to Vince. “I want the adult to talk. It doesn’t look like your balls have dropped yet, son.” He glared at David for a second and added, “How the fuck did you ever get this far? You look like you’d shit your kegs at a moment’s notice.”

  “Friends of ours are in trouble,” Vince began to explain, trying to ignore the insulting words coming from the bearded man towards his young companion.

  “And how the fuck is that my problem?”

  “I’d like to borrow your tractor.”

  “Is that right? And how do you know it works?”

  “Um ... I don’t.”

  “Well, it does, but you’re not borrowing anything.”

  “Please, there’s a fourteen-year-old girl’s life at stake.” Vince folded his arms and kept eye contact with the cantankerous individual. “And a couple of others.”

  “Oh.” The man’s attitude seemed to have changed once Vince had mentioned that the life of a minor was in danger, a teenage girl.

  To save confusion, Vince decided to explain to the man that the people had gone out on a run and never returned, so he and David left their camp in the jeep to see what the hold up was.

  “You took him out?” the man laughed, pointing at young David MacDonald. “This little tosspot looks like he couldn’t beat up a two legged dog.”

  “He came out for the experience,” Vince sighed, trying to defend an embarrassed David. “You have to start somewhere.”

  “You just show me the problem and I’ll deal with it.”

  The man stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

  Vince held out his hand and introduced himself to the man. The man gave Vince and David a quick nod each and introduced himself as Quint, but never shook their hands.

  “Right.” Quint clapped his hands together. “Let’s assess the damage, you couple of fannies.”

  Quint strode forwards, with Vince and David behind, and said to the two of them, “This way?” Quint pointed to his left, and both Vince and David nodded.

  Quint strode with quick steps, and once he cleared a bend he stopped walking as he reached the jeep, and could see the horde of the dead around the RV from a distance.

  Once David and Vince were by Quint’s side, Quint pointed over to the RV and asked, “So, are your people inside of that?”

  “I think so,” Vince answered. “There should be three females in there.”

  Quint put his hands on his hips, staring at the dead from twenty yards away. “Now, I haven’t seen anything like that before. I hate those filthy cunts, I really do.”

  “I was thinking about getting in the jeep and sounding the horn,” said Vince, “and then driving slowly so they could follow us. At least then they be moving away from the van and the RV could get moving again, but I’ve got a feeling that it’s stuck.”

  “Nah.” Quint shook his head. “Be probably best just to massacre the dead cunts. You did the right thing coming to see me, but I don’t think the tractor will do much damage.”

  “So now what?” Vince asked.

  “Only one thing for it.”

  “What?”

  Quint laughed and slapped Vince on the back. “Be back in a minute. And after this, you lot are joining me for a cup of tea before you fuck off, got it?”

  Vince nodded, unsure what he was talking about.

  They both watched as Quint headed back to his farm.

  Minutes later, the growling sound appeared from behind them and was now beginning to turn the heads of the dead by the motorhome. From around the corner a combine harvester appeared with Quint behind the wheel of the huge vehicle.

  The dead slowly turned and meandered in the direction of the jeep and towards Vince and David, then the combine squeezed by on the left and then went into the centre of the road once it had passed the jeep, the large blades spun as the dead got nearer. Vince and David was about to witness a massacre.

  *

  Only three Snatchers had ‘survived’ Quint’s combine, and Vince had put the three standing ghouls down with ease. Quint turned the large vehicle around and told Vince that he was taking the combine back and that he would meet him
back at the farm for a cup of tea. Quint told Vince that he would use the tractor to pull the RV out of the swampy conditions once they finished their tea.

  Vince approached the RV and the door swung open and Stephanie Perkins jumped out. The two embraced as David awkwardly hung behind. They finally broke away and Stephanie gave David a small wave once her eyes clocked him.

  Vince put his head inside the motorhome and said, “Jesus fuck. Look at all this food.” He then turned to Stephanie when he realised something. “Where’s the other two? Where’s Elza and Ophelia?”

