Stiff as a Board

On the lawn, the living dead shambled about like drunks searching for their lost wallets and keys.

Felix Hastings’s stomach shrivelled. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘it’s like Comic-Con.’

Alistair shuffled up next to him, face illuminated by the lighter he held. He looked Felix up and down. ‘All right, Felix? How you doin’, man?’

He turned from the lawn of the dead. ‘Um, okay, I guess? I still feel awful about—’

Alistair waved a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t overburden yourself with that now, man. Mistakes happen.’ Behind him, Poppy sighed. ‘We all do them,’ continued Ali. ‘From time to time.’

‘Thanks, Ali. I hope the others don’t hate me. Although the twins losing their grandpa, Milly losing her husband, Terry losing his daughter, Peter losing an arm, Dav—’

Ali grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Hey, hey! Cut that out, man. We can deal with all that later. What we need now is to stick together. Now is no time to fall apart.’ He looked over his shoulder at Poppy, who leaned on the bannister. ‘We’re all exhausted. We all need some rest – the ones who are still alive. Wanna prove you’re not useless?’

Felix stood up taller, back straight. ‘Yes!’ And then, quieter, when Ali squeezed his shoulder and looked sharply to the window: ‘Yes. I want to help, Ali.’

Ali grinned in the darkness. ‘Good. Good, man. It’s easy. Just keep guard while we sleep. It’ll only be a few hours. I’ll come and wake you when your shift’s over.’ He patted the wooden boards, hastily nailed up to block the windows. ‘Keep us safe, man. Make sure nothing comes through here. Got it?’

Felix scowled at the boards, the tip of his tongue stuck out as he focused on the task at hand. ‘Got it,’ he growled.

Ali slapped him on the back, making him stumble a little. ‘Good man! Now, anything happens, come and wake us.’ He raised a finger. ‘But only wake us if it’s something serious. We’ve been running on fumes and need to rest.’

Felix snapped off a salute. ‘You got it.’

Ali stared at him a moment, then walked towards the stairs, where Poppy waited. She eyed Felix doubtfully. Ali turned one last time. ‘You’re not gonna mess this up, are you man?’

He grinned, lifted his crowbar, and winked. ‘I’m gonna nail it.’

Ali sagged and walked up the stairs with Poppy. ‘That’s what hammers are for, damn idiot,’ she whispered to Ali as they went upstairs to bed. ‘Crowbars remove them.’

Alone, clutching his crowbar, Felix approached the boarded-up window of the kitchen.

More of the living dead had gathered outside the farmhouse. A zombie had stumbled into the shed, and another knocked the door shut behind it. It now rattled the door, shaking the wood. One zombie had a dog on a lead; the healthy Labrador smiled and wagged its tail. A chain gang, linked together, stumbled in disharmony, snarling at each fumbled step. One of the resurrected had once been a fireman, his axe still loosely dangling from one hand. As he approached the house, he tried to swing his weapon and succeeded in amputating his neighbour’s arm. The armless zombie looked down at the missing limb and groaned.

His grip on the crowbar tightened, knuckles whitening. ‘Not in here,’ he whispered to them. You’ll never get through here.’

Outside, the choir of the dead rose in discordant harmony. Moans, groans, sighs, wheezes, snarls, growls.

Felix took a seat at the kitchen table, staring at the wooden boards and the night beyond. He spun the crowbar in his hands, anticipating action but hoping for none.

Dead hands thudded against a window, rattling the pane.

He jumped into action and ran towards the windows, checking on the boards.

They remained solid and intact. No zombies swayed inches away.

Breath coming in quick and fast, Felix returned to his seat. But he stopped by the fridge on the way back – nobody had checked its contents; they’d secured the place and crashed.

The yellow light popped on, illuminating Felix’s face. Inside, a bottle of milk had curdled into a state of matter not yet recognised by physicists. Some pink ham had turned blue, and some blue cheese had turned green. But there, on the shelf, lay a couple of cans of beer, their shiny tabs sparkling in the light.

Felix licked his lips and reached for a can.

With a thunk, the fridge’s light went out. Somewhere outside, a low buzz slowed and faded. All electrical hums inside the house died. Unlike the folks outside, they did not get back up again.

Felix jumped, knocking the bottle previously known as milk, spilling it everywhere.

It hit the floor and exploded.

He had no time to groan. He ran to the boarded-up window, weapon raised, ready to do some jabbing.

The window was fine, as were the boards.

He nodded, heart hammering its hands against the door of his ribcage. Still intact, still intact. He hadn’t messed this job up. Ali would see when he came down to relieve him. Felix shuffled back to his chair at the table. He tried and failed to brush the gunk that had solidified on his clothes like plaster of Paris.

The minutes ticked by in the deathly silence of the house, the dead outside louder than ever.

Felix got up several times to check the window and the boards obsessively: all fine. The “milk” on his jeans smelled worse and worse with each passing minute.

Somewhere, glass shattered, and wood cracked.

But down here, the window kept its glass, and the boards kept offering protection. Felix checked and double-checked, crowbar at the ready.

The stairs creaked and groaned. Somewhere, someone whined and wheezed.

Felix’s window stayed intact. He tested the wood and pushed on the glass. ‘Solid,’ he muttered.

Someone screamed, and several people shouted.

The window and boards remained. Nothing was getting in here. Felix had a job to do, and he would show the group that he could do it without messing up.

Footsteps, loud and heavy. The kitchen door burst open.

Felix spun around, crowbar raised, ready to swing for the kill.

But it was only Ali.

He lowered his weapon and smiled. ‘Oh, hey, Ali. My shift over already?’

Ali, covered in blood, stared at him with wide eyes. ‘They—’ His voice cracked. ‘They’re all dead…’ He spoke like a man in a trance, under a voodoo spell. ‘Felix, the dead got in. How did the dead get in?’

Felix frowned and turned and looked at the kitchen window. ‘Nothing came through here. I made sure it was secure.’ He snapped off another salute. ‘Just like you asked!’

Behind Ali, several zombies staggered forwards. They banged off the corridor walls like flesh-eating pinballs.

‘Oh, hey, look—’

Ali changed. His eyes grew wide, and his face became a rictus of fury. He knocked the crowbar out of his hands, grabbed Felix by the shirt, and shook him. ‘There are other windows down here, you fool! I never should have trusted you, you idiot! You’ve killed them all! I didn’t mean just this windoAAAAHHH!’

Felix stiffened as the dead grabbed Ali, all nails and teeth.

Ali released Felix as he tried to fight them off, but they had him now. They dragged him into the corridor, kicking and screaming. ‘OTHER WINDOWS!’

Felix scrambled for the crowbar, but it had disappeared like a sock in the washing machine.

A few more of the dead stumbled over the commotion and entered the kitchen. They sniffed the air and gazed at Felix, slack-jawed. Then they turned away, uninterested, and fell atop the huddle. From beneath the pile, Ali’s repeated screams of ‘OTHER WINDOWS!’ came out muffled.

Felix frowned, thinking.

A zombie toppled off the stack like an unpractised acrobat tumbling off a human pyramid. Ali’s face appeared amongst the swarm of bodies crushing him, framed by decay. ‘Other windows,’ he groaned, one last time.

His frown faded. ‘Oh, you wanted me to watch the other windows too?’ asked Felix.

‘You really should have specified.’