...continued from page 1.

10 figures lurched out of the house and towards the next. In the darkness it was hard to be certain, but it looked as if one of them had the top of her body bent backwards (somewhat like a snapped twig), and another had something wrong with the shape of his head. But they all moved along, all the same, again dividing up into two separate groups and slowly made their way towards both entrances of the next house.
Before any of them reached it, a window opened on the top floor, and a man's head popped out and looked down, trying to make out anything in the darkness outside.
"Hey, Bill? Is that you? Everything OK with you? Thought I heard a shot over at your place", he said quietly, trying not to wake anyone else. He thought he heard faint moaning from below and shuffling, as if someone had a hard time walking. Concerned, he said: "That doesn't sound too good - wait where you are, I'll call a doctor!", and with that he went downstairs and picked up the phone. It took him a few attempts in his tired haze to realize that there was no dial tone, and he just managed to mutter "What the ..." before the front door burst open and showered him in a hail of splinters. The pain of a piece of wood biting into his wrist finally woke him up all the way, and screaming "Norah!", his voice raising in pitch towards the end of his wife's name, he ran up the stairs.
A girl-like figure had already reached the steps, but then stopped and moved aside as the bent shape of the woman from next door walked past and up the stairs.
The owner of this house seemed to be better prepared - a beam of bright light suddenly illuminated the advancing shape. The barrel of a .36 revolver glinted briefly in the man's hand.
"Oh my God... Sybill, is that you?", he asked the approaching figure and watched in horror as its upper body slowly started bending further backwards as if in slow motion until after a final crack her hands touched the steps behind her. He slammed the bed room door shut from the outside and screamed at the door: "Norah, lock the door, right now, and do not open it, no matter what happens!"
When he looked back towards the stairs, the broken shape had not only made it up the stairs, but also managed to pull the top of the body back into a somewhat upright position. She kept coming closer with her arms raised and pointed towards him.
Ignoring the muffled screams of his wife behind the door, he fired his gun, and fired again and again, and he kept pulling the trigger even though loud clicks indicated that he had run out of ammunition. A cold hand that had tried to reach for the gun had instead grabbed his hand, and he howled in pain as the fingers buried themselves into his flesh. Suddenly, there was a short but violent pull and a nasty sound somewhere between a rip and a crack, and the advancing figure seemed to have three arms now. He started screaming...

He liked the house. Well built, a little off the street, lots of cover and most of all a solid basement with access both from outside and inside the house. New flowers seemed to have been planted in this garden only recently, the outside walls freshly painted, and a hole next to the front walk way seemed to indicate a recent change in ownership of the property. He smiled and nodded towards the others, and together they walked up to the front door.
There were still lights on inside and the flicker of a TV set. Through the window, he could see a very young couple on the couch. She had her head on his lap, and they were holding hands as they watched the show. Definitely keepers, he thought as he knocked on the front door. He could barely hear a few muffled sentences between the two and a short playful but disappointed moan from the girl before foot steps approached the door. The door opened - it had not even been locked. They would have some fun in this town!
The young man opening the door was maybe barely 19 and in great physical shape. He only wore boxers, a sleeveless t-shirt and a wedding ring that had not even left its mark on his finger yet. Freshly married - this was getting better and better.
"Yea? Waddya want?", the young man asked, somewhat irritated at the disturbance, and he seriously hoped that this wouldn't take long so he and his wife could continue their plans for the evening. The man outside his new house was dressed in a very elegant but old-fashioned black business suit and looked to be about 35 years old and very thin. And his smile immediately annoyed him.
"I do apologize for the inconvenience that my presence must surely imply on you this very fine evening. I am certain you won't mind if I and my associates enter your wonderful domicile?"
"Huh... wha...? Er... sure...", mumbled the young man, confused not only at the complicated speech pattern (which he still had not fully managed to translate in his head), but also at the absurdity of the situation. Little did he know what he had just unknowingly invited into his life.

