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

by Smith, T. W.

  Back at the patio door, he saw through the blinds that the creature had entered the backyard and was now moving toward the driveway and gate. Why was it not coming toward the house? Will could feel his heart beating, his breath labored while heated pulses pounded in his brain. Of his few skirmishes, none had gone particularly well and he was hesitant to initiate a third. But the thing was right here, outside his house; he had to do away with it before others came. He shut the blinds, leaning his forehead on the glass and using the coolness of the flat pane to concentrate on remaining calm. And though every reflex in his body told him not to, his hand drifted down to the knob and twisted.

  It growled when it heard the door open, head turning toward the sound, arms reaching, as it stumbled, falling to the ground. There was something odd, yet familiar about this movement. Will stepped from the patio into the yard, watching the zombie attempt to rise. This was his chance—the precise moment he should bury the machete in the thing’s skull—but he didn’t. There was something different about the creature on its knees before him.

  His previous encounters had been abrupt, ending awkwardly as a result of panic. Maybe he should observe—for a few seconds, at least. Even if he learned nothing, it allowed for further acclimation, which might hinder panic in the future.

  OK, that’s bullshit. You know you’ll never get used to them.

  But they were isolated, his backyard being a bubble in the surrounding woods. As long as things didn’t get noisy…

  He took a few steps in and it lifted its face—not at him directly, but a little to his left. It had no eyes, just dark, empty holes in cavernous and graying—almost greenish—flesh. Its mouth opened, jagged teeth in moldering gums exposed, wrinkled lips stretched taught in a silent death’s-head grimace.

  Will felt the familiar wave of dread melt over him, thick and weighty. This heavy feeling of lightheaded nausea and gooseflesh surfaced not only with close encounters, but with some of the early television reports as well—his body reacting chemically to an altered and surreal environment. He surmised the sensation to be fear-induced adrenaline, and had grown accustomed to riding its unnerving wave so as not to lose consciousness.

  But goddamn it’s hard when you’re standing a few feet away from a monster.

  And a monster was what it was—now regaining its footing before him—a blind and hideous monster from the pages of Tales From the Crypt had come crawling up from the bottom of the lake and into his backyard.

  It took a step forward and Will stepped back. At its full height, it stood a good six inches taller than he, its clothing saturated, body bloated with lake water. It was wearing the remnants of a black suit, the shirt mere tatters revealing its mid-section—a gaping horror with exposed lower ribs and small, silvery fish poking out, some alive and still flopping. Dripping seaweed draped its shoulders and arms like an old woman’s shawl.

  As it moved, Will saw that it limped—a misshapen bulge jutting from the soggy trousers just below the knee. It was wearing no shoes, its swollen, saturated feet gripping the lawn with darkened, gnarly toenails. Its snarl had subsided to a low guttural murmur, somewhere between a growl and a moan.

  It stumbled again, then regained its footing. A bolo tie with a large silver medallion slipped from beneath the lapel of its jacket. It was an accessory that Will would have swore no one wore anymore, unless maybe you were from Texas—black, woven cord pulled through a flat silver disc, with a small turquoise stone in the center. Now it swung freely from the thing’s neck, flashing in the sun.

  Wait.

  It wasn’t exactly déjà vu he felt, or even the exhilaration of an epiphany. But there was a most welcome fulfillment—the solid satisfaction of a mystery solved, an answer in a world abundant with questions. This revelation, in combination with the creature’s sightless handicap, kindled a bit of confidence in Will, assurance that had long lay dormant. He grinned, shaking his head.

  You didn’t find me—he thought. I led you here. Morse. Fucking. Code. You were out there on that island and you received the signal transmitted straight from my goddamned bucket. And what did you do? You took the most direct route to find me. It may have taken a couple of days, but the shortest distance between two points, right? Of course, you didn’t know any better. You had no idea the fish would do a number on you—eating out your eyes and whatever other little pieces they could snag along the way.

