The Attic (3 page)
Authors: Derek Prior
Ain’t got time to worry about mice
, I thought, as I ripped the tape from the box and looked inside. It was crammed full of toys. Old toys I’d never seen before. Perhaps they were Dad’s childhood things that he’d kept in case I wanted them. Maybe he was secretly collecting stuff to give me for Christmas. He’d done that last year, when I got all these really cool Cylons, and a phaser from the original Star Trek.
I pulled out an action figure. He had on a red suit and trainers, and he had a see-through eye. I squinted through it and saw things a little bigger. One of his arms had rubber skin over it. It was split and hard in places, but I managed to roll it up. There were colourful pretend electronics underneath, like he had a robot arm or something.
Dad had a real robot arm. He got it when his old arm was bitten off by a great white shark, he said. Bionic, it was. Looked just the same as a normal one, only it was super strong. If Watson had bitten that one, Dad might have been all right. He could have used it to clobber the zombies, no matter how many came at us. With that arm, he’d have picked them up and thrown them so high in the air, they would have hit the moon.
I put the figure on the floor and lifted down another box. This one rattled, and when I opened it, I saw it was full of Lego. I was about to put it to one side, when I remembered building this enormous castle in the living room when I was five or six. Dad helped me, and it took days, it was so big. Mom kept complaining she couldn’t do the vacuuming while it was there, but I think she must have liked it, because she let us keep it for a week or so.
I took out a block and set it on the floor, humming a tune to drown out the groaning from the street. I began to stack brick upon brick. It was odd, because I didn’t really know what I was making. I just kept piling the bricks up, one on top of another, and as I worked, I heard words in between my ears, getting louder and louder—songs Dad used to play on the stereo.
Guess who just got back today.
It was his voice, all scratchy and kind of silly.
Them wild eyed boys that had been away.
Mom’s voice cut across the singing. It was that screechy way she yelled “Dinner’s ready.” I half stood, started to call back, but there was a lump in my throat that slowly sunk all the way down to my belly.
Haven’t changed, haven’t much to say, but man I still think them cats are crazy.
My hands moved faster and faster, stacking the bricks higher and higher as the song built up to the chorus. That was the bit I used to sing along to, and me and Dad would dance around playing air guitars.
The boys are back in town.
The boys are back in town.
The boys are back in town.
We were always the boys who were back in town. We’d do this thing with our Nerf guns, where we’d jump out of the car and lock and load. I could see it in my head: me and Dad fighting off hundreds and hundreds of monsters—you know, Zygons, Cybermen, Daleks, or the Borg.
A crash from downstairs startled me out of my daydream.
Glass.
Breaking glass.
Then I heard angry growls and the sound of wood snapping and splintering.
I knew if I could just keep focused, I wouldn’t get scared. I watched my fingers picking up blocks of Lego and placing them on whatever it was I was building, like they had a mind of their own. I worked quickly, brick upon brick, Dad’s silly songs running round my head and making me laugh and cry and miss him and Mom so much. I cried, but they were someone else’s tears, and the people I saw—Nanny and Granddad, Aunty Paula and Uncle Del, even my best friend Joe Molloy—they all looked like they’d been cut out of a comic.
Kings of speed, we’re gonna make you kings of speed
, Dad sang.
Smash, crash, bash went the creatures downstairs.
The ace of spades, the ace of spades
.
Moan, groan, moan, groan.
The thing that used to be Dad roared, and the zombies downstairs roared back.
I cried out loud then. I still wanted to go to him, even though I knew he was gone. I didn’t want to be on my own. I didn’t want them to get me.
Something squealed, and I looked up.
Two beady white eyes were watching me from the shadows. I threw a Lego brick at them, and they vanished for a second, only to reappear a few feet away. I picked up another brick and placed it on whatever it was I was building. Somehow, I knew it was finished.
I pushed back and stood so I could see it better. It was a rectangle, like a doorframe for a dwarf. It stood on a chunky base of stepped bricks and had a shiny piece, like a lamp, on top. I was about to see if I could walk through it, when more beady eyes lit up beyond the doorway.
I stepped away and looked around for something I could use to frighten them off.
The yellow plastic of one of my old Nerf guns caught my eye. I pushed past some boxes and grabbed it. It was the one with the revolving chamber and a full load of foam darts. I cocked it, spun round, and fired at the first pair of white eyes. There was a squeak, and they disappeared. More and more eyes were appearing all over the attic. Some of them scurried out into the light, and I kept turning to make sure they didn’t sneak up on me.
Rats.
Dozens of them, all filthy and frothing at the mouth. They were squealing at me, staring me down with milky eyes just like Watson’s.
Just like Mom’s.
Just like Dad’s.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and more moaning and groaning. I fired off another Nerf dart, and one of the rats scarpered. The others kept closing in, hissing and baring their yellow teeth.
