by Matt Shaw
For me (‘and me,’ shouted the other part of my brain) I felt adding extra characters or additional ‘outside’ scenes would take away from the tension already created and I really wanted to avoid this. Hell, it was hard enough writing scenes out of the box but still keeping the feeling of being trapped as a key component to it (crowded nightclub, buried in sand on a beach, stuck sitting next to someone etc).
Another reason to keep other characters, and settings, out of the book was because it wouldn’t have worked well with the fact Todd was in a coma. I have created a small world for him because that’s as much as his dreaming subconscious was allowing him to have. Although, to be fair, I’ve never been in a coma so who knows...maybe I have got it wrong and, when you’re under, you do actually dream of other people going about their lives........ somehow I doubt it, though.
With regards to the story itself - the ending to be precise - I never originally planned to have a ‘nasty’ ending. When I first set pen to paper the whole story was actually a prank, on Todd, by his uni friends. He was going to have got so drunk he would have passed out. His friends, for a laugh, were then going to put him into a box and keep him there, on a table, whilst they sat around trying their hardest not to laugh. Todd, meanwhile, was going to be in the box having all these dark thoughts about death and what his sister had been through. It soon became apparent the ‘silly’ ending wouldn’t have fitted the story quite as well. A ‘strange’ ending worked for “The Dead Don’t Knock” but I felt - adding one here - would have been a massive anti-climax. Especially given the fact the whole story was so incredibly dark pretty much from page one; the prologue.
Speaking of which, I once had a little bit of grief thrown at me for including prologues in my books. Apparently they are only meant for ‘larger books’. Well my teachers also said that writing in the first person was a bad trait to have yet...I still do it and, although I’m not a major selling writer - I’m doing okay. To address the reasons I enjoy writing prologues though, I happen to like the fact they allow the option to literally throw the reader in at the deep end - give the readers a glimpse as to the horrors which are to follow and them, in chapter one, you can start back at the beginning.
I was always taught a good story needs a beginning, a middle and an end but I like Quentin Tarantino’s way of thinking....his stories have a beginning, a middle and an end....they just aren’t necessarily told in that order. Mixing it up a little, I believe, gives more potential for keeping things interesting and fresh.
Anyway - that’s not important. Back to the endings. Pretty early in, into the writing process, I decided against the ‘silly’ ending and opted for a darker one. I was going to end the story with the police finding the box, Todd screaming for them to get him out. The police pull the lid off, parents push them away and suddenly scream... Todd focuses behind his parents to the brilliant white light. Obviously written slightly (just slightly) better than that but....well, I killed him. I liked the darker ending because it matched my usual kind of endings. I don’t like the happy endings you find in other books. They tend to ruin a good story. Never be afraid to end a story killing everyone. Look at Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ - he left no one standing! Sorry if you haven’t read that, by the way, didn’t mean to ruin it for you.
Three quarters of the way into the story and the ending changed again - to the ending you read today (or yesterday if you took a break from reading once you finished the main story). I felt that killing Todd after such a bleak story would have just been too much. I feared people would have got irritated that there was no silver lining...so I gave you a compromise, I killed Kayla (who was originally going to have survived what she went through) and I let Todd live. Seemed only fair after the Hell I put him through.
Don’t get used to my main characters living though. Not saying it won’t happen again...just keeping you on your toes. I enjoy writing endings which slap the reader in the face like a giant wet fish and will continue to try and provide those endings for you - along with good stories leading up to the finish line that is...
An extra little fact about the writing process for you is the female lead of Kayla. On my author page, a lady named Kayla Swinson got in touch with me asking if I could name a character after her. Well, seemed rude not to do that for her - especially after she asked so politely. Truth be told, I often try and do little things like that for people - often putting a status up on the author page asking if people want to be named in a new story. You don’t normally get writers doing that and I felt it was quite cool to give people that option. No doubt, something I will continue to do - especially as some of you seem to enjoy it and, without you, I am less than nothing.
Still, I could waffle on for days and I don’t want to bore you. I hope some of this has given you a little insight into what was going through my fragile little mind whilst I was writing this little tale. If you haven’t already joined my author page on Facebook (matt shaw publications) it would be nice to see some of you there and - if you’re already on there - no doubt chat soon!
Until then - take care.
Bob Henrys
(Not really, it’s Matt Shaw...just getting bored of writing my own name)
THE DEAD DON’T KNOCK
The
Dead
Don’t Knock
CHAPTER ONE
I smiled at her, standing opposite me, and she smiled back - her eyes shining brightly with the love she obviously felt for me, as I for her. She looked amazing, stood there in her white, elegant dress. I desperately wanted to tell her so but I don’t want to interrupt the vicar from starting. Her blonde hair was tied up in a neat bun, on the back of her head. Loose, curled strands expertly styled to frame either side of her gorgeous face. Even her make-up had been perfectly applied to accentuate how beautiful she was, as opposed to burying her sexiness under unnecessary thick foundation and ugly heaviness. The most amazing woman I’d ever laid eyes on and I had felt like the luckiest man, on the planet, when - back in the day - she had agreed to go out with me.
