Hal Fletcher first knew there was something dreadfully wrong when he saw his mother walking toward him. It wasn't that her best dress—the blue one—was stained and dirty, although that was unusual enough to have him staring; no, it was the simple fact that she was supposed to be dead.

He had buried her himself, a week ago in the little churchyard and most of the village had attended the simple service. And yet, here she was, walking toward him across the village green, sending the few sheep which had been contentedly grazing, scampering away, as far as they could get. She was smiling at him but there was something wrong with her face.

He swallowed, unable to move, frozen in disbelief, as she came nearer and nearer. "Ma?"

She didn't answer.

Now she was close enough that he could see her features. Her eyes were white and bloodshot, her nose was missing and her smile wasn't really a smile, it was more like a gaping hole where her tongue used to be.

Hal threw up, right where he was standing.

By the time he straightened up again she was only a few feet away. Before his brain realised he had made a decision, Hal found he had drawn the crossbow from the sling behind his back.

"Sorry, Ma!" He shut his eyes and fired into her chest.

The creature, he could no longer think of it as his mother, kept coming. Hal started backing away, firing bolt after bolt at the ghastly creature in a frenzy. Nothing seemed to stop it—the obscene creature, riddled with arrows, shambled relentlessly toward him. Gasping now in panic, Hal managed to shoot an arrow right between its eyes. Instantly, it fell to the ground, unmoving.

Hal stared at it, panting. He couldn't leave the rotting corpse there for anyone to stumble over but there was no way in hell he was going to touch it.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus, then walked unsteadily back to his little rose covered cottage which fronted the green. A few moments later he came out with a bucket of pitch and a stick with cloth wrapped around one end. He dipped the torch in the pitch, then poured the rest of it over the corpse and set it alight with the striker in his belt. Still in shock, he watched it burn, burn until a greasy black stain was all that remained.

Hal ran a slightly shaky hand through his flaxen hair. God, he needed a drink. He staggered back to his cottage and broached a new barrel of ale.

Goodwife Fletcher was only the first of the walking dead to plague Beescombe.

Hal woke in the morning to the sound of moaning. And it wasn't him, despite his pounding head. It was coming from somewhere outside his cottage. He flung on some clothes and seized his bow, then cautiously looked out of his door. After the horror of yesterday he was quite prepared for the worst.

The first thing he saw was Bert Taylor nailing a beam over his neighbour's door. Bert turned a white face toward him, his eyes staring wildly, "Have the demons got ye, Hal?" he demanded.

"What the deuce are ye talking about?"

He saw Bert relax a fraction. "Ye sound yerself, praise be." The other man swallowed convulsively. "In the night—they came in the night." He hammered a final nail into the door and turned to face Hal. "Demons got Dick and his wife," he nodded toward the cottage he had just barricaded. "Turned them black, black with rot." A faint moaning sound came from inside and Bert shuddered convulsively.

"How do ye know it's demons?" asked Hal, unconvinced.

"They should be dead, anyone like that should be dead, but they're still walking, as if they're possessed by something else. Nothing we can do stops them. I know ye're not a believer, but what else could it be?"

Despite himself, Hal felt a superstitious shiver. All rational people knew that there were no such things as demons, few people believed in the old religions since humanity had gone out into space. Avalon might be a medieval planet but that was by choice, not ignorance.

"What does Squire Templeton say? Has anyone sent for him yet?"

"Not yet, there hasn't been time." Bert rubbed an unsteady hand across his eyes. "Dick and May aren't the only ones. Old Sam, who we buried three days ago, he was walking down High Street, going back to the smithy it looked like, but as soon as he saw young Jim, standing there with his mouth open, staring, he grabbed him..." Bert broke off as if the horror was too great to continue.

"He grabbed him?" prompted Hal.

"Grabbed him and tore half his face off. Jim's dead, Hal. George and I got him laid out in the church, ready for burial."

"What happened to Sam?"

"He's still in the forge, I pushed the workbench over on him, pinned him to the ground. Then I cut his head off with an axe," confessed Bert. "It was all I could think of."

"Did that stop him?" asked Hal, realising that if he hadn't witnessed his own mother walking last night, he would have been totally incredulous by now.

Bert stared at him. "Of course it did. What do ye mean?"

"Let's go and have a look, make sure," Hal insisted, remembering uneasily that the monster that had been his mother had not 'died' until he shot it between the eyes. He was probably worrying for nothing. Surely decapitation would have the same effect?

When they got to the forge, there was Sam's body, still on the ground, pinned underneath the workbench and Hal breathed a sigh of relief.

"So where's his head?" he asked, looking around.

"It must be here somewhere!" declared Bert, not wanting to believe his own eyes. But they couldn't find it.

"I think it's time we roused the village, let people know what's happening," decided Hal. "And someone should go for the Squire."

Bert nodded. "I'll ring the church bell."

Moments later, the bell tolled out across the village, summoning everyone to a meeting in the church.

The first to arrive was George Miller, white faced and agitated. "There ye are, Bert, I've been looking all over for ye! It's Meg Forrester, her that died nigh on a month ago. She got into her cottage with Tom and the young'uns before I realised what was happening. We've got to go and board them up."

"Ye can't do that!" protested Hal. "There are children in there!"

"It's too late now! We've got no choice," George insisted, his face red.

"Come on, let's see." Hal strode off to the Forrester's cottage, George following closely, still justifying himself as they went. Bert stayed at the church to tell the rest of the anxious villagers what was happening.