Something roared below on the landing, and then light spilled up through the trapdoor as the canvas wardrobe was pulled down. Fingers grabbed the edge of the opening, but they slipped away. There was a crash as the thing must have hit the ground, but straight away more fingers took hold of the edge.
I’d taken my eyes off the rats, and when I looked back, they had crept closer. I shot one right on the nose, but I could see it was no good. More were crawling over the attic junk and coming at me from all sides. I fired again, and then threw the gun at a pack of them.
A head appeared through the trapdoor opening, and the most evil face I’d ever seen snarled at me. Long ropes of drool dangled from its chin as it thrashed about crazily and started to drag itself into the attic. More hands appeared behind it, and below, I could hear so much moaning that I knew the house must be crammed full of zombies.
I kicked a rat that had gotten too close, then turned, looking for somewhere to run. They were everywhere, spitting and hissing, squeaking and scratching. The first zombie was finding its feet, while the next was halfway into the attic. I screamed, whirling around desperately, and knowing one of the rats was gonna bite me any second. There was no more being grown up, no more being brave. I wanted Mommy. I wanted Daddy, and there was no one. Maybe there was no one anywhere.
I tottered and nearly fell, and when I steadied myself, I saw a misty violet glow. It was coming from the Lego doorway. I stared at it, open-mouthed, even as cold fingers touched the back of my neck.
The rats swarmed toward me in waves, and the fingers started to dig into my skin. I screamed again and broke away, tripping on a big rat and falling headlong through the doorway. I hit my head hard, and it all went black.
There was a buzzing in my ears. Everything itched and prickled and ached and burned. I was cold, then hot, then cold again.
Mom was standing in the doorway, holding out a bag of shopping for me to take.
“Chain gang time,” Dad said, leaning over my shoulder to kiss Mom on the lips.
The second they touched, it all went fuzzy. My head spun, like I was in a washing machine, and I ended up face down in bed.
Bad dream
, I thought, and tried to pull the covers up, only there weren’t any covers.
I let out a whimper and tried to move. There was something gritty in my mouth. I spat and raised my head to see what it was.
Dirt.
I was lying face down in dirt. There were trees all around me; tall scraggly trees with no leaves. Big birds flitted in and out of the branches.
I started at the sound of crunching footsteps.
“Steady now, old chap,” a man’s voice said. It was so gruff, it sounded like he needed a good cough to clear his throat.
I twisted my head to look up at him.
At first, he was just a blurry blob of white, but as I blinked, a pointy helmet came into focus. He bent down, resting his weight on a shotgun.
I rolled onto my back and sat up.
There was something like whiskey on his breath, and crumbs of food clung to his dangly mustache. His eyes were sparkly blue with magic, and his cheeks were red and blotchy.
“Good show, old man,” he said. “Good show.”
“I…. but… I… Omigosh. Wesley J. Harding! But it can’t be… This isn’t real.”
Wesley J. Harding’s brows knitted together, and his eyes lost their luster.
“You could say that, I suppose. Yes, you could say that.” He twiddled his mustache, and the sparkle returned to his eyes. “Come on, lad. Can’t dally. Tiger-men on the tail, wot, and you don’t want them to catch you in the open, mark my word.”
He took hold of my elbow and led me off through the trees toward the red disk of the setting sun. I had a zillion questions, but he started to run, and it took all my breath just to keep up.
“Tell me, sonny,” he called over his shoulder. “Have you ever tried a bed of nails? Look like you could use a good sleep, wot.”
“Sleep?” I said. “I can’t sleep.”
He stopped and took me by the shoulders, nodding and frowning.
“I know, sonny. Forgive an old codger. Course you can’t sleep, after what you’ve been through.”
I pulled back from him, all tensed up and ready for a fight.
“No, it’s not that. I’m hungry, is what. Really, really hungry. Starving.”
“Ah,” Wesley J. said, slapping the barrel of his shotgun. “And I think I know just what you need.”
I was already licking my lips, somehow knowing what he was gonna say. It felt like someone had lit a fire cracker in my tummy and filled my veins with pepper. My mouth was squelchy and full of spit that dribbled down my chin. There was a hole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon, and nothing was gonna make it go away.
“Come on, lad.” Wesley J. turned around, sniffing the air and raising his shotgun to his eye. “Let’s go hunt ourselves some tiger-men.”
The sheen of his eyes burned red, and in them, I saw my vacant stare reflected. For a moment, I panicked, but then my thoughts became vague, shadowy things that scampered away to the corners.
Wesley J. noted something in my expression and nodded. He clapped me on the shoulder, and I focused in on the drool dripping from his mustache.
And I understood. Not with thoughts, for I had none. But I knew what I had to do with the same blind certainty that drew a dog to dinner.
Thank you for reading
THE ATTIC
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