“I got the brooms.”
The wife reaches down and gets the brooms. She isn't even looking at him. “We'll need some buckets up here, the large mixing bowls perhaps, for a bathroom, some wash clothes, towels, and some plastic bags, the kitchen ones.”
“Hey, hey, honey.”
“Yes?”
“I'm getting the ladder first. How about I get you a pad and pencil so you can make a list?”
She stops to look at him, to look at his eyes, and a warm spirit passes through her as their eyes meet. She smiles. “Yes, we'll make a list.”
He can hear sweeping already by the girls, a bit of arguing, commands and responses in whispers.
“Okay.” Dad goes out and finds pad and pen by the iPhones. He looks at the iPhones. He wonders if he'll ever hear those sounds again. He grabs the pen and pad, brings them back quickly. Rondo tugs at his leash to go but sniffs and wags his tail and waits. Dad hands up the pad and pen to his wife.
She is talking to her daughters, something about cleaning, something no man can understand or write down. She has to lie down to reach him. He holds her hand as she grabs the pen and pad. She is still talking to them, negotiating the finer points of sweeping or directing their motions. She stops and realizes she can't loosen herself from his grip. She looks down. They share another look. He smiles at her, but it's that deep sense of knowing. She smiles back, knowing her husband, their oneness. “We're gonna make it. Honey, we're gonna make it.”
She nods, pulls the pen and pad away and up she goes before she cries. He shakes it off and puts his shotgun down. He picks up his sword. He looks at his sword, at the fine blade. His shoulders rise, his neck tightens, his jaw clenches. This sword in his hand is the culmination of obsessed training for what? For this.
He walks out into the kitchen, then to the back, to the laundry area, then to the back door. He peers out. There shouldn't be anything in the backyard, as both ways out lead to the front gate, which is locked. He opens the back door.
Then a zombie leaps out!
5. At Your Doorstep
Just his luck, Dad imagines, as he smirks, stepping into the back yard. It's all clear. No zombies. It's an all brick backyard, no grass. Years ago, he got it fully bricked so it felt more like an inner city grotto filled with potted and terraced planters. It was just too small to justify having a grass lawn and mowing. It's a small quaint place. A wooden deck with shade covers the first third of the area. It then opens to the brick grounds and brick terraced planters. Thirty feet out, a six foot cinder block wall delineates the end of his yard. In front of that is the terraced planter, a two foot high brick wall with soil. It has dwarf fruit trees and a few dead herbal plants.
To the left, facing the backyard, is the garage. It's tucked all the way down the driveway at the end. So it sits back far enough that there is some cover from the front end of the house.
He listens, and focuses his attention to other backyards. Are zombies lurking there? He can hear the distant nightmares of car alarms, sirens, gunfire, screams; all of it is sporadic except the constant drone of alarms which his brain has somewhat tuned out. In the immediate yards to his right, left and rear, they all seem silent.
He walks off the deck onto the brick and turns left behind a small guesthouse used for storage. The guesthouse is a small hovel that takes up a sizable space to the immediate left, between him and the garage. There is a cement walkway separating the guesthouse from the back of the main house. This walkway is covered by the extended roof. Dad could make it to the back of the driveway from this walkway or walk through the brick yard, past the barbecue grill. He walks along the brick yard behind the guesthouse. He must then step onto the back end of the driveway.
He looks again at the garage nestled in the far back where the long narrow driveway leads to the front. Their second car sits in the driveway and blocks the view. Peering around the guesthouse, the street view can be seen beyond the car, but barely. He's not sure how aware the infected are but doesn't want to step onto the back driveway relying on blind luck.
“Okay God, help me in this hour of darkness.” He huffs a good breath, then creeps out to the garage doors. He unlocks the padlock, the keys sound so loud. His fingers are shaking. He quietly loosens it and opens one of the barn like doors just enough to slip in. He pokes his head out to see if anything is amiss. The driveway down by the gate seems quiet. He retreats into the garage.
