Happy 2007 one and all,
Got myself a number of Zombie books off of Santa over the holidays - Down The Road and Monster Island - have started reading both, so jury is still out.
In the meantime, here's Storm of the Dead #3... (hope you enjoy it)
Storm of the Dead # 3 (copyright me!)
I cowered, trying to keep quiet, my breathing shallow, my heart racing. I thought I’d found refuge in an abandoned church. I thought I was alone. I was wrong. The shuffling drew closer. I could sense it, smell it. As damp as this old building was, there was a foul stench of something else.
I had to act fast, do something.
But what?
I was hurting. I was shivering. I was cold. My feet were so numb.
And then the thought of having to fight, possibly to the death, hit home. I couldn’t run, not this time. It was me, or ‘it’. If I didn’t kill ‘it’, then I would soon become ‘it’.
I felt sick.
My fists clenched. An adrenaline rush surged through me. It was nauseating. I felt faint. I gasped for air as my chest tightened.
And then Whiskey started barking - high pitched - something he normally reserved for people he knew, or when I greeted him each day I came home from work. This was confusing. I fumbled around desperately trying to shut him up.
He was out of reach.
Damn it!
A voice then whispered, "Hello boy, shush now!"
Whiskey fell silent.
A torch flicked on, its beam shone directly in my face.
"You alright?" the torch said. "Don’t worry you’ll be safe here, for now. Up you get."
The beam moved from my face illuminating my surroundings - a small empty room, concrete floor covered in grime, walls chipped and moist. The dark figure of a man loomed over me. Wearing a hooded overcoat that concealed most of his face, all I could see of his features was a scraggy beard. He offered me his hand. "I’m on your side. It’ll be fine, come on."
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something strangely familiar about his voice.
Whoever he was, at least he was alive.
Taking his hand he helped me to my feet. He swung the beam of light to the opposite end of the room. A small archway led off from where I guessed he’d emerged.
Whiskey, tail wagging, tagged along.
#
Through the archway a set of stairs spiralled downwards. I slipped more than once, the damp concrete far too slippery. The stranger helped me down and through another archway.
A small corridor led to an old and rotting wooden door.
As it opened, light shone through, a rusted but functional portable heater glowed orange. I could feel the warmth as we entered.
He locked the door.
Whiskey jumped up and settled onto a mattress lying in a corner of the room. A couple of gas canisters stood next to the heater.
The stranger rummaged through some boxes finding some old looking sheets. “Here", he said. “This’ll help dry you off". Turning he pulled some clothing from another box.
“Not sure if they’ll fit but you’ll get pneumonia if you don’t get out of those clothes your wearing."
“Thank you," I mumbled raising a small smile.
“Is this place safe?"
“Safe," he repeated. “Yes, I said so upstairs." He paused before saying “at least for now."
I felt myself frowning. What did he mean ‘for now’?
“You need some rest first Neville Thurmond."
My eyes widened.
“What did you... how do you know my… "
“Rest, you’ve much to do." He cracked a smile and rummaged through another box containing what looked like provisions before turning and handing me a book.
It was the book!
To be continued...
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