Free The Attic by Derek Prior

THE ATTIC

    Mom was thump, thump, thumping on the door, but Dad wouldn’t let her in. It was raining cats and dogs out there. The rat-tat-tat on the roof was a gazillion BB guns firing, one after another. Thunder cracked and rolled away; I’d always been told it was angels dropping coal.  
    Inside, the TV was chattering, and Dad was nailing planks across the windows. My breaths were raggedy gasps, and my heart was bouncing in my chest. Under it all, I could hear the groaning of the zombies, and the screaming and the sirens, and the bang, bang, bang of the policemen’s guns. I couldn’t help myself. My fingers fumbled with the door chain.
    “Don’t!” Dad dropped his hammer and shoved me out of the way. He checked the latch to make sure Mom couldn’t open the door from the outside, then he looked through the peephole.
    “It’s her,” I said. “You have to let her in.”
    He snarled as he turned and grabbed me by the shoulders.
    “It’s not. Don’t you get it? It’s not her. Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, Wes. I’m not … I mean … I’m not angry with you. We just can’t let her in, is all. She’s bit.”
    “Then make her better.”
    He pinched the top of his nose and screwed his face up. I thought he was gonna cry.
    “I can’t, Wes. I fuckin’… I can’t.”
    I ducked under his arm so quick, he couldn’t stop me.
    “Wes—”
    Pressing my face up against the door, I squinted through the peephole. Mom looked sickly and grey, and there was stuff coming out of her mouth, all foamy and disgusting. Her teeth kept snapping together, like she was saying something, but all I could hear was her growling.
    “You little …” Dad yanked me back and squeezed my cheeks with one hand so I had to look him in the face. “She ain’t speaking, Wes. Don’t you see? If it was really her, don’t you think she’d be yelling or screaming? She’s bit, I tell you.”
    My face was on fire. I stared him out, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I slapped his hand off me and went to look through the gaps in the planks covering the window.  
    I could see the side of Mom’s coat. There were shopping bags on the driveway next to her. Back a little way, there was a policeman all in black with one of them bulletproof jackets. He had a rifle gun pointed at her and was shouting the same thing over and over, only I couldn’t make out what it was.  
    Something shambled past the window. There was a shot and a spray of red on the glass.
    “Get away.” Dad’s voice cracked, like he was crying. “Get back from the window. You don’t want… you don’t want them to see you.”
    Mom hit the door real hard then, thump after thump after thump. The frame shook, and Mom’s growls turned into angry screams. All I could do was cover my ears and shut my eyes really, really tight.  
    The policeman called out again, this time from closer by. Mom must’ve thrown herself against the door, because the frame split. Thunder crashed, rain pattered, things moaned, the TV chattered.  
    Someone else shouted, “The head, you tosser!” and there was a deafening bang.  
    I screamed and fell to my knees, trying to breathe. I felt Dad’s arms around me, heard his sobbing, felt his warm tears on my neck.
    “It weren’t her,” he said through sniffs. “She was already gone, Wes. It weren’t her.”
    He didn’t try to hold me back when I stood and looked through the peephole. It was smeared with blood, and I couldn’t see out.
    “Wes…”
    “I might be nine, Dad, but I’m not stupid. Got it?”
    I pushed past him and headed through the lounge into the kitchen. I tried the back door. It was locked. I could see out into the conservatory through the kitchen window. I knew that was locked, too. We’d checked it earlier, after bringing the planks in from the shed. I heard Dad behind me as I took the key out of the lock.
    “What’re you doing?” he asked.
    “They break the window, they might reach in and turn the key,” I