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

by Smith, T. W.

  He looked at his cell phone again. It had not rung in almost ten minutes from the time Frank had designated. He wanted to make the call, but decided not to. Ringing phones were intrusive and could aggravate a situation. His environment right now was less delicate than Frank’s. It made sense for him to be on the receiving end.

  He left the phone on (in its holster at his side) while he began his prep. First, he scanned the manifesto’s chapters on sustenance, doing a quick inventory of the pantry and refrigerator. They were Costco shoppers and had an over-stocked, American pantry. The same was true of the refrigerator, and that stuff had to be eaten quickly if the power did not return. Fortunately, they had a gas stove and a grill with an extra tank of propane. Some things would be OK without refrigeration for a while: cheese, pickles, some vegetables and condiments. Meats and other things would have to be cooked immediately.

  After assessing the food situation, he went to every sink and bath tub in the house and filled them up. Water reserve would be necessary, as that service could evaporate as swiftly as the power. He would gather containers and fill them up later as well.

  Next, he painted and boarded up the two garage windows. The work went fast, as he was accustomed to renovation tasks and there was no call for taping or being neat. He bagged the brush and bent down to re-cap the can, pleased that he still had light from the afternoon glow through the white paint on the panes to do so. As he stood and admired his handy work a thought came to him.

  What if I’m crazy? What if none of this is really happening?

  He walked the ladder around his Hyundai Santa Fe and placed it near the door. He retrieved the other supplies and moved them to the foyer. On his last pass through the kitchen, he weighed again whether or not to call Frank. It had been close to fifty minutes now.

  Fuck it.

  He removed the phone from his waist and dialed. After four rings it went to voicemail.

  Helpless. I am helpless.

  “You’re a drama queen,” he said, laying the phone on the table.

  He grabbed more boards from his pile in the living room and headed toward the foyer. As he was reopening the paint, his cell phone rang. He ran back to the kitchen, snatching the phone. He did not recognize the number on the display.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m hurt,” Frank said.

  Will felt flush, dizzy. “What happened?”

  “I stopped at the gas station. No one was around. Only one car parked out front.” His breath was labored, some of what he was saying garbled. Will let him continue for fear of –what? He wasn’t sure. “I started the pump and was waiting. There was no one inside at all—you could see from where I was standing—so I went in to grab some water.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I know,” Frank said. “I shouldn’t have. But it looked clear. I was going to grab a couple of bottles, leave money on the counter, and just leave. But when I reached into the cooler, something was on the other side. It grabbed my hand.”

  “Oh, God.” Will said again. “Did you get bit?”

  “I don’t think so. It may just be a scratch. I may have cut it jerking my hand back through the racks. I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

  “Then what?”

  “I ran. But when I got outside, one of those things was trying to get in my car—”

  The cell phone, Will thought. It heard the cell phone. This is my fault.

  “I didn’t know what to do because the other—the thing from the cooler—was coming out after me. So, I panicked and jumped into the other parked car.”

  That’s not panicking, that’s smart.

  “And the other one,” Will said. “—the one from the cooler. Is it there now?”

  “No. I kept low. I think it’s over with the other one, at the gas pumps.”

  “Can you look and see?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, and was quiet for a moment. “They’re both over there, clawing at the windows even though I’m here.”

  “How are you?”

  “It hurts a little. I don’t have anything to wrap it with.”

  “Are there keys in the car you’re in?”

  “No. Nothing but this phone.”

  “How fast are they?”

  “The one coming out of the store was pretty slow. I ducked, got in the car, locked both doors, and waited before I heard it come out.”

  “Can you run?”

  “Yeah. It’s just my hand. I need to stop the bleeding.”

  “OK,” Will said. “You’re going to have to be brave for this.”

  Frank paused. “OK.”

  “In this order: you need to open the door of the car you’re in, stand outside it, and lay on the horn. When they get about halfway to you, use your key fob and make sure that your car doors are unlocked. Then you need to run around them, get in your car and go. Don’t worry about the pump nozzle, it’ll release.”

  “Yeah. OK.”

  “When you get a safe distance down the road, stop and get something from your suitcase to bandage your hand—a t-shirt maybe—and then get back on the road and come home to me. Do you think you can do that? Because, if you can’t—I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

  Except for his breathing—now calmer—Frank was quiet.

  “Are you there?” Will asked.

  “Yeah. I’m getting ready to open the door.”

  “First. Put the cell phone in your pocket. Don’t turn it off. I’ll be with you the whole way. OK?”

  “OK. Here goes.”

  There were mixed, muffled sounds as Frank put the phone into his pocket. Will didn’t hear the car door open, but he heard the horn, loud and clear. Between honks, he heard Frank shouting “Come on! Come on!” There was a brief stint of silence, maybe ten seconds, followed by more of the distorted rustling. Suddenly, he heard a car door slam and what sounded like pounding on metal. Frank was whimpering, but Will heard the car start and then rubber squealing on concrete.

  There was more rustling, then clarity.