Within are a family of bikes scattered to one side taking up a lot of space. In the right rear are all of his old oil paintings from years gone by. They are defiant atheist indulgent dark works, depicting the core of atheistic nihilism. He keeps them for nostalgia or as a reminder of where he's been. In the middle of the dirty dust ridden space is his table saw, miter saw, drill, and electric blower, all piled and stacked, as if ready for spring cleaning. Perhaps that day has passed forever.
The ladder is stuck on the floor behind the bikes. He must step over and around quite a few items to get to it. He slowly maneuvers around with only a few minor sounds. He catches a bike ready to topple. Another, he gently leans against a third making both rest against the wall. He's feeling sure no sound will be made. He reaches the short step ladder. He pulls it up and out. It's awkward. It clangs once. He freezes. His balance is strained. Did something growl outside? Was that a dog bark or zombie? He finishes pulling it out. His back twinges as he moves the ladder.
A thought flashes, what about his back? What if it gives out? At a time like this? He's had minor back pains that have easily gone away after a few days rest and careful exercise. He can’t even imagine it happening now. All would be lost due to a few strained muscles. He begs and thanks God for adrenaline and endorphins. He doesn't feel any pain but he's now quite aware of his back.
He sticks his head out the garage door. He peers down the driveway, past the parked old Toyota Rav4, a compact SUV. Anything? He doesn't see any movement. The glare of the noon sun shines on the street. There are plenty of noises out there but none signal that immediate sense of presence.
Then he hears a bark. It comes from a few houses up. He doesn't know the resident, a divorced man. He only knows about him through the next door neighbor. And he has a dog. That dog barks suddenly and then growls can be heard. Are they attacking the dog? He is not sure. Suddenly, a rise, a crescendo of zombie growls and screams pierce through the foliage and fences. A woman yells out. A window smashes. A gun is fired repeatedly. A man yells, “Go! Out that way!”
Dad hears gun fire.
“No! No! Please! Aaagggh!”
Dad is so nervous. He can only think of his family. They are safe up in the small attic crawlspace, but are they listening to this horror unfolding only two houses up. It sounds like too many.
Dad leaves the ladder, rushing out of the garage and up to the fence. He can see the flash of shadows through the fences and the foliage shaking. A zombie or several must be rushing in or climbing over their fence. Then he sees more running past his yard from the street to that house. The sound draws in more.
What a nightmare, to fight off some as they growl, only to have more hear and rush in. Just one mistake and a horde of zombies is upon you. Dad must, in this crescendo of terror and death, warn his wife and children. He quietly hustles to the back door of his kitchen. Then he hears the dog barking again. It is so loud, right there, two fences away. He freezes. Will his dog bark?
At the next door neighbor’s, the house between his and the one under attack, he can hear their crazy chihuahuas. He's not sure now, with the rising hisses and growls of zombies, scratching and smashing at the house, who is attracting who? What is going on?
The dog suddenly yelps and is silenced. He can not see what happened but notices the flashing pass of flailing arms as they leap into windows and climb over the fence. Some have come up to the adjacent house, into the backyard, as they are racing to the further house. Dad can see their shapes just past his fence, which is wooden with various open slits. Their growling is too close.<
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He stands at the back door crouched with sword ready, but not wanting a fight, not with one or two and then a horde. The streets are probably less chaotic, less people to zombies. And now they are in packs and hordes, congregating into larger zombie groups, meandering until a life is discovered, till someone in hiding panics and makes a run for it.
So it is, like those neighbors two houses up. The horrible screams are heard from the two men and a woman in the back of the yard. A half dozen zombies race past, just a few yards from Dad in the next neighbor's yard. He can hear them, the mass of zombies feasting on fresh kills so close, barely veiled by flimsy fencing.
Dad duck walks through the kitchen to the bedroom. Rondo is there muffled, nervous. Dad is so grateful his dog is a coward. It senses the death outside and huddles scared behind the bed. Good.
“Honey?” Dad whispers up.
They are quiet. He can't hear them? What has happened? Where are they?
“Honey? Lena? Charlotte?” Dad is in a sudden fit of terror. His family, where are they? Was that them screaming? Did they run out somehow?
