ARCHIVE 3 in WRITER VS ZOMBIES
I close the laptop, no words written, and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. There’s something out there, a noise I can hear through the walls of the den. It echoes, scratches, but I can’t trace its source.
I need to finish this manuscript before it’s too late.
No. Right now I need a weapon. The house backs onto patio, onto grass, onto river. This is not a safe place.
I hear a click followed quickly by a slam. It sounds suspiciously like the front door, which I thought I had locked behind me. That cannot be a good thing. Footsteps follow.
There’s nothing in here but books and my laptop, and there’s no way I’m wielding the latter at a zombie. If I can’t even write, what’s the point?
I decide to hide. I’m good at hiding.
The door opens. I screech a little. Just a little. Hardly at all really.
Fine. I scream.
‘Not a zombie, don’t worry. Saw you come in here. Needed a break.’
She’s about my height, slim, long blonde hair, wearing five-inch heels so caked in mud that even by the light of her electric lantern I can’t tell what colour they used to be. Oh, and she’s holding an oar, a sculling blade in her hands. I recognise from the paintwork that it belongs to Falcon Rowing Club, a few doors down.
‘Are you a rower too?’ I ask. As if that’s relevant. I’m babbling. She’s hardly going to have just come off the water in that outfit.
‘Sorry. It’s just, I’m a bit jumpy, and you’re holding a blade, so, you know.’
She looks at me as though I’ve lost the plot.
‘It’s an oar, not a sword. I’m not going to cut you.’
She makes it sound like this is a rare exception, like she cuts people on a regular basis. I think I might have been more comfortable if she had been a zombie.