Will To Live (Book 1): The Dead Next Door

by Smith, T. W.

  “Yeah. I tried to go to the Target in Columbia, but the mall is on fire. I could feel the heat a mile away. It took me over an hour to get turned around and back on the road north. I’m hoping that the one in Ellicott City will be easier.”

  “How much insulin do you have? I could get it for you here.”

  “I only have enough to get me through breakfast tomorrow.”

  Will said nothing. It was useless to get angry. Frank’s procrastinations were inevitable.

  “Don’t be mad,” he said.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Will asked, attempting to erase any emotion from the statement.

  “I told you… I’ll hit the Target near the condo, get some sleep, and leave early in the morning.”

  “OK.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “What do you expect, Frank? I’m alone here. You’re 10 hours away. The fucking world has gone nuts, and you can’t come home to me now because of a technicality—something you could have avoided.”

  “I can’t fight now—especially driving. I get it—you’re scared. Everybody is. I’ll call you later and let you know I made it. Just cool off.”

  “Whatever.”

  Click.

  Will went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of Merlot. If Frank could be forgiven his flaws then so—by God—could he. He used a short tumbler, pouring a glass and drinking it fast before pouring another. He brought both the bottle and the glass with him into the den, returning to the television. He sank back into the couch and swirled the ruby liquid around the sides of the glass. Yes, sir… this tart, red elixir was the perfect remedy to drop-shift his speeding brain; albeit, not without cost—for as the level of the bottle’s contents lowered, so did the lids of his eyes. And as his thoughts grew fuzzier with warm liquid calm, the news reports became less intense, and more difficult to decipher, Cooper’s ramblings growing repetitive. He abandoned the Google searches—his fingers thick and cumbersome on the virtual keyboard—and his head began to bob in vain attempts at consciousness. Finally, his head sank and remained, his mind drifting away in a flow of monotonous speculations by correspondents that knew even less than he. It was ten p.m. and he was asleep. The bottle was empty and Frank had not called.

  Will awoke sometime after midnight—groggy, head pounding, and with a thick, sour coating on his tongue. Someone was screaming. The room was blurry and he twisted his palms into his eye sockets, relishing the pressured scratching. He’d fallen asleep with his contact lenses in. He stumbled through the dark kitchen and master bedroom into the bathroom and began the ritual of removing the lenses. The screaming continued, and he saw in the mirror that at sometime he must have turned on their bedroom TV. It too was blurry though, until he put on his glasses.

  The screaming was coming from the television speaker. Something was odd with the picture though; it was vertical instead of horizontal, as if the camera being used was on the ground, lying on its side. Will stepped closer, letting his head lean a bit left, acclimating to the perspective.

  Across the bottom of the screen was the banner: LIVE VIDEO FEED: LIMA, PERU. A woman was crouched in front of an old Pontiac Le Mans, hiding. On the sidewalk behind the car, a man was forcing another woman down—a pregnant woman. She was screaming, sometimes shouting, “No, Pedro, no!” Her assailant was facing her and Will could not see his face. The woman was pushing at the man, but he was far stronger. Will glimpsed a definite baby-bump as the man forced her down to the sidewalk. She kicked and beat at the man’s shoulders as his head lowered to her bulging stomach.

  Will reached out for the television with both hands, as if he could lift and turn it to bring the picture right side up. It looked to him like the man was going down on her. Was this some kind of rape-porno on a satellite feed? Had to be. But they didn’t have a satellite. He lowered his hands.

  The woman’s screams hit crescendo then collapsed into sobs. The man’s head lifted, turning a fraction, and Will saw a slight profile. There were red strands hanging from his chin like a beard—slick, and dripping.

  That’s no beard, that’s blood.

  The woman’s sobs continued—breathy, hyperventilating, mumbling in Spanish. She was using her hands for leverage on the sidewalk and trying to wiggle out from under him. As she shimmied, Will saw the shirt bunched beneath her breasts, the exposed belly, and the bloody hunk of flesh that was now missing from it.

  This isn’t real. I must be dreaming.