  The zombie stopped in its tracks, as if hearing Will’s mental summation. Will watched it swaying there, still.

  It’s listening. It knows something is near because it heard the door, and it’s waiting for another sound to guide it. Maybe these things are smarter than I think. Maybe things are still clicking up there in that rotten sponge of a brain.

  The creature lifted its head slightly, an action that reminded Will of Rocko in the kennel, sniffing.

  No goddamn way. It can’t smell me. It barely even has a nose. And it’s dead. It’s not breathing.

  Will thought of the paperboy from two days before, how it stood at the foot of the driveway, staring.

  No. Not smell. But what if they sense us? Like when animals sense intruders, or people feel danger.

  It was a theory, but not one with much validity. The only thing he knew for certain was that these things—these zombies—were operating on basic motor functions, kind of like a computer in safe mode. They could see, walk, hear, grab, and eat—most, if not all of which had to do with some part of the brain. Presumably, they could taste, but he didn’t think that their digestive systems worked, or that they had bowel movements—unless you count gravity. This lower function, he thought, probably had very little to do with the brain. There certainly hadn’t been any evidence of excrement on any of his few outings. So, did they simply harbor their meals until their stomach ruptured? What then, just keep on eating?

  And how did it make the journey? Bodies float, don’t they? Living flesh is buoyant. Was dead flesh more porous and absorbent? Was that why they dragged lakes for murder victims, because dead weight sunk? It creeped him out to think of this thing walking, no—limping across the bottom of the lake. But that is what happened, he was convinced. The evidence was standing right before him.

  You’re walking fish food, that’s what you are. How’s it feel when you’re the one being eaten? Did you swat at them like flies while they pecked at you? No, probably not. I bet you didn’t feel a thing, not even when they plucked your eyes out.

  And what about the fish that had ingested this tainted flesh? Surely, they wouldn’t live. Would they turn into cannibals too?

  The questions would continue to come—another way his obsession worked. Many were legitimate, leading him to deductions that may or may not aid him in the future. But when his mind was overwhelmed like this, whirling with insecurity, he would always grasp at the comforts of truths to compensate, even if self-generated hypotheses. Processing, his doctor would have diagnosed, but the questions were still distractions and a means of procrastinating the inevitable: he had to kill this thing and he was terrified, disgusted, and generally inexperienced with the task.

  It lifted its bony white foot, and hobbled another step in his direction—the low purr of its growl, stuttering with its stumble like the grunt of a disturbed child. Will instinctively stepped back again, and his foot landed squarely on a large pine cone.

  Crunch!

  The zombie lurched for him, snarling, its previous calm evaporated. Will lost his footing on the pine cone, pirouetting awkwardly to his left and flailing for balance. When his right foot came down, he was facing away from it, stumbling a few strides into a hunched run until certain he wasn’t going down. He turned back, expecting to find the thing on him, but it had stopped again near the pine cone. It was reaching out in different directions, trying to pinpoint his location, growling louder and more frenetic, desperate to find him.

  Brian: You’ve got to do this quick, Will. It’s too loud. Others will hear.

  I know! I know! I’m trying!

&
nbsp; It’s like that old game. Remember? Red rover, red rover…

  Yes, Will thought. That was it. Stay on the offensive and…

  …Send zombie right over.

  And this time he would be ready.

  He licked his lips and spoke, his voice foreign, parched and scratchy. “Hey, you. I’m over here.”

  It swiveled and came for him, its stagger resembling that of a drunk, or a very large toddler. Will raised the machete, gauging its approach, rearing back as if swinging for a knuckleball. When the distance was perfect, he brought the machete around swift and strong. But an instant before his grand-slam made contact, the creature’s head vanished, ducking beneath the sweeping blade, stumbling on its bum leg, and plunging forward into an unintentional tackle. The air was forced from Will’s lungs as the zombie struck his sternum and they both went down, the back of Will’s head hitting the ground hard enough to bring stars.

