Hey, hey! I’ve decided to get back into writing. My life right now doesn’t afford me time to read or write much more than a few scraps here and there, but I’ve got a vacation coming up soon and no destination in mind. I might as well spend some time putting words on paper, except instead of paper I’ll be using them new fangled computers. My observations on zombie horror fiction have led me to believe that I might be able to contribute something to this burgeoning genre. Will my efforts be a help or a hinderance? How the fuck should I know? Shut up and read:
Chapter One:
Percy Willoughby cursed his fortunes as a low-hanging branch caught him in the face. Rain-ladden leaves swept across his ill-kempt beard and he spat out the dewy taste they left on his lips. He continued to swat at them and rage long after they had left his immediate vicinity. Finally contenting himself, he pulled his shapeless hat lower over his eyes, which were as grey and restive as the skies themselves, and continued his surveillance for potholes on the winding road ahead of him. The rain had not been so menacing when he left Edinburough eight hours earlier. Rain was to be expected during such a season, but now it threatened to wash the road away under him. Soon, he would have to stop for the night, but Nottinghamshire was still many miles ahead of him. He worried what might happen should he get stuck out in the woods, with no dry spot to set camp. With his passengers, he would not be permitted to sleep inside the carriage. The best he could hope for was to pull a blanket over his head and find some kind of shelter under the boughs of a tree. Of course, he would be expected to keep watch during the night for brigands, which the elderly woman was deathly afraid of. He had tried to assure her that the last highway robber to roam the road they were upon had been hanged years ago, and no one thought it worth the effort to replace him. She had merely given him a withering look that signalled her distrust.
The way she behaved made it clear she thought he would try to molest her poor young daughter at the first opportunity. As if he would want such a pale specimen when he had a perfectly suitable woman waiting for him at home with a smile and a warm cup of beer. It served her right to be so wrought with misgivings, travelling unaccompanied by a man in these troubling times, but they claimed her husband was waiting for them at their new home in Canterbury. In his absence, Percy promised himself to be their chaperone, but he was beginning to doubt it was worth the effort. He prided himself on being a perfect gentleman, but they treated him like a scullery boy. Would it pain them to know they weren’t the pair to ride inside his carriage, nor were they the most gracious? He had inquired about their lives and their business to pass the hours of their journey, but the girl was too shy and the mother was too disapproving of his general existence. The horses were better company.
Suddenly, the carriage came to an abrupt halt and Percy was lurched forward on his seat. He barely was able to get his hand up in time to prevent himself for toppling over the side. The horses gave startled whinnies to accompany the yelps of surprise inside. He could hear things clattering around below him, and he did not know if it was luggage, or women.
Casting a look back, he saw his left rear wheel firmly wedged in the mud. “Abomination!” he cried out. Cracking his whip, he flicked the reins and urged the horses onward. They struggled valiantly, but they were tired from the long journey. He cracked the whip a few more times before thinking better of it. He was as likely to kill them as free himself. Sighing, he tied the reins and climbed down for a closer look.
“What is the meaning of this?” the old woman demanded as she flung open the door, nearly catching him in the face as he walked around the side.
“Get back inside,” he told her irritably. “Nothing you can do.”
Bending down with a grunt, he saw the wheel was wedged in about ten inches of mud and muck. “What’s the problem?” she asked him.
“The wheel’s stuck,” he muttered more to himself than to her. He looked around for his pry bar and came back to try and wrench them free. Setting the bar deep in the mud beneath the wheel, he gave a great pull, but the wheel remained in place. He tried again, and this time managed to fall over backwards as it slipped from his grip. He landed on his backside, fully muddying his coattails. “Damnation,” he swore as he flicked mud off of himself.
“Language!” the old woman chided him.
“Lady…” he began, but bit his tongue. She was a paying fare after all. He pitied her husband, though.
Now that he thought on it, it seemed odd that a woman her age would have a daughter such an age as hers. It was a matter for another time, however, as he had larger problems to tangle with. He began to go over his options. Perhaps if her could get the horses to pull as he used his pry bar.
That’s when he became aware that the woman had grown deathly silent. He looked up at her curiously, and she was staring, pale-faced at something directly behind him. He was puzzled, until he felt the presence. There was no true shadows to be cast in such a light, but he suspected there would be one over him now. There was something else too: a smell. A smell of something quite not right. It was a smell one would only find if they went digging in places that were forbidden to them. Yes, just like fresh dug earth, but something else as well. A stench of age, like an animal that had lived longer than it should properly do. He had a dog like that once, and that was like he was sensing now.
Turning slowly, he looked up at the tallest man he had ever seen. It was like being a toddler again and craning his head up towards the adults. The man was close to seven feet tall, if indeed it was a man. He could discern no features, as they were hidden beneath a sagging hood of a cloak that had been stitched together quite crudely. He could hear him breathing lowly, and it sounded much like his horses.
His thoughts turned to the woman and her suspicions about brigands. If that was the case, he had best turn over his belongings. He had no hope to defend himself against such a monster. All he had was his ridding crop and a simple knife used more for paring apples than defending his life. In a fight, he was less than adequate. His nose was still crooked from where his brother had punched it in a dispute he could no longer recall. The injury had taught him that his physical ability was not his strongest suit, so he had lived a gentler life.
With a deep grumble that seemed to come up from his toes, the man swept past him. Their arms momentarily touched, and he felt a cold shiver pass over him. He looked helplessly as he advanced on the carriage, wondering if he should interject with his own life to save those of his charges, but a moment was all it took to discern that this was not going to be necessary. The beast before him clutched the carriage’s wheel and gave a heave. With seeming effortlessness, the carriage lifted up out of it’s rut and was freed. The woman retreated into the carriage with a squeal, and slammed the door shut behind her.
Still not quite believing he was seeing what he was seeing, Percy opened his mouth to thank the man. As he did, the figure turned on him. He saw it’s eyes, and grew cold. There was something wrong about his eyes. It was as if there was no life in them, and the left one did not properly match the right. Percy thought he had an ugly nose, but the man’s was more misshapen. It was bent first one way, then the other. Long scars covered his face, and broad patches where flames had licked his skin. Due to these scars, he could not read the expression it wore. It was like trying to read a scribble on a piece of parchment.
The strange man grunted at him wordlessly, and with that, took his leave. He began a procession down the road in the direction of Nottinghamshire, where they were bound.
Percy wondered what the decorum should be. Should he offer the man a lift, or should he turn his carriage around and flee, forgetting his destination? One decision was made for him
That’s not much, is it? That’s not even two pages, I think. Locations are probably going to change, but I need a setting before I can get rolling, don’t I? Also, I don’t think there was any zombies in those pages, but you have to give me props for busting Frankenstein’s Monster out so quick. You know those horror movies where you don’t even see the monster until the last ten minutes? This isn’t like that.
Also: the title is Frankenstein vs. the Zombies. Technically, Frankenstein is the doctor who created the “monster,” so it’s not like you’d want to read about some nerd hacking away at zombies for four-hundred pages. I could call it Frankenstein’s Monster vs. the Zombies, but Frankenstein employed a hunchback and created a female monster as well. Which monster am I referring to? Besides, it just doesn’t have that kick. You know what you’re in for with my title, so just play along, and I won’t sock you one.
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