Suddenly, a little round face appears above at the hatchway, a little cherub whose finger covers her lips to 'shhh'. It's Charlotte with big wide commanding eyes. “Dad, shhh.” She points to the direction of the ensuing nightmare. Dad smiles insanely. His family is alive. He nods. She nods back. Thumbs up. Then she goes back into the darkness.
Dad sighs, relaxes his strained, stress filled muscles. He looks down at Rondo, pets him. The dog needs the petting badly. It slips its tongue out, meek and dry, through the muzzled scarf. Dad meditates for a brief moment. Both him and the dog gain a sense of strength and comfort. He shakes it off again. He goes back out to the kitchen and stays low. His dog follows as far as the leash will allow it. He growls. Dad smacks its nose. Rondo sniffles, looks at Dad's angry impatient demeanor then saunters back into the bedroom. Fine! It's not like Dad needs an organismic burglar alarm anymore.
The kitchen windows face in the direction of those houses. He doesn't want to take any chances. He duck-walks back through the laundry room and to the backyard. He stays low to the driveway then peers down the lane to the front where it looks clear. He hobbles to the garage.
The gurgling noises of zombies a few fences away echoes clearly. The stepladder is right there. He sheathes his sword and picks up the ladder. Slowly he brings it out, just a few steps to get back to the cover of the walkway between the house and guesthouse. He hobbles over. The step ladder is aluminum and makes incredibly loud twanging sounds with each tap against a wall or on the ground. At least, it’s incredibly loud to Dad. He grits his teeth with each mistake. So far, the zombies do not notice. The growl of feasting or roaming can still be heard. He can also hear the occasional bark of his next door neighbor's chihuahuas. Then they get muffled, obviously by Jane or her mom, Sally.
He hasn't had time to check up on them. If the zombies got wind of them in their house, there would be nothing to stop them. Dad pauses. Huh, he thinks, the Chihuahuas were barking and the zombies passed by. They didn’t go into the house. So not all sound attracts them?
With that thought, he gently puts the step ladder down by the back door and crawls over to the high wooden fence and peaks through. One lone zombie, unable to climb the fence to the further house, is stumbling about. Its hands appear mauled. It somehow got into the neighbor's backyard. Perhaps their driveway gate was broken open. But it's been unable to continue its journey over the opposite fence to the next house. The chihuahuas' barking doesn't seem to attract it. Yet the bigger dog in the other yard did seem to die. Maybe the bigger dog died as it likely approached the zombies to protect its owner and they killed it?
The one lone zombie is left, at least it's at the far end of their neighbor’s yard. Dad carefully picks up the stepladder and carries it within, careful not to bang either end as he maneuvers around the corners. He gets to the master bedroom and places the stepladder under the hatchway. He easily steps up and looks about the attic.
At first, he can't see the girls. His eyes need to adjust to the dim light. He realizes they are laying down over by the air slots looking into the neighbor's yard.
“Hey, psst, what are you doing?” Dad calls carefully.
“Shhh,” Charlotte softly signals.
Dad doesn't feel like climbing up just yet. Charlotte is the only one who can easily walk through the low cluttered attic.
“What are you girls doing?”
“Watching zombies,” Charlotte says. “They got some of the neighbors.”
“Oh yeah? I don't think it’s good for you to watch that.”
“Dad, we gotta know what they do. They're good climbers ya know. Might be able to get up here if you leave that ladder.”
Dad looks down at the stepladder he spent time getting. “Good point.”
He steps down. Thinks about it. He realizes the whole closet with stacked boxes and clothes and shelves has got to go. He spends ten minutes clearing it all out. Quietly. The girls get back to their work above. He sets the boxes and clothes out of the way. He removes the shelves and they take them up for more floor boards. They take up the warmer jackets and sweaters. He also gets them bowls and buckets, towels and cleaning sprays. Charlotte reminds him to bring up the rest of her ammo, all three thousand plus rounds of 22 in a couple small boxes.
He goes and gets tools, hammers, pliers, a saw, and an ax.
“What are these for?” Lena asks taking each one.
