Free A Zombie Christmas Carol by Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens Page A
Authors: Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens
armfuls of possessions. Screams and shouts came from them as they rushed past the front of the Bank and disappeared off into the distant streets.
“Watch carefully, who are these people?” asked the Spirit, as it pointed to a group of about a dozen scruffy children and a handful of adults that ran inside the Bank.
As they watched, the younger Marley and Scrooge rushed inside after them. The Spirit beckoned to the horde coming up the hill and Scrooge watched in despair as they entered the square. The group were the filthy, blood dripping undead and they all made their way around the Bank. As the closest drew near, Scrooge lifted up his hands to protect himself yet they moved through him.
“This is what has past, this cannot be changed,” said the Spirit.
As they watched, the crowd of undead surrounded the building as though it were some kind of sacred site. Their movement was as though they were a great wave or flood that engulfed a mountaintop so that it became an island. In moments the entire building was surrounded by a thick mass of them, so that no living soul could enter or leave the safety of the old building.
Once fully encircled, those closest to the Bank turned their attention to the windows and doors as they forced their way inside through any part of the building able to be damaged or torn open. A small number of firearms were discharged, presumably from guards or citizens, though the number of shots was pathetically small and had no effect on the great number crashing inside.
“Why did they do this?” asked a quivering Scrooge, “I never understood why they wanted to control that place of all things.”
“Because there is something there that controls them,” said the Spirit, pointing to the floor of the Bank.
“This building stands upon the ruins of something much older, darker and more evil than even you can fathom. It was built many centuries ago and has a power even I cannot fathom or hope to influence. Whoever controls the artefact and this evil place will be able to control the walking dead,” continued the Spirit.
The two entered the Bank, watching the swirling melee as the monsters attacked and tore apart any living person they could reach. The violence was horrendous as the creatures used their hands, nails and even teeth in a battle that reminded Scrooge of some of the accounts of the End of Days. In the middle of the room stood Marley and the younger Scrooge, both holding their sticks and fighting like demented mad men as the creatures tried to get nearer to them.
“Impressive, I see your swordsmanship came in useful after all. Pity you never kept it up,” said the Spirit wryly.
Scrooge watched for a moment, surprised at the skill he showed with such a simple weapon. He almost started to replicate the movements before he noticed a man dragged to the ground, his throat bitten into by an undead thing. As he stopped, he turned around to see the slightly younger Scrooge almost knocked to the ground but a cunningly concealed pocket pistol, with half a dozen tiny barrels, appeared from inside his coat and discharged a cloud of lead pellets that blasted back the two closest assailants. He followed up his shot with several strong strikes with the cane that cleared a few feet of space around him.
Somewhere outside came a multitude of cracking sounds that Scrooge instantly recognised as gunfire. Hints of white smoke washed inside from the volley of musketry followed by a dozen men in bright uniforms dashing inside. They were the local yeomanry, a mounted city militia and well capable of fighting the undead. From outside the sound of more gunfire heralded the arrival of more soldiers. As the fighting continued unseen outside, the group of sword and pistol-armed soldiers fought their way inside. Several of them were dragged to the ground by the creatures, while the remainder emptied their flintlock pistols into the horde whilst hacking and slashing away with their
“Watch carefully, who are these people?” asked the Spirit, as it pointed to a group of about a dozen scruffy children and a handful of adults that ran inside the Bank.
As they watched, the younger Marley and Scrooge rushed inside after them. The Spirit beckoned to the horde coming up the hill and Scrooge watched in despair as they entered the square. The group were the filthy, blood dripping undead and they all made their way around the Bank. As the closest drew near, Scrooge lifted up his hands to protect himself yet they moved through him.
“This is what has past, this cannot be changed,” said the Spirit.
As they watched, the crowd of undead surrounded the building as though it were some kind of sacred site. Their movement was as though they were a great wave or flood that engulfed a mountaintop so that it became an island. In moments the entire building was surrounded by a thick mass of them, so that no living soul could enter or leave the safety of the old building.
Once fully encircled, those closest to the Bank turned their attention to the windows and doors as they forced their way inside through any part of the building able to be damaged or torn open. A small number of firearms were discharged, presumably from guards or citizens, though the number of shots was pathetically small and had no effect on the great number crashing inside.
“Why did they do this?” asked a quivering Scrooge, “I never understood why they wanted to control that place of all things.”
“Because there is something there that controls them,” said the Spirit, pointing to the floor of the Bank.
“This building stands upon the ruins of something much older, darker and more evil than even you can fathom. It was built many centuries ago and has a power even I cannot fathom or hope to influence. Whoever controls the artefact and this evil place will be able to control the walking dead,” continued the Spirit.
The two entered the Bank, watching the swirling melee as the monsters attacked and tore apart any living person they could reach. The violence was horrendous as the creatures used their hands, nails and even teeth in a battle that reminded Scrooge of some of the accounts of the End of Days. In the middle of the room stood Marley and the younger Scrooge, both holding their sticks and fighting like demented mad men as the creatures tried to get nearer to them.
“Impressive, I see your swordsmanship came in useful after all. Pity you never kept it up,” said the Spirit wryly.
Scrooge watched for a moment, surprised at the skill he showed with such a simple weapon. He almost started to replicate the movements before he noticed a man dragged to the ground, his throat bitten into by an undead thing. As he stopped, he turned around to see the slightly younger Scrooge almost knocked to the ground but a cunningly concealed pocket pistol, with half a dozen tiny barrels, appeared from inside his coat and discharged a cloud of lead pellets that blasted back the two closest assailants. He followed up his shot with several strong strikes with the cane that cleared a few feet of space around him.
Somewhere outside came a multitude of cracking sounds that Scrooge instantly recognised as gunfire. Hints of white smoke washed inside from the volley of musketry followed by a dozen men in bright uniforms dashing inside. They were the local yeomanry, a mounted city militia and well capable of fighting the undead. From outside the sound of more gunfire heralded the arrival of more soldiers. As the fighting continued unseen outside, the group of sword and pistol-armed soldiers fought their way inside. Several of them were dragged to the ground by the creatures, while the remainder emptied their flintlock pistols into the horde whilst hacking and slashing away with their