  “Hey.” Frank said. He was breathing heavy.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah. It was close though. The car was locked. Must have timed out. By the time I got in and closed the door they were on me. God, Will, one of them was awful—its face looked… melted. It was clawing at my window like an animal.”

  “How’s your gas?”

  “It’s full. The nozzle is hanging out like you said. I can see it in my rear-view mirror.”

  Will heard the shock and adrenaline in Frank’s voice. “You need to stop as soon as you can and bandage that hand,” he said.

  “Yeah. There’s a spot up here.”

  “When you stop, don’t linger. If it’s clear, get the nozzle out and put your cap back on. Get a t-shirt and wrap your hand. If you can pee, go ahead. Then get in the car and get home.”

  “OK. OK. I got it.”

  “It’s almost three o’clock. I’ll turn my phone back on at five and call to see where you are. Sound good?”

  “Yeah… Yeah. I think I’m going to be good.”

  Will sighed, massaging his forehead and eyes with his free hand.

  “Will?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just get home.”

  “OK.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  He turned the phone off, went into the bathroom and vomited.

  Introduction

  Zombies are a cultural myth, evolving over the last half-century, with periodic rises to the tide of pop culture through media every other decade or so. We are drawn to them because they are us, and we are them. We find them repugnant for similar reasons. Zombies have lingered in our consciousness for the past century and are inescapable in the lands of television, film, and literature. Why is this? Why the fascination with these shambling shadows in the night?

  My manifesto has nothing to do with the zombie myth that predates the Romero films, beginning with Night of the
Living Dead in 1969. I am referring to the traditional lore of zombies being controlled as slaves by evildoers, what have you; this notion is somewhat obsolete by societal progress alone, unless you live in a third-world country, or you think along the lines of Jeffery Dahmer. No. I am talking about the reanimated dead—corpses that seek out the living to eat their flesh.

  Are we clear?

  This more modern concept—a terrifying one for certain—is never quite explained by Romero. Many subsequent films and novels have followed suit, shying away from detailed explanations, preferring ambiguous, often-allegorical hints as to why such a dreary apocalypse should occur. In Night of the Living Dead, radiation from a passing satellite is briefly mentioned, a loose link to paranoia of the times. Space travel was new, and as equally frightening as exhilarating. There was also the ever-present fear of long-term effects from the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki decades before. Other works have alluded to chemicals like Agent Orange, DDT, or other contagions released into our air or water—a common dread we have all weighed with the repercussions of the expansion of our carbon “footprint” on the planet. These vague clues in the modern zombie tales may change with the decades, but are always relevant to the time and the recent past. It could easily be argued that their origins were generated from our own subconscious guilt. Not only are we responsible for creating the monsters but also—as a nasty reminder—they are, quite literally, us.

  Another cultural phenomenon was born the very same decade. In the late 1960s, Star Trek was broadcast on network television. Its concept was grandiose, budget minuscule, and yet it has grown and thrived in various incarnations, and remains a popular franchise to this very day . The reason for the show’s popularity is complex. Many argue that it was Roddenberry’s vision, or the chemistry of the cast, or sharp writing from science fiction authors of the time—and all of these are perfectly logical (ha-ha) reasons. In truth, the combination of these elements alone would provide reasonable explanation for its success. But I would argue that the most important detail of the show—no matter what incarnation—the real reason for its longevity is that Star Trek was, and remains, ahead of its time…

  Oh, brother, Will thought, taking a swig from his water bottle. You had me Brian, and now you’re going geek. Is that what this is, just some nutcase preaching from his mother’s basement?

  He continued reading.

  …in every way, shape, and form. An interracial cast—innovative and controversial at its genesis; mature and relevant subject matter disguised in genre-specific writing; high-tech concepts on the threshold of believability—so real, in fact, that inspired and gifted children went on to become modern scientists developing them. Microcomputers, voice-activation, communicators… just look at your smart phone or tablet right now. Remarkable, isn’t it?

  Of course, talents are not always used to develop technology for the benefit of mankind. There were destructive devices on Star Trek as well—precision weapons always being a handy alternative to Federation diplomacy. Similar to the beneficial communication devices, phasers and photon torpedoes graduated into modern destructive implements—nuclear power, refined laser technology, heat-seeking missiles, and countless other devices shrouded in secrecy. Weapons big enough to destroy planets perhaps.

  What has this got to do with zombies, you ask.

  What if a gifted child was inspired by the concept of Night of the Living Dead? Let’s say this child grew up to be a brilliant biologist or chemist, his sole quest—or raison de etre, if you will—being the reanimation of dead flesh? He would be ridiculed, no matter his intentions, cast out of respectable communities and labeled mad—a Dr. Frankenstein . Where would he turn? His research could only continue in private, likely relying on funds channeled through unique sources. Whispers of his studies would circle—elite cocktail parties, political fundraisers, corporate takeovers—eventually filtering down through porous, subterranean networks and reaching radical extremist groups both domestic and foreign. And what if one of these groups were funded by nihilists with very deep pockets? Of course, motives in these situations are infinite—megalomania, world domination, religious purification, breed purification, the destruction of human ideals and global harmony—or perhaps, something as infantile and ridiculous as the annihilation of those wearing red shirts.