“I want to open up the roof somewhere. So we can crawl out that way, in the back, onto the back roof. Like an escape route or just another exit.”
“Good idea ...Dad.”
The closet is clear. Not even he could climb up without the ladder. He sets the stepladder under the hatch and goes up. He looks in. The area is swept pretty good. Wow. Sheets and blankets have roughed out a sleeping area; even on a boarded attic, it looks good. Too bad the girls would be there with him and the wife.
They put the water and granola in one corner, setting the water atop to drink.
He lies by the hatch and reaches down for the ladder. He can't reach it. He goes back down, finds some linen rope in the kitchen, ties it to the top step of the ladder, goes back up, and pulls the ladder up. With some clanging, it comes up and through the hatchway. He ties the other end of the rope to a post in the attic so they never drop the rope down.
“Well, at least this will keep us in and them out.” He sits down, realizing he has been in his own grimy sweat for several hours. It's past noon and his body is achy. His mind still buzzes to survive. But he is aware of the strain. He is comforted by the fact that he can take a shower and relax in front of the TV for a few hours. No wait, he can not. Is there a shower? Is there TV? His mind goes to a dark place. He drips sweat and is a bit dizzy. He has not yet had a sip of water. He looks at the water containers. They become blurry. The sound of his wife's voice echoes in his head. Then a white flash is in front of his face. The white light touches his face. It flutters there.
“Honey!?”
Dad blinks and looks at his wife. She has her list in his face.
“Are you okay?”
He nods, shaking out of his stiffness. “Yeah, where are the girls?”
“They're up front,” wife motions.
He twists around. They have crawled along the attic to the front of the house. They appear as silhouettes interconnected to crossbeams as daylight accentuates their low lying shapes. A small slither of grid-like light beams cascade throughout the attic. They have pulled back thin wood slats to look outside. Lena has the 20 gauge, Charlotte, her 22.
“Don't let them.”
“They're alright. I told them to be quiet. They know that noise attracts them. It's okay. Here's the list, go down and bring up all of this.”
“What?” Dad looks. It's a bit dark but his eyes adjust with the streams of sunlight coming in from small openings. There are air vents covered in mesh fencing that add to the ambiance.
&n
bsp; He squints at the list. They have made a list of pretty much everything in the house. “Honey, we're not moving away, okay? This is just for emergencies, just if they get in.”
The wife takes back the list. “Then fine, I'll get them. You'll forget a few things anyway.” Dad blinks as she crawls past him to the ladder. He smacks her butt and ends with a grab.
Dad tries the shower. It works. He gets in, shotgun and sword against the wall. He rinses off. He doesn't bother to wait for the heated water. Just showers, quickly, to get off the street grime and the bits of cracked blood from zombies. Could they infect him? Just a scratch or drop in the mouth? He shivers to think, closes his mouth tight, and rinses.
He puts on fresh clothes. He belts on his sword like a medieval prince. He leaves the leather arm greaves readily accessible on the bed. The wife is busy in the kitchen, in the cabinets. They're sounds that remind him of his wife, always a busy body doing something. He smiles. He desires her. Could this be a moment for them? The girls are up in the attic. He could hear them coming down. Would there be enough time? He goes over to his wife. Once again, she is bent over just for him. She is fiddling through the kitchen, pulling out dried foods. He comes up behind her.
“Dad!“ Of course, that is what he hears. He stops and goes to the closet hatchway.
Charlotte is looking away, towards the front, then turns back down to him. “Dad!?”
“What!”
Charlotte shakes. “There's a lot of them out there. Someone ran into our yard!”
“Stay up there with Lena. Don't make a sound.” Dad picks up his sword.
Lena suddenly appears. “Dad, he's drawing the zombies to us!”
“Just stay up there!” He rushes over to the kitchen to get his wife.
A man, frantic and bloodied, runs down the back side of the house. He stops at the kitchen window and sees Dad. He stares wide eyed and leaps at the window, slapping the glass. “Help me! Help me!”
Dad can hear the crescendo of zombies reacting to the man's plea. The wife turns and screams.
Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead Page 5