Bolt from the Blue ------------------ Dashing up the stone staircase that led to the house, Felton tried desperately not to lose his footing. He was exhausted. Had he stood still, his legs would have buckled from under him. But he could not stand still. In fact, he was running as fast as he could, concentrating only on the next stone step and the one after that. Step by step, he climbed, panting, sweating, ignoring the pain in his body, the scrapes and blood from the few missteps he had taken. He also desperately tried to ignore what was behind him. The door to the house was perhaps twenty steps above him now. He did not dare to look back. He knew there must be at least five -- no, more like ten of them -- not more than a few steps behind him. The tears in his shirt and pants gave a clear sign of their malevolent intentions towards him. Every now and then, they would cry out, a low painful moan that would chill him to the bone. He wanted to stop, to hide, to cover his head, but he kept climbing, step after step. His only fortune was their lack of speed. While he was able to stay ahead of them, their relentless, single-minded pursuit of him would eventually prevail. They did not stop, rest, pause, or even think. They were simply driven to get him. And when they did... A single creature, while seemingly harmless and scrawny, possessed monstrous strength. They were animated corpses. The energy that bound them was seemingly limitless. They would not stop. Felton had engaged them before, facing two of them. He had cut one of them down, but it would not stop coming at him, even if it had to crawl along the floor. And he did not have time to completely deal with the one he had hacked to pieces, because its companion was still quite mobile. When a third joined the group, Felton realized he must flee. And flee he did. All the way to the front door of the old house on the hill. Perhaps drawn there by desperation. He threw himself up on the last step, and collapsed on the landing, falling against the old wooden door. It was then that he turned and saw them, at least two dozen of the foul zombies, clambering up the stairs, perhaps 5 seconds behind him. If he did not act, he would be rent from limb to limb. He knew that it would not be a quick death. And what was worse was the thought that afterwards he might then join their ranks. He grabbed the door knob and turned it while leaning his fallen form against the door. It opened and he flopped in. The zombies had broached the landing. He lacked the strength to stand, so instead, he simply rolled into the entryway of the house, so his legs would clear the doorway, and then placing his shoulder against the door, rolled backwards nudging the wooden door closed. It slammed with a thin thud. Almost immediately, a great pounding started on the door. The zombies were mindless and did not know how to use a doorknob. However, quickly the noise multiplied, as more and more zombies joined in on the assault as they reached the door. From his position on the ground, Felton glanced up at the door, looking for any additional way to strengthen it, as the door alone would not hold for very long. He noticed a circular locking mechanism. It was a gold casing with a long, thin lever to swing the bolt. At the end of the lever was silver knob, sculpted in the form of a skull, with two red rubies for eyes. The light in the entryway was dim, yet the rubies managed to catch the light from somewhere, making the sockets of the eyes glow with a fearful presence. Felton lay there, transfixed for several moments by the skull's eyes, he was almost fearful to touch it. The sound of cracking wood snapped him out of his trance, and steeling himself, he reached up and grabbed the knob. The metal was cold to the touch. As he grabbed it, he felt as if his arm had turned to stone. The whole world was stone. Still and dead. Time froze and the only thing left was his will. He could still let go of it. Part of his brain desperately wanted to release the latch, perhaps cut his hand off and run away. Another part of him realized he could run no further and he had no choice. And still another part of him, the part of grim determination, cared not about anything else beyond the fact that he had already decided to throw the latch to secure the door, regardless of the consequences. He pulled the knob. It swung perhaps sixty degrees, from pointing thirty degrees away from him, to straight down, to thirty degrees towards him. At the same time, he heard the bolt slide into place inside the door. The metal fit into a wooden socket and sounded a low dull echoed through the foundations of the house, as if a giant wall had suddenly descended. The shock loosed his grip and his arm fell limply down against his side and he started to slide into oblivion. The sudden silence outside jarred him to consciousness. No more pounding. No more ghastly screams and moans. He was safe. The zombies would not cross the threshold. For having touched the knob, he now understood. Turning the latch, he had turned the zombies. Felton had been very fortunate that day, for he had found a house with a door secured by an un-dead bolt.