The Vicar’s words snapped me back to reality, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sign of God – and in the face of this company – to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men; and therefore – is not by any – to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly – but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together – let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
That was then.
This is now, as I opened my eyes and looked down at all that remained of her - a single silver-framed picture laid in my tired hands. A captured moment from our wedding day, reflecting how happy we were together. Were? If it weren’t for the outbreak - we’d still be happy. We’d still be together. I flung the photo to the other side of the bed from where I’d dozed off. Damned broken dreams taunting me with happy memories long since drowned out with the horrors of what’s happening today - as though reminding me how things will never be the same again. Reminding me she’s gone and she isn’t coming back.
I don’t know what caused this new world but I hate it and all who reside within. Even the people who have been unaffected, like me, have changed for the worse. We continue to breathe but... something has changed within us. An ugly survival instinct, I guess. Speaking of which...
I rolled onto my side and reached for the candle, standing on the bedside cabinet, pulling it close to me. I pursed my lips and blew the flickering flame out. If I want to carry on surviving, I best stop falling asleep with lit candles. Not only is it dangerous but it’s wasteful. I only have about six of these larger candles left. Need to use them wisely as I don’t wish to leave the house yet. It’s too soon since the start of the outbreak.... too soon and, I guess, a part of me hopes she’s going to come back to me; walk through the door unaffected by the monsters outside.
&nbs
p; I try my best to put the thought far from my mind - as I know the likelihood is slim but, try as I might, it keeps sneaking it’s way back in via my subconscious. It’s never long before the thought is back to the forefront of my mind.
It’s only been a couple of days since she went out.... a couple of days since the Summer storm, the power outage, and everything changed... she could still be out there.... she could still be okay. Shit, there she is - snuck right back to the forefront of my mind again.
Perhaps I’m making a mistake in staying here - holed up in the upstairs section of my house? Perhaps I should have left already to try and find her - never mind the supplies... perhaps I could have found her had I left as soon as I realised she wasn’t coming home. If she is... one of them... if she is... it will be my fault for I failed her. I failed to bring her home safely.
No, I can’t think like that.
Who was to know what was happening outside? Even if the News programmes had managed to warn us - the power went out... we were in silence. On our own. I couldn’t have known what was going to happen to her when she left the house. There was no way of knowing... of course I would have gone after her had I known. Of course I would have - the love of my life.
The love of my life... I can only imagine what she must have gone through, out there. I can only imagine the fear running through her veins as they plunged their infected teeth through her perfect skin - spreading the infection through her own pure blood. My only hope is that they’ve eaten enough of her to stop her from coming back as one of them. I pray she’s one of the lucky ones who gets to rest in peace. She deserved that much, at least.
This is crazy - what if she is out there still, unharmed? She could be holed up somewhere, surrounded.... waiting for a break in the horde to get back to me. I’m wasting time, I need to be out there... I need to go and find her, bring her home. Even if she is dead or, worse, one of them - I need to know. I have to know or it’ll haunt me forever.
I jumped from the relative comfort of my bed and stopped at the window.
No.
Stop it.
This is craziness.
It looks quiet out there, through the window and out into the dead of night but... it’s not. They’re out there. Lurking in the shadows waiting for new flesh to feast upon. They’re down there waiting and if I go out, in a rush, I’ll be running into them. I need to wait. I need to think clearly. I need to be careful and plan what to do - stay safe. Survive. I sat down on the edge of the bed, away from the window. I can’t be sure they’re not near-by watching me. I can’t have them see me. I can’t have them realise I’m still in here. It will only encourage them to try and figure out how to get to me. Sure, at the moment they can’t figure out doors but it’s only a matter of time. Besides, with enough of them clamoring to get in - the door would probably give way anyway... no need to figure out how to use handles.
Stick with the original plan. Give it a few days - a week or so... they’ll wander off in search of food. The majority of them, at least. I might run into the odd one but that should be it. I can handle one or two, I think. I hope. If I run into a group - I’m fucked. I’m safe here, in this house. At least, I am if I stay upstairs. Downstairs, it’s easier for them to see me through one of the windows. Tomorrow I’ll continue moving supplies upstairs, from downstairs. Then, in a week, I’ll go out.... still undecided yet whether it’s to be for more supplies or whether I should venture further afield and try and find others, like me... No need to decide yet, I have a week. Worry about it then....
Until then, I need weapons... I need something to protect myself from them. I have knives, already collected from the kitchen, but they involve getting close. I don’t want to get close. Doing so opens up the possibility of getting bitten.... No, I definitely need something bigger.
