The Attic Read Free

little chain gang, so we could put the cans away in the cupboards while Mom fixed the tea.  
    A sniffle escaped, but I ignored it, peering into the darkness until I could make out a shape blacker than the rest. I reached out, and my fingers found something cold and hard. It felt like metal. I crouched down and ran both hands over it. It was a box of some sort, with a lid and handles either side. I took hold of one of the handles and gave it a tug. The box shifted easier than I thought, and I fell backwards. I threw my hand out behind and struck foam. My heart jumped into my throat, and I shut my eyes, waiting to fall through the ceiling. I must have gotten lucky, because nothing happened. After a few raspy breaths, I inched back onto the beams and found the handle again. This time, I took little steps backward as I dragged the box into the light.
    It was painted black, but chipped all over. It looked a thousand years old. Maybe a million. There was a tiny key in the lock, with a ripped brown tag attached to it. Wesley J. Harding , it said in swirly joined-up writing.  
    Except for the J ., that was my name, but I’d never seen the box before in my life. Then I remembered something Dad had told me when I was really little. I was named after his great, great, great granddad, but my middle name was different. Mine was Xavier, after this saint Mom liked. Dad once told me he was eaten by cannon-balls.  
    But Wesley J. Harding was real famous in my family. He was in India, they said. In the stories Dad used to tell, Wesley J. was always doing magic stuff, like rope tricks so he could escape from the evil tiger-men. He could even lie on a bed of nails without getting pricked to death.
    I turned the key and lifted the lid. It fell back on its hinges with a loud clang.  
    There was an answering growl from below. It sounded like those things from outside, only it was definitely closer; right underneath me. I closed my eyes to listen better. Someone moaned, and there was a noise like Darth Vader breathing and Dad gargling mouthwash all rolled into one.
    “Daddy?” I said, too softly for him to hear. Then a little louder, “Dadda?”
    There was an snarl, then lots of smashing and crashing, like someone was throwing furniture about. There was a heavy thud right beneath the attic, and more moaning and groaning that sounded even closer. I yelped in fright as something bashed against the trapdoor and then roared.
    My eyes snapped open, and I was staring at an old yellowish photo of a man in a pointy white helmet standing with his foot on a tiger. He had a big gun in one hand, and was smoking a pipe with the other. I knew who it was from the dangly mustache: Wesley J. Harding.
    There was more pounding on the trapdoor. It bounced in the opening, and the bolt rattled. I knew I was still safe, though. The trapdoor opened outward, so no amount of hammering was going to help. If it was Dad, he’d know all he had to do was unbolt it and lower the cover.  
    But maybe it was him, only he might be like Mom had been. She’d looked the same as normal, except for the dribble and the milky eyes. Maybe zombies weren’t too clever. Maybe they were too thick to work a bolt. Even so, I knew I couldn’t take chances. I had to think, and think quick. I needed a weapon.
    Next to the picture of Wesley J. Harding there was a wad of cloth tied up with string. I lifted it out, surprised at how heavy it was. I nearly dropped it when the banging got louder and the wood of the trapdoor started to split. I fumbled at the string, pulling it over the edges of the bundle, because I couldn’t untie the knots. As I began to unwrap the material, it suddenly went quiet below. I heard the bolt being turned; heard it snap back. Acid came up my throat, almost made me sick. I dropped the bundle, and it hit the boards with a thud, coming unwrapped.
    A gun.
    It was pistol-like thing with one of those chambers like I had on my Nerf gun. It looked really old. Really,