  The movement awakened her attacker’s focus. Clawing with all fingers, the man forced both of his hands into the wound in her stomach. The woman screamed again, much louder than before, the veins on her throat visible as hoarse cries poured from her crimson, contorted face. But these agonized screams stopped short when the man jerked in opposite directions, ripping a much larger gap in her belly. Her body convulsed and was still.

  Will stared at the television.

  The man pulled something bloody and unidentifiable from the cavity he had created and ate it. Next, he examined a smaller piece of the woman, stuck it in his mouth and chewed. Then, using both hands, he started rummaging through the contents of the woman’s abdomen like a dog, digging. Unsatisfied with this method, he simply buried his face deep into the opening, where it stayed.

  There’s a baby in there, Will thought. He knows.

  Sensing opportunity with the silence, the other woman crept around the car. She was dressed conservatively in a skirt and heels. When she saw the man feeding on the pregnant woman she straightened, gasping audibly. “Santa Maria,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross. The man lifted his head at the sound and Will saw his face for the first time, his features masked in blood, only white eyes and teeth visible. He continued masticating as he stood—the flesh of the woman spilling from his overstuffed mouth and slimy viscera peeling from his face with the motion. He took a step toward her and she backed away, removing her shoes. He took another step and she hurled them at him, one sailing past and the other bouncing harmlessly off his shoulder. On his third step, she turned and ran toward Will, past the camera. The man followed, slower, but with a purposeful gait. As he got closer, Will briefly saw the emptiness in those eyes suspended in red. Then the face was gone, as his upper-body left frame and his dragging feet neared the lens. Will saw that he was wearing ECCO loafers with cuffed slacks before he lumbered past and out of view. The camera jolted a bit, vibrated, and was still. All that remained in-frame was the car, the gutted woman on the sidewalk, and a single high-heeled shoe.

  His eyes never left the screen, he tilted his head back normal so the picture was vertical again. He scrutinized the screen for telltale signs of film production—movement, sounds, special effects—anything. But there was nothing… just the woman, the car, the shoe, and the silence. Absolute silence.

  After a minute of this, he decided that maybe he was dreaming. He’d had such dreams before where he felt like an outside participant, but never this awful—usually, just stress dreams about work. But his head had been fueled all day with media—reports of atrocities, violent uprisings, and countless speculations. And Frank was away, so he was scared, his mind vulnerable. All this, in combination with the alcohol, was fertile ground for nightmares.

  He needed rest. He would climb into his king-sized bed and sleep it off. In the morning he would roll over, stretch, and wake to a new day. As if on cue, Rocko yawned a high-pitched sigh, shuddering his eighty-pound frame, and vibrating the open kennel cage he’d retired to. Will got into bed and called the dog to join him. Lola followed. Both dogs were excited for this rare treat—in the big bed, garnering unusual late-night attention.

  “Yes,” Will said, rubbing them vigorously. “Tonight is a special night. We all get to sleep together.”

  He lay back, allowing himself to be sandwiched into paralysis, the dogs now on each side of him. His hands rested on their heads, feeling the warm softness of their snouts, and the fluttering of their eyes beneath the lids.

  “Daddy will be home tomorrow.
Everything will be better. I promise.”

  His eyes closed and he let his mind seek that place that allowed his brain to shut down. Sometimes it was a field, sometimes the mountains or the sea. But tonight he ignored those places, choosing to remain in bed with the dogs. Tonight, this was the comfort he needed, the peace that would help him pass into oblivion.

  And he embraced it.

  Minutes later, as Will snored softly with both dogs nestled beside him, there was movement on the television. The woman on the sidewalk sat up. Her face was pale but otherwise normal, her eyes wide as she examined her surroundings. From the chest down she resembled a badly butchered frog in a high-school classroom. Of this, she was completely unaware.

  When she stood, gravity removed some internal organs and other loose items from the gaping hole in her midsection. And though her intestines spiraled out like coils of rope, they did not detach. Every third step or so, she tripped on them, as she stumbled off-camera to the left.