  Stephanie shook her head. “They’re gone. Had to drive this back myself.”

  “Dead?”

  Stephanie’s eyes filled and she dropped her head.

  “Shit.” Vince could see she was upset. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a rub. “You don’t have to say anything just now. You can tell me all about it in your own time.”

  Vince could see in the distance Quint parking up the harvester. He jumped out and beckoned them to come over.

  “Can’t we just go back?” Stephanie said. “I don’t really want to leave all that food in there, unattended. Not after all I’ve gone through to get it.”

  “Not just yet.”

  She huffed, “Why not, Vince?”

  Vince shook his head. “That farmer saved you. It’d be rude not to have one drink with the guy. Besides, we need his tractor to pull the motorhome from this … swamp. If we refuse the tea…”

  “He might refuse to pull the RV out,” Stephanie finished the sentence for him.

  “Something like that.”

  Stephanie’s eyes narrowed and Vince smiled, understanding why she was bewildered.

  He said, “I know it’s a little strange, but it’s what the man wants. And he did do us a massive favour. To be honest, I think he’s been starved of company.”

  “How long do we have to stay?” the fourteen-year-old groaned.

  “Not long,” Vince snickered. “We’ll be back at Colwyn by the time you know it.”

  Vince then beckoned David over.

  David stopped a few yards from Vince and Stephanie, and asked Vince what was up.

  “Nothing’s up,” sighed Vince. “Just follow me.”

  David MacDonald obediently did as he was told and the pair of them made the short walk to the motorhome. Vince opened the door and told David to stand outside, whilst Stephanie watched and wondered what Vince Kindl was doing.

  Vince went inside the RV and came out and gave David a box of tins. Vince then grabbed himself a box and left the vehicle. He placed the box on the floor, shut the RV’s door, and then picked up the box of tins again and headed for the farm.

  “What are you doing?” Stephanie asked Vince, once the two males had passed her with a box each. “You’re not giving away some of our food to him, are you?”

  “Absolutely,” said Vince, but David remained quiet.

  “But why?”

  “Because he saved your life,” said Vince, and was now walking away from Stephanie. “It’d be rude not to give him anything.” Vince then stopped walking and turned around, shrugging his shoulders the once. “Are you coming or what?”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Craig Burns had reached Shugborough Hall. It was a place that was more for visitors than anything else, and Craig knew going inside would be a pointless waste of energy. The tourist spot was a stately home near Great Haywood, and was situated on the edge of Cannock Chase, about four miles east of Stafford. It was a building that dated back to the sixteenth century.

  Craig wanted to check the houses that were across the field, only a few hundred yards from the main entrance to Shugborough Hall, in a small street opposite a pub called The Barley Mow.

  He was aware that the image of a man on his own, with a bag over his shoulder and carrying a hockey stick, would possibly frighten certain individuals, but he had to try and be successful in this new role that Pickle had given him.

  He crossed the field and headed for the small street. After this he was going to continue along the main road, and try a house that had been in the news decades ago relating to a shooting incident carried out by the IRA.

  Craig could see a dozen houses and puffed out a breath, knowing that knocking on these doors for a response could be a fruitless exercise. He was correct with his assumption.

  Almost.

  Once he reached the ninth house and pressed the still-working doorbell to the right hand side of the door, a window opened above him. He looked up and could see an elderly man, late seventies, staring down at Craig. Craig could see that the old man looked gaunt and didn’t know if he had always been naturally thin or he was starving. Here was a man in his late seventies, possibly on his own, three months into the apocalypse. Craig was certain that a man like this had hardly been out. He couldn’t imagine the fragile man going out on a supply run of any kind, or even killing one of the dead.

  “You okay up there?” Craig asked him.

  The man nodded. “Please, leave me alone. I don’t have anything for you.”

  Craig thought about the state of the man and how Pickle wanted him to bring people back to strengthen the camp. But this particular individual wouldn’t strengthen the camp by any means. How could he? They had Old Tom in Colwyn Place and he was hardly seen, never contributed because of his age, and when he did make the odd appearance he did nothing but moan.