  Seconds passed.

  He opened his eyes and saw blue sky. He couldn’t catch his breath.

  What happened?

  There was movement below, too intimate for his liking. It felt like someone was trying to remove his pants. The thing was on his legs, mouth crotch-level, gnawing on his belt buckle. Its wet, stringy hair was patchy, and when Will looked closer, he could see open sores and tiny things wriggling beneath the tufts on its pasty scalp. He convulsed his body violently, kicking at the waterlogged weight on his legs. The creature hissed, rolling to his left and Will rolled with it into a straddle.

  Even on top, he was still too high in position. The zombie was agitated now, groping for him, mouth snapping, tarnished teeth inches away from his genitals. Will looked over his shoulders for where the machete had fallen and found it near the creature’s feet—out of reach, but close. He snatched one of its flailing forearms, and after a few attempts snagged the other, the gelatinous flesh beneath the dank fabric feeling loose, as if sliding on bone like an additional sleeve. Then, using the strength of the zombie’s clawing arms for leverage, Will shimmied his rear down its chest and closer to the machete. His ass dipped as he reached the cavity in its abdomen. Ribs poked at his thighs through dampening denim as he sank lower, so low that he stopped only when sitting on its spinal cord. Cold, moisture spread through the seat of his jeans, and began to saturate his underwear.

  Will released its arms and bent backward, stretching long until his hand grasped the blade of the machete. Upright again, he leveled the weapon in both hands and pressed it into the zombie’s throat. Its hands found him again and began pulling him down as if assisting with its own suicide. He applied pressure to the blade, feeling it break through the soggy seal of the epidermis below its twisted face. Will’s eyes traveled up from the neck, past the writhing maw—thrashing teeth, blackish gums, sluggish, gray lump of a tongue—and into the creature’s empty eye sockets, darkening now with pooling fluid, angry and accusing.

  Rage. It is filled with rage at having lost its eyes.

  No, Will. You’re projecting. It’s an empty vessel.

  Wrong. It has strength, determination to accomplish a goal.

  So do sharks, Will. It’s instinct, nothing more.

  “Whatever!”

  He let his weight fall on the blade. It sliced through the zombie’s neck most of the way down until it lodged on bone. The creature continued to pull at him, cold, shriveled fingers weaving through his hair and on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to that awful mouth. He gave the machete one final, panicked push. There was a muffled cracking sound and then it slid through to the ground. The body went limp.

  Will rolled off. The creature remained motionless.

  You did it, Will. Good job!

  Fuck you, Brian.

  He laid there in the grass a few feet away, exhausted. He wanted to lie there forever, allowing his hormone-bloated muscles to relax, reward them for saving his life. But there wasn’t time for that. What if something had heard? What if more came?

  He stood, walked over to the body and poked it with the machete. Nothing. He nudged the head with the blade and the mouth sprung open and began biting again. He placed the tip of the blade into one of the hollow eye sockets and maneuvered the head until it was face-up. With both hands he pressed his weight down, forcing the shaft through the cranium and into the brain. The biting stopped. He let go and the machete fell away from him, turning the creature’s face with it.

  You’ll get better, Will.

  I don’t think so.

  He scanned the perimeter fence from where he stood. No movement. No sound. His hands were shaking, legs rubbery. He went to the patio and collapsed into a chair.

  Just a little rest, that’s all he needed. He would sit here for a few minutes and regain his strength.

  But even as he sat, a mental cacophony stirred, equally exhausting. His mind was churning, slow at first, then at dizzying speed, cataloging mistakes, possible rectifications, and questioning his abilities—a filtering process, arduous and fatiguing, but as necessary to him as breathing. After a minute—it felt much longer—amid the swirl of negatives, a tiny glint of gold surfaced from the slurry. Not the survival epiphany constantly lingering at the periphery of his thoughts, but something unexpected and welcome: the adrenaline, the struggle, the kill—horrible as it had been—had granted momentary relief from his overbearing mind.