They were slowly exiting another house, and their numbers had been growing steadily in the last half hour. Most of the newer additions to their group had deep gray bite marks where flesh had been ripped out of still living bodies. But whatever instinct was driving them to eat, a different stronger urge outside of their own existence prevented them from consuming their victims. They did not know why, but they did not need to know in order to follow these urges, and so their numbers had grown enough by now for the group to split up and leave the main road that went through the entire village.
A neighbor nearby had woken up from muffled noises that sounded a lot like gun shots and was now heading for his phone to find out what was going on. When that and any attempt at turning on the lights failed, he quietly moved for the wardrobe and opened it. He reached inside and loosened the back board which revealed an array of firearms of various sizes. He picked a heavy looking pistol and a shotgun with most of the barrel sawed-off, made certain they were fully loaded and carefully laid them on the bed. Next he picked up spare ammunition, finally grabbed a high-powered flashlight and carefully closed the secret compartment and the wardrobe again. He then went back to the bed and picked up the shotgun to sling its strap over his shoulder so it hung down his side, ready to be picked up and fired in an instant. Then he slowly left the room, the pistol in the right hand and the turned off flashlight in the other, and made his way to the back door as quietly as he could. He winced each time a floor board creaked, but made it to the door and stopped to take a deep breath before advancing to the nearest window. It was nearly pitch dark outside, but he thought he could see some shapes just outside his back yard moving towards him. Temporarily grabbing the flashlight with his pistol hand, he slowly slid back each of the three bolts on the door, trying hard not to make a sound and regretting that he had not taken more care to keep them oiled. He turned the handle, but only opened the door a fraction of an inch. Taking the flashlight back in his left hand, he used the big toe of his foot to slowly pull the door open. It did not look as if they had quite reached the house yet, so he opened up all the way, crouched and slowly moved into the door way. He could see the shapes again - they moved as if they were heavily wounded or maimed, but with a purpose that negated that explanation. He slowly got up to his full height, aimed the pistol and the flashlight at the closest of the shapes and flicked the switch. A painful beam of white light shone out, and he had to close his eyes against the sudden brightness. When he opened them just a little a second later, he could see that the approaching shapes did not appear to even slow down in spite of the blinding light in their faces. Faces - their faces! These faces were dead, and no doubt about it!
He didn't hesitate. He adjusted his pistol aim to the heart of the nearest body and pulled the trigger. In the silent of the night, the shot rang out like cannon fire. The target flinched back a little - and kept moving forward despite the gaping hole where its heart should be.
"Alright", he thought, "let's try this again". He aimed higher this time and fired again. The result was considerably more spectacular as the targeted head exploded, and the body slowly folded up. He grinned triumphantly to himself and fired at the next target, again hitting it straight in the forehead. Yet the mass of bodies kept coming closer, so he started firing faster, not even missing once, and finally his magazine was empty, and still more of the gray shapes kept coming. He didn't even bother reloading but simply dropped the empty pistol to the ground, grabbed the shotgun on his side and fired again while slowly retreating backwards into his house. He put down the flashlight a few steps inside the door way so it would illuminate the outside and started fishing in his pocket for more shotgun shells. He took another 6 shots, each of them hitting the targets. Then he rapidly added shells to his shotgun, seven of them, one at a time. And still they kept coming at him, the closest one nearly in touching range, as he was finally finished reloading and started firing again. Soon he had to retreat to the opposite wall as bodies started piling up in the room, and still they kept going, unerring in their goal. He started sweating. Suddenly his gun clicked, shot empty. He had miscounted how many shells he had fired. But his hand was ready with more shells from his pocket, and he started reloading. He dropped one shell and swore under his breath, but kept going. He fired again and again, and screamed when one of the shapes fell forwards instead of backwards and barely missed him. Retreat again! Reload again! Faster, dammit! This time, one of the shells did not go in all the way and stuck the gun, and he spent two precious seconds forcing it back out. As he looked back up to fire again, a hand was only inches from his shotgun barrel, and he fired again, moving sideways towards the living room and leaving a growing pile of bodies behind that had long ago buried his flashlight. He reloaded one more time, and it looked as if he had managed to make himself some room as suddenly there were cold hands on his back. He hardly had time to scream as he was pushed forward and fell flat on his face which was taken clear off by the release of his shotgun underneath him.

"Who is it, Mitch?", came a young female voice from the next room.
Mitch turned his head to answer as the group of strangers suddenly started marching past him, the last one closing and bolting the door behind him. Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and he angrily shook it off and yelled:
"What the hell do you think you are doing? Get the hell outta my house, or I'll beat ya all to a pulp!"
The leader of the group turned towards him, slowly shook his head, and with heavy disappointment in his voice said:
"Mitch, Mitch, Mitch... And we were getting along so splendidly..."
He laid both hands on Mitch's shoulders. Mitch shuddered at the touch. He had not expected such a heavy grip on such a small man. He tried to shake off the hands, but they stayed right where they were. Now he had had enough. His muscles tightened briefly, and in a flash his fist connected with the man's stomach, usually a sure way to subdue anyone with this man's stature. But the results were not as he had expected. In fact, his perfectly executed punch seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
"What the...", he started again, as he suddenly felt himself lifted up by a few inches and - under protest - carried into the living room, were a sparsely clothed and beautiful young woman quickly grabbed a blanket and covered her chest. Her eyes showed her fear - she had never known anyone to get past Mitch whose stag party had ended up in a junk yard where he and his friends had had a little contest of car tipping - and Mitch had won - all by himself against two of his friends.
Still struggling, Mitch shouted: "Dana, get outta here! Get help!" But by that time, Dana had already been surrounded, and strong hands held her down and covered her mouth.
The sight of this gave Mitch one last jolt of adrenaline, and in a sheer superhuman effort he managed to lift his legs to his chest and in one explosion of muscular strength kicked them both at the thin stranger. And the miracle happened - the stranger let go, and Mitch landed on the floor, only to roll backwards and onto his legs in one smooth movement. He ended up standing with his back against the wall near the fireplace with his fists raised, and he bent his knees a bit and started moving around like a boxer.
Some of the strangers actually giggled. He couldn't believe his ears. His foot neared the fireplace and touched a metal bucket there - with a heavy steel poker inside. Without taking an eye of the invaders, his left hand moved behind his back, felt for the handle, found it and picked it up. It quickly moved into his right hand where it started whizzing around the place as Mitch spun it all over the place like a Barbarian sword.
"That's it, you're going down!", he muttered, and without further warning he threw himself at the nearest man.

...continued on page 3.