  Interruption

  Now.

  The Routine was paramount. However, advanced alterations could be made with—hopefully—no consequences. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was a curse, but Will also used it to his advantage. He placed confidence in The Routine and that it would keep him alive in a dead world, just as he felt being organized in the past had aided in leading a more fruitful and productive life. And though this was true in many instances, he was also aware that it provided a false sense of security, a simulation of control. But to dwell on that concept was yet another thing to obsess over. So, he chose not to… every day of his life.

  Today, there would be a change of plans. As usual, he would begin with checking the perimeter—then breakfast, a workout, and collecting water. After, instead of reading and writing, he would make a supply run. He would narrow down the selection of houses to pilfer during his workout, and finalize the details on his walk to the lake. Bits of the plan were already forming and this helped to ease his apprehension.

  The house closest to him, off the secondary driveway and on the side street, was Hank and Betsy’s. He would never step foot in there again. This was where he had snagged the gun and ammo weeks earlier, but he had barely made it out alive. There had been no opportunity to search for food items while there, nor did he care if there were any. Horrible things had happened in that house and he felt anything other than a cold, steel weapon would be tainted. Betsy was still there too, and he had no doubt that she would be waiting for him.

  He could choose the house still standing to the right of Hank and Betsy’s (the home to the left was ashes), or go in a different direction all together—across the main street. It was less wooded and much more open that way, and there was the danger of exposure. But that risk increased daily and could no longer be considered a deterrent. Adapting to the rapid evolution of this—outbreak… plague… holocaust—Will had learned two crucial elements for survival: silence and stealth. If you could avoid being seen out in the open, great—but when obstacles were inevitably encountered they should be dispatched, quickly and quietly. A gun should always be a last resort.

  His insecurities lay in his lack of experience with close encounters. He had only put down one zombie and it had been purely self-defense—almost reflexive—and not easy at all. Do it now, or die.

  So he had done it.

  Brian’s voice whispered in his head: In the beginning, when you’re hiding, it will always be that way. An offensive approach will develop with confidence. Don’t rush it. Remember, speed kills. When you’re ready to make big moves toward survival, trust me, you’ll know.

  Will decided on Lonnie and Ben’s across the street and to the left. His reasoning was basic and made up of three components: 1. He and Frank had been invited to a birthday party there last year and he remembered the layout of the house. 2. A couple (instead of a single person) meant double the food. 3. They’d had a dog and cat and would likely have pet food.

  Another problem was how to determine whether or not a home was occupied—by the living, that is. Three weeks and two days had passed since D-day and the neighborhood still looked relatively normal—not many indications of a so-called apocalypse to be seen. There were subtle signs—an open door, a broken window, odd debris—suggesting things were irregular. Will’s sight was myopic at best, confined to peepholes and second-story windows that narrowed the parameters to five, maybe six homes total. His view from the front was radically different than from the side, like watching separate movies. Hank and Betsy’s looked downright haunted, complete with a shattered bay window and bloodstained sheers—next door were the burnt and still smoldering remains of Ruth and Nate’s. Yet, contradicting this war-torn scenario, the main street out front still resembled picture-perfect suburbia—nothing wrong at Katie’s, Lonnie and Ben’s, or next door. People might still be alive behind those closed doors.

  But that was a risk he would have to take. Brian said it was best to stick with houses nearby at first. And Will knew these people—they were his neighbors, his friends. They wouldn’t shoot him for breaking in… would they?

  Howard and Judy’s, next door, was empty and he knew it. Anything left there was bequeathed to him with Judy’s blessing, but he was using that house as a bank—or more precisely, a savings account. It was the closest, also fenced in, and he had a key. It made sense to keep this nugget under his belt in case of an emergency, and he planned to do so.

  Katie, directly across, was single. Less food.

  So, Lonnie and Ben’s it was. Decision made.

  After washing, he went to kennel the dogs. Rocko was there, ready and willing. But as Will closed and latched the cage, the dog stared at him, issuing a high, almost inaudible whimper.