They could hear the moaning before they reached the cottage. It was enough to send shivers down each man's spine. The wooden door was slightly ajar and now they could hear shuffling sounds coming from inside. Hal swallowed.

"Tom?" No answer.

Hal brought his bow round and loaded it, ready. "Sally? John? Are ye in there?" he called in a loud voice.

Silence.

"It's Hal! I'm here to get ye away from the monster."

Silence. Hal's shoulders drooped dispiritedly. "Board it over, then."

"I'm up here." A small voice came from inside.

Both men peered upwards and saw a white face at the window in the loft, looking down at them.

Hal grinned in relief. "Sally! Good girl! Do ye think ye can get out through the window?"

"I don't know. I'll try."

Sally pushed her head and shoulders through the opening, wriggling until she could get her body to follow.

"When ye get out, slide down the roof on yer bottom and George will catch ye."

Hal wanted to look out for Sally but knew he had to keep his eyes on the door. He was the only one with a weapon.

George was twitching next to him, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Hal was worried he was going to bolt any minute.

"George!" Hal spoke firmly, taking command. "Ye concentrate on Sally. I'll look after the rest, trust me."

Sally pulled her last foot free from the window and slid down the thatched roof, grabbing at the straw with her hands on her way down. She was almost at the edge when the cottage door swung open and what remained of Meg Forrester shambled out.

It was too much for George. He screamed and ran as if the hounds of hell were after him.

Gagging at the sudden stench that had wafted toward him, Hal drew his bow. He'd only have one shot at this. He drew back the arrow and let it fly, right between the creature's eyes. It fell to the ground and he turned to catch Sally as she dropped from the roof.

"Good girl!" he said. "Well done! John?"

Sally shook her head and buried her face against his shoulder. Sally clung to him all the way back to the church.

Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Nobody knew what to do but they all had something to say.

Hal listened for a minute and then broke in over the top.

"Listen to me! The only thing that stops these monsters is an arrow through the brain, or fire. I suggest ye burn the bodies, burn the houses if ye have to, but whatever ye do, don't touch them!" Hal didn't know exactly what would happen if someone did, but he just felt in his gut it would be really bad.

"I'm going to fetch the Squire and his armsmen to help us. Can someone look after Sally for me?"

No-one came forward for a minute. More than one person was eying the girl uneasily, as if they expected her to suddenly turn on them, like her mother had. Hal glared at them in disbelief. "She's just a little girl!"

"I want to go with ye," whispered Sally.

"I'll look after her," offered Meg Cook, a trifle reluctantly it seemed.

Sally clung tighter to Hal. "I don't want to stay here with the monsters! I want to go with ye," she said again.

Hal didn't want to take the child with him, but it seemed cruel to pry her loose. "It's two miles to the manor. Can ye walk that far?"

Sally nodded.

"All right then," Hal gave in. "Ye can come with me to the Squire's manor, then we'll see." He turned to the villages. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Remember what I said about the burning." A few people nodded, but he could hear them still talking as he left, Sally walking briskly by his side.

An hour later found them both at the manor house on the hill. Squire Templeton stared at Hal in disbelief. His eyes popped and his moustache bristled. Until that moment he'd always considered Hal one of the more reliable villagers, but he sounded like he'd had one too many this time. He made him repeat his story several times but it wasn't until Sally whispered that her Ma had killed her Da that he started to take them seriously.

"Most of the men are out hunting a boar that got loose, I'm not expecting them back until nightfall. We'll go down to the village first thing in the morning," he decided. "You and the girl can stay here for the night, there's plenty of room."

Hal wasn't happy about the delay but it was out of his control. At least the villagers knew what to do now, a night shouldn't make that much difference.

Next morning the Squire led a party of men through the forest, armed with bows and swords, still not quite convinced by Fletcher's story. Obviously something terrible had happened in Beescombe, but walking dead people sounded too much like a bard's tale.

The low moaning coming from the village as the party drew near, was the first indication that something had gone wrong with Hal's strategy of containment. Hal hurried forward, his bow at the ready. Burning the bodies should have stopped the creatures in their tracks. What had happened? Had Dick and May broken out of their barricaded cottage?

The Squire and his men followed more cautiously, something about that noise had the hair standing up on the back of their necks.

They stopped at the edge of the village, staring in sick horror. Instead of a group of villagers happily going about their daily tasks, they saw blackening corpses. The worst was that despite rotting features, Hal could recognise most of them. There was Jim, Meg. He saw Dick and May on the green, evidently barricading the door had not kept them in the cottage. Where was Bert? He knew what they were facing—he'd have escaped, surely? His stomach clenched in fear as he searched the mutilated faces. Feeling sick, he spotted Bert at the back. It appeared all too likely that Hal and Sally were the only survivors. Thank heavens he had taken her with him!

Then one of the creatures turned toward them, making disgusting snorting sounds as it tried to sniff the air with only half a nose. In a matter of seconds, it seemed every creature began to move in their direction, some walking as quick as a man, others in a twisted, shambling gait.

"Heavens above!" exclaimed the Squire in a faint voice.

"Aim for the eyes!" said Hal grimly, loading his bow. "Then we burn the whole place down."

~~~

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 remembered 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 forsworn.

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're crazy! Look at that big bastard there! We need 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 toward them. The creatures were swimming slowly, strangely uncoordinated, 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 flesh 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 and 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 with 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 toward 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!"

"Shit! 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 all right?" asked the nearest armsman, remembering what Hal had said about a bite being fatal. But surely a big man like Mitch would be all right?

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."