  Scary, isn’t it?

  And though Frankenstein might not agree with said motives, or even be aware of any for that matter, the funding of a life’s dream is powerful incentive. People sell their souls on street corners every day for less.

  The potential is there—don’t kid yourself. In this modern world of synthetic flesh farming, stem cell genetics, mutating viruses, flesh-eating bacteria, chemical and biological warfare technology, domestic drug manufacturing, extremist cults, and global terrorism—zombies do not seem that far-fetched, do they? Remember, there was a time when smart phones were simply communicators on a space opera.

  The Rules

  Zombies are the reanimated dead. They are unstoppable until you destroy the brain, wherein lies some rudimentary activity—a battery, if you will—that keeps them moving. You can dismember them and the detached limbs will cease activity. The head, however, will remain active until the brain is destroyed.

  Zombies bite. The sole purpose of a zombie is to ingest living flesh. Why is this? We do not know. Perhaps, the residual bit of brain activity is enough to make them loath that which they have become, seeking flesh as possible retribution. Maybe they do it as an act of defiance, destroying any reminders of a former, better-lived life. Maybe flesh offers some kind of mental sustenance, a reason to keep active instead of wasting away. Or, maybe they just like the taste.

  Zombies roam. The dead do not need rest, though they may recede into lesser, dormant states without stimuli. They move forward like sharks, always seeking the next meal. The fresher they are, the faster they move. Decomposition inhibits speed and freedom of movement, as well as rigor mortis and other “conditions.”

  Zombies decompose. Despite the spark that drives them, zombies are dead flesh that breaks down the same as any other animal, often harboring other parasitic organisms. Despite this, they still function in many different stages of decomposition, dismemberment, and disembowelment. Their odor is offensive, like rotten meat.

  Zombies are relentless. Once a living presence is discovered, a zombie will not cease its pursuit until it has either reached its victim or been distracted by something else. They can see and hear, but no one is certain as to whether or not they can smell, taste, or feel (sense of smell and taste are debatable, but zombie do not express pain when taken down). Sight and sound are what they rely on for hunting, hearing being their greatest asset. Once a zombie hears anything—a gunshot, a stick breaking, a car door, whatever—it will move in that direction seeking prey. Other zombies will take notice of a zombie in pursuit and follow him as well, resulting in herds. Remember this more than anything else: Silence is survival.

  Zombies infect. A zombie’s bite is lethal, resulting in death and eventual reanimation. Though this contamination is the fastest spread, it is likely not the only means of contamination. Something started the process, whether it was airborne, in water or food, a Petri dish or outer space—something made the dead rise.

  So there you have it. Zombies are dead, they rot, they eat people, and they infect others. Although their brain functions primitively, your brain is still the greatest weapon you have against them. And even though a blunt instrument or gun will bring them down quickly, your being prepared is what will determine your survival—should you choose so.

  I say this because an epidemic of this proportion will alter living conditions on the planet—everything back to the basics—and could, in fact, eradicate human life completely. You may choose not to live in a world without electricity, water, communication, vehicles, and other modern conveniences.

  But you’re still reading, which makes me think there is something inside you that wants to survive. I am here
to offer what I know to help you achieve this. Shall we take this journey together? Unlike others, I will always be here for you.

  Turn the page and let’s begin the rest of your life.

  Will turned on his phone at five o’clock and dialed Frank. On the third ring he answered but didn’t say anything.

  “Frank? Are you there?”

  A hoarse voice answered. “Yeah. Not doing so good.”

  Will swallowed, trying to remain calm. “Honey, where are you?”

  He coughed. “Close. Off interstate. Near Chateau Élan.”

  “Are you driving right now?”

  “No. Hit something. Ran off the road.”

  Wills stomach clenched. “I’m coming to get you,” he said.

  “NO!” Frank shouted, followed by a worse coughing fit. “It’s too late. Just take care of the babies.”

  Will stood still, phone to his ear. For the final time he was on the tightrope—dream world and reality colliding yet again, the surreal effects less jarring this time, almost intoxicating, lifting him to a higher realm of clarity. Tears came, along with adrenaline. He snatched his keys and headed for the garage.

  “Stay with me, Will… on the phone… please.”

  Will put his thumb over the speaker, not wanting Frank to hear him crying. He released the garage door with the cord and lifted it.

  “Will?” he pleaded.

  “I hear you, Frank. I’m coming.”

  He got into the Santa Fe, cranked the engine, and backed out—then sped down the driveway, tires screeching as he made the sharp turn at the bottom.

  “I tried to come home, Will.”

  “I know, Frank. I know.”

  Will turned left at the rear entrance to the subdivision, heading in the direction of Braselton on back roads he knew well from their trips up north.