Hal Fletcher peered over the edge of the battlements, into the black moat below. It was evening, that time of night when the sun had sunk below the horizon but night had yet to fall. He fingered the crossbow in the sling behind his back without thinking, he hoped he wouldn't need it but he had a feeling the attack was going to come tonight.

It had been three years since he and Sally had left Beescombe behind. Beescombe had been the first place he knew of that had suffered from the plague but it certainly hadn't been the last. He gave a wry grimace as he remember poor old Bert blaming 'demons' for the walking dead, now of course everyone knew it was a plague, a virus carried by rats.

Mind you, he had been spot on in his method of terminating the infected creatures. Destroy the brain. Burn the remains. It was that simple but he was constantly amazed at how many people tried something else, and then were utterly surprised when the supposedly dead creature rose up to attack them. He made it his job, his vocation even, to travel from town to town, village to village, training guards and armsmen, spreading the word. Gradually he had built up a reputation as the best plague fighter in the kingdom.

But it had been a very long and hard three years. Some people said a quarter of the population had succumbed, others claimed it was more like half. At least King George had, finally, made the decision to ask for help.

Avalon was an interdicted planet. That meant no outsiders were allowed access and conversely no-one on Avalon could ever leave. That was the way their ancestors had wanted it. Sick of constantly changing technology, they had chosen to build a culture where people got back to basics, made their own clothes, grew their own food and lived a simpler and hopefully happier life. But three years of plague had changed things. The Council of Lords and Ladies had reluctantly decided that Avalon needed outside help, help from that technology their ancestors had foresworn.

To date though, as far as Hal could see, the help hadn't amounted to much. Presumably scientists were working busily in some laboratory somewhere off world developing a vaccine, but the only actual help he had seen were a few volunteer soldiers, men who liked to fight, who thought it would be a thrill to pit themselves against zombies. Hal had not been impressed with any of the ones he'd met so far. Unsurprisingly, they were all used to top of the line, high tech weapons and none of them had any experience with medieval swords and bows.

One of these volunteer soldiers was on the battlements with him now, in fact. Earlier that afternoon there had been a couple of the creatures on the far edge of the moat, watching them. Hal had lined up his crossbow ready to take them down. It had almost been comical to witness the look of dismay on Mitch Conaway's face when he had handed him another bow.

"Watch me, and then give it your best shot," he had told him.

Mitch had looked from the bow hanging awkwardly in his large hands to the monster on the other side of the moat and exclaimed, "You motherfuckers are crazy! Look at that big motherfucker, got a rocket launcher!?"

Hal had smiled grimly, he had scarcely understood a word the stranger had said but he got the gist of it. "Welcome to Avalon,' he replied.

They, and Sir Godfrey's men-at arms, had been at the castle for the last couple of days, patrolling every hour in shifts. Today was the first time they had seen any of the creatures. Hal cast a quick glance along the battlements, checking that every man was at his post, weapon handy. These men were well trained for once, unlike some he had been put in charge of, but no training in the world was going to prepare them for what was about to happen. He looked down again, his blue-green eyes narrowing to make the most of the remaining light.

There! The first sign. Ripple in still water, when there is no pebble tossed, nor wind to blow. He murmured the words to himself like a mantra. Vee shaped ripples, fanning across the still water, one, two, then three.

"Here they come," he announced quietly. "In the water. Get those cauldrons ready now. On my signal!"

The men-at-arms scrambled to get the heavy cauldrons up onto the battlements, panting and trembling with nervous excitement. Their shoulders strained under the leather jerkins. For an instant, one of the heavy cauldrons wobbled on the edge, sloshing its contents but the men managed to wrestle it back under control at the last minute.

"Now!"

Six cauldrons tipped over the battlement, pouring melted cooking fat saved from the kitchens into the moat below. Hal picked up a fresh torch, already soaked in pitch, and lit it with the striker he always carried in his belt. The flames flared up instantly. He dropped it over the edge, lighting a second as he watched the progress of the first.

Down it fell, twisting and turning. Casting light and shadows onto the stone walls of the castle.