I stood up again and looked out of the window, towards the shed, at the back of my overgrown garden. There’ll be something in there I could use, for sure.... and it looks quiet out there, at the moment...
Perhaps a quick dash to the shed... these supplies are more urgent than others.... these could be a matter of life and death. They’re worth the risk, besides, I’m not exactly venturing far from the perceived safety of my house.
Can’t hurt.
A quick run out, grab what I need and straight back again.
CHAPTER TWO
Where is it? Where the fuck is it? I know I’ve got one. I used to use it in the loft..... where the Hell did I put it? I pulled the last drawer from out of the bedside cabinet and tipped it onto the bed; various items of paperwork... bank statements, utility bills stuffed away hidden from sight.... some sealed condoms... No torch. Where the fuck is it? I wish Jenny was here - she’d have known where it was. Fuck. There she is, sneaking into my thoughts again. Go. Get out. Please.
I stood up and desperately cast my eyes around the bedroom. Is there anywhere else it could be? It would help if there was any light in here - other than the candle I’ve only just re-lit. Would, at least, make things easier to see. Two wardrobes leaning on the far wall - filled with clothes - won’t be in there. I’ve already emptied the second bedside cabinet - her bedside cabinet. Near enough empty other than a few photographs and some headache tablets. Nothing useful.
I can’t even remember the last time I used the damned torch. I know it was in the loft but was that even this year? Can’t remember whether it worked properly - would I have thrown it out in a huff had it not done the job properly? It’s possible.
I turned back to the window. It’s dark outside but, even so, maybe it’s best if I don’t have a torch. The beam will only attract unwanted attention. I don’t need that kind of heat on me - especially if I’m cornered in the shed. Just because I’ll have access to something I can use to protect myself - it doesn’t mean I want to put myself in any unnecessary danger.
Either way, have to make my mind up soon or else the sun will be up. Don’t want to be out there, in the daylight. Nowhere to hide once the sun’s out. At least, if I’m quiet, I can hide in the shadows during the night. I’m not sure how good their eyesight is but... has to be better than clearly standing out in the open - especially during broad-daylight hours.
I think that’s my mind made up. Go now. Forget the torch. Fairly OCD about the shed anyway so it should be easy enough to grab what I’m looking for - a shovel, a pitch fork.... maybe even the garden shears? Grab it all - as much as I can carry.
I hope I don’t accidentally grab a spider. The last time I was in there, there was a massive one sat on the handle of the shovel. I swear to God it was just looking at me - watching me.... daring me to try and move it.
Why am I even thinking about this now? So stupid.
I grabbed one of the knives from where I had previously dropped them, scattered, on the bedroom floor - one on her cabinet, one on mine, one by the foot of the bed, one by the top of the bed, one on the windowsill with it’s black handle pointing into the bedroom ensuring it was easy to grab - should I have had to do so in a hurry. No knives by the door, though. On the off-chance a looter breaks in, I didn’t want them to have a chance of getting the upper-hand on me by gaining access to a blade.
The knife I picked up was a carving knife. It’s weird, the last time I used this was on a roast chicken which I had cooked. I always cooked the roasts, in our house. Jenny was better with the other meals but the roasts... one of the only meals I could cook... and I cooked them well. My potatoes wouldn’t be beaten. Crispy on the outside and light and fluffy on the inside. Jenny often said they were the best she’d ever tasted. When we first got together, I thought she’d say that just to please me but.... having sampled her parents potatoes.... her friends.... yeah, she wasn’t joking. My potatoes wouldn’t be beaten. Jenny used to try and watch me cooking them - always used to try and see what the secret was but I never let her. I’d tell her now; sprinkle a beef Oxo cube, even if you’re having chicken, over the potato after you’ve boiled them until they’re soft... then sprinkle a little fl
our over the top too - looks weird, in the pan uncooked but, trust me, it helps them crisp up. It’s important to use Goose Fat as the oil too. You start with the Goose Fat. Put the pan, with just the fat, into the oven until it’s smoking hot and then pull it out. Put the potatoes in the pan, and swirl them around in the fat. You have to tip the excess fat out. You don’t want them cooking in a large pool of it because it will stop it from properly crisping... not the end of the world, though, they’re still nice but.... better when crisped up. It’s after you’ve soaked the potatoes in the fat and drained the excess from the pan.... it’s then you do the bits with the Oxo and flour. Oven set to two hundred, the potatoes go on the top self for about twenty-five minutes - maybe less, doesn’t hurt to keep an eye on them. Then you give them a turn, in the pan, and cook them again for the same amount of time. Give or take. It’s also important you only use Kind Edward potatoes for your roast spuds. The others, although money saving... they don’t taste the same. Don’t roast up as well...