The Restless - Chapter 1
The first chapter of an old project - urban fantasy and the sequel to the novella I published nearly a decade ago.
It was dark when I entered the house. We'd had no power for days so I was used to it. I checked the radio. No feedback, no noise, just the quiet electric hum of a silent speaker. I felt safer than I had all day, the house was free of the restless.
The crackle of static woke me, then I heard their low moan. They were coming. I had five bolts remaining for the crossbow. In the dark I couldn't see how many of the restless there were. The moon came through a chink of cloud, showing the first of them in a clear white light. The crossbow bolt hit him clean through the eye, taking him down.
I shot another as he stepped into the driveway, hitting him square in the middle of the neck. It knocked him back a step, but he kept coming forwards. His unfocussed eyes locked onto the house. Then the clouds parted further and I saw them all. It looked like half the town was coming after me.
It was easy to see that I'd never be able to shoot all of them down. I decided it was time to make a run for it, the restless didn't move quickly but they were relentless. Being dead seems to cut down on their mobility but they won't stop until you make them, usually by shooting them in the head or crushing their skulls. Trapping myself in the house with limited ammunition was proving to have been a bad idea.
I turned away from the partly boarded up window and moved down the corridor. I already knew what I was going to do, I'd checked my escape routes earlier. Heading up the stairs I heard the zombie moan rise in pitch. They were starting to reach the house and bunch together again.
The house was a fairly ordinary detached one, on the edge of town with an acre or so of garden around it. It had been extended in the haphazard, keeping-up-with-the-Joneses manner that most properties on the street had. This was why I'd picked it. The upstairs bathroom was a later addition, built out over the garage. I knew I could get out through the bathroom window onto the flat roofed garage. Terrible design for security, but it was going to help me now.
I'd already left my bag in the bathroom, planning ahead in a way that'd make the most OCD parent proud. I pushed the bag through the window, easing it onto the roof by its straps so it didn't fall and make a noise. Next I had to get myself through the window. I've got a body better suited for rugby than cat burglary, and it was something of a contortionist's act to get through the window.
Putting my feet through first, I twisted arcing my stomach over the window ledge. The pins that held the window open caught on my belt, then dug themselves hard into my stomach. I forced myself to keep quiet as I eased past the pins and slowly extricated myself from the bathroom. Of course, I stood up too soon, catching the back of my head hard on the window frame. With no more than a scraped back and a sore head I'd made it through the window.
I froze, waiting to see if the restless had heard or sensed my movement. I could hear the blood pumping through my ears, feel the night air making my hair stand on end. I strained and listened for the restless, but I couldn't hear any change in their moaning. I crept to the edge of the flat garage roof, standing in a low crouch on the edge of the guttering. I looked below the edge and saw the coast was clear, the restless were mostly around the other side of the house.
I took a deep breath and jumped down to the driveway, trying to absorb the shock of landing by bending my knees. I landed hard, the gravel of the drive getting imprinted into the palm of my hand. I was sure they had heard me now, but I moved on to the next step of my plan.
To the side of the garden stood four trees in a rough square, and I'd spent some time during the day linking them together. Now the trees formed a box, open on the side nearest the house and with the sides made of fishing line. The stuff was hard enough to see in the daylight, let alone at night. Near the tree, just where I'd left it, was a steel handled garden spade. I'd worked on it earlier that day to make the edges fairly sharp. I remembered reading about something similar in a book on trench warfare in the first world war. I hoped it would allow me to take down some of the shambling zombies once I'd got them into my fishing line corral. Best of all, the spade wouldn't be running out of shots at any time and its four foot length would put me out of range of the dead grabbing hands.
I moved back to the corner of the house and saw the restless shambling towards me. They might move at the speed of an arthritic 90 year old but they're as dedicated to getting to their goal as the same 90 year old believes a postman ought to be. The dead men might be terrible to see and they're capable of pulling a man to pieces in minutes, but you can outmanoeuvre them if you've planned ahead. I had certainly planned ahead, and began doing my best Ali rope-a-dope act and bringing the zombies into my trap.
I dodged back and forth, staying out of range of their arms. The restless dead followed me towards the quadrant of trees. Trying to judge the right moment I ran around to the other side of my trap, hoping to funnel them towards me through the hard-to-see fishing line barriers. I got into position and picked up the sharpened shovel.