In a matter of seconds, the surface of the moat was a mass of flames, showing a horrifying glimpse of literally hundreds of heads, swimming towards them. The creatures were swimming slowly, strangely unco-ordinated, occasionally bumping into each other. Hundreds of red eyes caught the light, before they burned.

Hal took a few minutes to walk all the way around the stone battlements, to see for himself that the flames were covering the entire moat. It looked good but he couldn't trust to luck that the flames had caught them all. He ended up back at the point he had started from and called the dozen armsmen over.

"Will and Harry? Ye stay up here to keep watch. I want the rest of ye down in the keep. If any of them have got through, we'll smash in their heads and toss them on the pyre. Believe me, we don't want even one loose in the castle."

The men nodded in agreement, some looking a bit queasy as the smell of burning bodies filled the air. They followed him down the rough staircase, carrying their bows.

"Unless ye are a better than fair shot, I suggest ye use one of these." Hal pointed to various implements he had gathered earlier, a couple of spades, an axe and a few mallets.

He gave Mitch the largest wooden mallet.

"This should suit ye!"

He turned to Sir Godfrey's men. "Remember lads, don't let them near enough to bite ye. One bite and ye're dead men." Hal cautioned, not for the first time. None of these men had seen what could happen with their own eyes, he suspected they wouldn't really understand until they did.

He made sure there was a fire burning in the middle of the keep, ready for anything they needed to toss into it. It was true enough that smashing the brain worked in most cases, but Hal had learnt the hard way that fire was safest, the most final. He got the men into a rough circle, facing outwards, their backs to the fire. Once again, Hal sent up a short prayer of gratitude to Sir Godfrey's forefathers, the ones who had built the castle in a sturdy, compact square. In three years of fighting, it was one of the easiest he had been responsible for defending.

There were a few jokes, a few lewd comments, but the men were watchful, their eyes searching for anything that moved.

The first creature shambled towards them, out of the shadows. Hal didn't know how it had got in, but at this point it didn't matter. There would be time enough later to search the castle and plug the entrance.

The creature bared its teeth, its lower jaw rotting visibly. Hal could hear the gasps of horror from a couple of the men, men who he could tell hadn't fully believed him until that moment. Mitch strode forward, swinging the mallet.

"Gotcha, ya little bastard!" he yelled as he brought the mallet down hard, smearing brains all over the flagstones.

"Get it on the fire!" Hal ordered one of the men holding a spade. Dick scooped up the remains, his face twisted in disgust and flung it on the burning wood.

Another creature came at them, this time from behind. Then another, and another. Mitch swung around easily and smashed down with the mallet. The other men were working hard as well.

"This is fun!" said Mitch, grinning. He lifted his big boot and brought it down hard on one of the creatures. "Whack-a-rat!"

"Mitch! Don't be a fool!" cried Hal. "This isn't a game, for goodness sake!"

"Fuck! The little bugger got me on the ankle!" Mitch smashed down with the mallet, but it was too late, the damage was done.

"Are ye alright?" asked the nearest armsman, remembering what Hal had said about a bite being fatal. But surely a big man like Mitch would be alright?

Before Mitch could answer, Hal drew his bow.

"I'm sorry, Mitch. I did warn ye," he said sadly.

The bolt caught Mitch between the eyes.

Every man there turned to stare in horrified disbelief. "Ye killed him!" shouted Dick.

Hal met their accusing gaze, his heart beating only a little faster. It had been a very long three years.

"Look at his leg!" he told them, "Tell me if that looks normal to ye."

Mitch's leg was starting to rot, the flesh blackening upwards from the bite. The men swallowed, still grappling with the sight before their eyes. To their horror, Mitch moaned and sat up, the arrow sticking out of his head, his eyes white and rolling in their sockets.

Damn, though Hal, it hadn't been as clean a shot as he'd hoped. He notched another bolt in his bow and fired again, this one going right through the brain. Mitch fell back onto the paving stones.

"Now we burn him," said Hal. "Along with the rats."