'From my novella. Due soon. Probably.'
A sharp intake of breath and a bleary-eyed glance at the clock on the nightstand - two fairly standard reactions to hearing something crash in the middle of the night.
"Am I... Am I being burgled? Am I being bloody burgled?"
No-one in particular to hear me, sure, but I felt it needed vocalising. I had to say something, if only to kick-start myself into maybe dealing with the situation at hand. Okay - first things first - I would have to investigate.
But I was only in my boxers. Problem.
Okay, dressing gown. And something to hit the bastard with. If there even is a bastard. Something to hit the hypothetical bastard with.
"People keep baseball bats by the bed, don't they? Why don't I do that?"
The closest remotely heavy, blunt object was the bedside lamp. I'd got it from Ikea earlier - hadn't even been plugged in yet. Perfect. A nice solid, steel base too. Something to hit the fucker with, if need be.
Creeping downstairs was an odd experience - I usually don't have to sneak around my own home. Desperate times, I suppose. He was in the kitchen, I could see the silhouette of a hooded man through the frosted window. A hooded man. Never a hooded woman, is it? Never an attractive, available and aroused woman breaking into your maison at midnight. Always a bloody man.
Well, he was going to get the lamping of a lifetime.
I tiptoed up to the door, raised the metal base of my newly-purchased night-stand knick-knack, and prepared to smash his brains in. I was ten steps away, at most. Inching closer, masking myself in the silence.
And then we both heard the second crash.
"What the hell?"
That was him, that time. He'd spun around quickly and simultaneously raised his particular weapon - a crow bar. Which was a much better choice, I must say, than a lamp. Still - he knew this crap was going down, I was a little late to the party.
"You've not got a partner in crime, have you? Someone who might be in the front living room breaking one of my vases?"
He shook his head at me, there was a little fear mixed with the confusion on his face.
"No, I figured not. I don't have any vases."
"I know I should probably be the expert," the burglar again, "but what do you reckon the odds are of someone being robbed blind by two separate thieves on the same night?"
I didn't have to give my answer of 'not very likely, really', because we both heard the moaning. The shuffling. The guttural grunts emanating from the shifting mass of presumably decaying corpses in the next room. The horrible sounds that were getting closer, and led us to both to the same conclusion.
"Zombies."