  Could that be possible? Killing zombies—the new OCD medication.

  It made sense, as it was a distraction—albeit unwanted, unpredictable, and dangerous. In this new world—a paradoxical phrase, if ever there was one—Will had turned to the basics to alleviate mental stress. Mundane tasks, exercising, reading and writing were all practices he could immerse himself in for relief without meds, redirecting excess mental energy from his plight. Maybe becoming a Zombie Ninja was the path to enlightenment. Could destruction of the dead lead to Nirvana?

  His mind often worked this way, whittling away at the excess to reveal tiny kernels of truth. Delusions of grandeur, the doctors would say. But the doctors were dead and he was here, so screw them. He was used to compensating for his illness (he had been doing it his whole life) and no matter how vast and deep the forest of his speculations grew, he always found his way back to the path—usually with something of value, a nugget making the journey worthwhile.

  The problem is I’m not good at it.

  He was beating himself up. Still, it felt unwise to celebrate a victory this difficult in achieving. He was in no way the killer he needed to be to survive. He thought of action heroes in the movies, how they would come barging in, muscles flexing, guns blasting, reacting as casually to killing as taking a shit. Exaggerated personas maybe, but he wasn’t even remotely comparable. He was a mailman, for Christ’s sake—in his early forties, five foot-six, one hundred sixty-five pounds, and a democrat. Butchering zombies was not in his genetic makeup. He felt as comfortable holding a gun as he would piloting an airplane. ASPCA commercials sent him running for the tissue.

  And it was blind. Jesus, you couldn’t ask for a better handicap.

  This was his second kill and it had been just as difficult as the first. If this didn’t change, he was toast. He had the dogs to consider, and Frank…

  Frank is dead, Will.

  Maybe. I never saw his body.

  As he sat there, regrouping in the mid-afternoon sun, Will observed the scene before him. Lying in the tall grass of his backyard was a headless corpse. A few feet away was its decapitated head with a machete sticking out of it—a far cry from last summer, when he would have been sipping a Budweiser, relishing a perfectly manicured lawn with pruned hedges and bright flowers in freshly mulched beds.

  You will get better.

  Maybe…

  He focused on the woods beyond the yard, staring, but not really seeing. He imagined himself lighter, floating upward, surfacing from the quagmire of his thoughts. There was no point in arguing with Brian. He knew he was refusing to acknowledge victory because he was afraid. And what he was afraid of was not
what was out there in the shadows as much as it was within him. And it was not that he would revert into the primordial instincts of killing—that was inevitable. The real bogeyman lingering in the dark was complacency. Complacency would accompany confidence and lead to mistakes—mistakes he couldn’t afford to make. Complacency meant more than mere stagnation in this brave new world, it meant death.

  The bubble popped, his eyes opened (they were never closed) and the world was brighter, his breathing easier. The backyard was there again, quiet and in focus—the body, the head. The few minutes he had been away brief, but necessary.

  His jeans, ass and crotch, were inundated with slimy, rotten gore. There were also dark smears of viscous matter staining his shirt at the shoulders, as well as in his hair and on his arms and neck. His sense of smell had reawakened too, filled with the sickening blend of decay and fish.

  He stood. His body was no longer quivering and his strength had returned.

  He would have to dispose of the body. Burning it was out of the question. He could either leave it in his burn pit in the side yard or he could bury it near the house. The latter would require more work, but it would also remove the stench, which pretty much made the decision immediate.

  He still needed to gather water and, more importantly, investigate the fence down there. He made a mental note to take WD-40 for the squeaky gate.

  Calm returned with the sorting of these details, but there was still a fluttering moth of concern, a wee bit of residual worry that lingered, irritating more than consuming. He looked down at the corpse. That dead thing had interrupted his schedule. He would now have to adjust his itinerary, postponing the supply excursion to compensate and return order and balance to the day.