  Bringing back a man like this, if his fragile body could survive the walk back, would not benefit Colwyn Place at all. Even if it meant leaving the man and allowing him to die, Craig knew he couldn’t take him back with him, so he decided to move on.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said Craig. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “You have a place to stay?” the old man asked. There was almost begging in his eyes and Craig felt guilty for the reply he was about to give.

  “No, I don’t.” Craig shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Craig walked away with his head lowered, the guilt eating away at him, as the old man called after him.

  “Please,” he begged. “I haven’t eaten in a week. My wife died last month. She’s in the bedroom. I...”

  Craig couldn’t listen to anymore and began singing a Joy Division track in his head to drown out the man’s begging. Once he left the street, Craig had stopped singing Isolation and headed for the big house that was opposite the tiniest Burger King restaurant he had ever seen. It was a two-minute walk to the house that sat proudly on the left of the main road, and the road passing the place bent to the right would eventually bring an individual into Stafford’s town centre.

  Craig reached the house and approached the front door; he decided to be cautious and check round the back first.

  He walked down the long drive that ran down the side of the house, and could see a large unkempt back garden with a predictable overgrown lawn. He stepped carefully towards the back door and tried to look into the downstairs’ windows, but all windows, including the ones above, had their curtains drawn.

  The faint sounds of engines could be heard from the front, and Craig decided that it would be in his best interests if he stayed where he was, at the back of the house and out of the way, until the vehicles had gone by.

  The sounds came to a halt and the thirty-one-year-old man began to inspect the back door again and wondered if there was anyone inside. He went over to the side of the overgrown lawn and grabbed a handful of soil with his free hand, the other still having a hold of the hockey stick.

  He threw the soil at the top window to the right and repeated the process for the others. There was no response, so he decided to knock on the bottom window and tried to speak, telling that whoever was inside that he was here to help.

  Again, there was no response.

  “Well, well, well,” a voice came from the side of Craig, and he gulped when he could see two men, dressed in attire that he recognised. It was two of Drake’s men, and the sound that he had heard before mu
st have come from mopeds.

  Like most of Drake’s men, it appeared that these men didn’t wear helmets when travelling, and Craig gulped when he clocked the one on the right holding a baseball bat.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Craig asked, trying to play it cool, and then produced a large gulp.

  “What are you doing here?” the baseball bat-wielding man asked. He was six foot in height, stocky, and, like his pal, he had a large brown beard on his face.

  “I’m here to...” Craig was unsure whether to tell the truth or not. What was the harm? Drake and the camp had called a truce since the killings, but Craig decided to lie anyway.

  “What?” The man with the bat snarled, “Spit it out, son. Your mother used to.”

  Both men burst into hysterics and gazed over at a morose-looking Craig Burns.

  “Relax,” the same man spoke up. “We’re just fuckin’ with you. In fact, we’re always looking for new people, especially since we lost a few last week.”

  “I’m good.” Craig smiled.

  “You can’t survive on your own, son.”

  “I’m not on my own,” said Craig, and decided to come clean. “I live in a tiny community. In fact, my leader and yours had met a few days ago.”

  The biker, the main speaker, narrowed his eyes and asked, “Are you from that street in Little Haywood?”

  Craig nodded, but didn’t want to come completely clean. He didn’t want to tell them that he was chased by four of Drake’s guys, fell in a ditch, and killed one of them. Then he escaped and the one he knocked out ended up going with him. He didn’t want to anger the men. Even if there had been a truce, the two men could turn nasty and kill Craig right there if they knew that it was him that ran off with ‘Jez the traitor’ and had started this mess. Who’d know?

  Both men took a gape at one another and the man on the left, the silent one, lowered his head. The man holding the baseball bat said, “We weren’t there, but we heard about when your street was under attack. What happened to that toddler was messed up. That guy deserved to die.”