  “What’s the matter, boy?”

  Rocko cocked his head, as if trying to interpret. The intelligence in his eyes always seemed so heartbreakingly close to deciphering the mysteries reserved for bipeds. But the plush softness of the kennel blankets were too tempting to resist and the dog let his weighty frame collapse into the bundle with a huge, melodramatic sigh—a familiar action, always reminding Will of teenage angst. He latched the door and looked out the bedroom window. It was sunny and he could see most of the backyard from this window—the tall grass, the woods, the trail, the driveway, and the gate. All was clear.

  Lola was not there waiting to enter her kennel. Strange. She had always been the rebellious one, but much of this behavior had diminished with the situation and the absence of Frank. Will opened his mouth to call for her but caught himself.

  Old habits…

  She was likely on the couch, knowing well that treats given for kenneling-up were long gone. Will crossed to the door, shooting Rocko a parting glance. Behind the bars of the cage, the hound had his nose raised, nostrils flared, head bobbing slightly.

  Lola wasn’t on the couch. She was lying on the floor in front of the French doors leading to the deck, staring at the glass like she always did when wanting outside.

  “Lola,” Will whispered. “Let’s go. Time to kennel up.”

  She looked at him, only her head turning, body remaining perfectly Sphinx-like at the door. Her ears had perked—one white and one black—and she was looking at Will with her sad eyes, wet and brown—the patch around one harlequinesque.

  Frank had been the one to discover that she would respond to sign language more readily in stubborn instances—finding gesture more powerful than command. Will raised an index finger up, and then pointed. She started to move, then settled. Will repeated the motion. Reluctantly, she stood and moped her way toward the bedroom.

  What’s gotten into her?

  Once he had her secure, he stood back and observed the two of them. Rocko had stopped sniffing, and Lola sat there, tail wagging slightly. Eye contact would not be broken as long as he stood there, their only hope for release. Will backed out of the bedroom and shut the door.

  He went back to the French doors and opened one, twisting the knob slowly, wincing at every pop and creak before step
ping through to the porch. One inhalation confirmed that something was indeed wrong. There was a smell out here, faint, but present—almost sweet, with sour undertones.

  He crossed to the screen overlooking the backyard where he stopped and listened. The yard was still, no breeze at all. No movement ahead or in the periphery, but there was sound, a sound that took no time in pinpointing. It was coming from the woods and moving toward the house. A reckless stirring of leaves and brush—slow, pendulous bursts of crunching sticks and rustling fauna as something approached—careless, or perhaps oblivious to the volume; brash, sweeping strokes through the forest floor—noise easily dismissed in the past, but now rising to cacophonous levels in Will’s ears, trespassing in his sanctuary of silence.

  Someone—something—had found him.

  His eyes focused through the trees until it found the source. A dark figure was lurching drunkenly up the trail, groping from tree to tree as if needing support. For a second, Will thought that it may be an injured man, as the distance revealed no details in his appearance. But the smell was getting stronger; either that or Will had become more attuned to its components: decay, rotten meat baking in the sun. And fish. Yes, there was an underlying aquatic odor mixed in with the stench. No wonder the dogs had already picked up on it.

  This was no man. He had to move, and he had to move fast.

  He grabbed the gun from the counter and scaled the steps to the basement in the dark, moving fast but careful not to trip. The soft light from the windows downstairs illuminated the latter half of his jaunt as he approached the exterior door beneath the deck. He parted the blinds in time to see the top of the zombie’s head breach the horizon as it climbed toward the backyard. It stumbled—reaching out like the Frankenstein monster—then regained its balance, growing taller with each approaching step.

  He had the gun for backup, but he needed something else—something quiet. He released the blinds and ran for the boat garage, barreling through the door and into another dimly lit room. He crossed to a wall of yard implements, almost stumbling over a bucket of waste and sliding it away. Before him were shovels, saws, hoes, a pickaxe, hedge-trimmers, rakes, garden shears… He focused on the mounted inventory, letting his eyes adjust to the shadowy room until he found what he was looking for: a machete.