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

by Smith, T. W.

  “Will, are you there?”

  “I’m here, Frank. You just hang on. I’ll be there soon.”

  He made another sharp turn, not bothering to stop at the intersection.

  “It’s so… peaceful.”

  His sugar’s out of whack. “Just rest, Frank. Think good things. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Love you, Will.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence.

  Will drove faster.

  In the twenty-something minutes he drove toward Chateau Élan he only passed two cars in motion. No one was on the roads. All was quiet.

  As he came over the last bend, just a mile shy of the intersection at 211, he saw smoke. Up ahead, Frank’s Toyota Avalon was off the road, partially in a ditch. Will slowed, pulled the Santa Fe over, and got out.

  As he closed the last twenty feet, he could still hear Frank’s engine ticking and the rhythmic splash and steamy hiss of something. The front passenger-side had clipped a guardrail, the headlight and fender caved in, the hood tented, with black, oil-smoke billowing out. The windshield was spider-webbed and there was blood on the outside. At this angle, with the smoke and cracked glass, it was impossible to see inside the car.

  Will continued around to the driver’s side door, which was closed mostly, but not latched. He did not have to open it to see that the car was empty. Frank was gone.

  He moved to the center of the road, turning. There was grass on one side and a fenced cornfield on the other—beyond both were trees and a darkening orange sky. No sign of Frank. Nothing.

  “Frank!” he shouted. “Frank, where are you?”

  No answer.

  He looked east, toward Highway 211, for the first time seeing the skid marks on the road. The Avalon had made a hard right in an attempt to avoid hitting something, but what?

  He followed the marks to where they began and turned back, taking in the scene as if it were he in the Avalon approaching. But where the streaks veered sharp, there was nothing in the road.

  “Frank!” he shouted again.

  This time he heard something—just ahead to his left, off the road and in the tall grass. Something grunted, the grass stirred.

  “Frank,” Will repeated, softer. He walked toward the sound, parting the grass only to find a man that was not Frank. This man had dark hair. He was lying face down on the ground, in jeans and a light blue, bloodstained t-shirt. His body was at an odd right angle because his back was broken.

  But how could he be moving with a broken back?

  The creature looked up at Will, hissing so low that it was barely audible. Its bloody face was twisted with determination, dirty hands clutching for him, but helpless.

  Will backed out of the grass and on to the road.

  “It was you,” he said, pointing at the thing. “He wrecked because of you. He swerved… trying not to hit YOU.”

  He didn’t need to look at the marks anymore, or consider the trajectory; it was plain to see. What had shattered the windshield was now wriggling in the grass before him.

  He went back to the Avalon and opened the door. One of the phones was in the passenger side floorboard. The other was on the seat, next to Frank’s cooler. Will opened the cooler. Beside an ice-pack, a can of Diet Coke, and a half-eaten sandwich were the recently purchased insulin pens. Everything was still cold. He sat back in the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition.

  But where was Frank?

  He sat there for several minutes letting everything sink in. The sun was going down and he had no idea what to do.

  Finally, He took the cooler and both phones and put them into the Santa Fe. He got the Avalon keys and opened the trunk and removed Frank’s suitcase and garment bag.

  Once he had everything in his car, he went back to the center of the road and circled again, looking as far as he could see in every direction.

  “FRANK!”

  He stood there for a long time. The sun slipped away and twilight settled.

  Peaceful.

  Lonnie

  Now.

  The day following the backyard skirmish, Will made it through his routine and into the afternoon diversion without distraction—no lake-monsters wreaking havoc with his timetable. He was hesitant to depart his house directly—through any of the immediate fence gates—for fear of being noticed and leading trouble toward the home front. Instead, he took the familiar wooded trek down to the lake and out that gate, backtracking through the woods and utilizing the foliage for cover as long as possible. When he arrived at the most opportune place to leave the woods and enter the street he stopped and assessed. The remaining distance was out in the open, before reaching Katie’s house, and then on to Lonnie and Ben’s next door.

  Daylight was essential for these supply raids. He had considered that night would provide better cover, but Brian had nixed this idea fast, explaining that an attempt to maneuver in the dark in an unfamiliar home was a deathtrap. But natural light was just a notch above neutral in the overall equation because illumination worked both ways. Being exposed, any one of those things could see you—whether from the woods, the street, or the window of another house. This unnerved him—anonymity being his greatest advantage and one he’d prefer not compromise. Decision-making was already impeded for a home-schooled mental patient low on meds—especially one who preferred scrutinizing every tiny detail before committing to anything. Being thrust into an environment where split decisions were commonplace was beyond difficult, to the point of manifesting physically in the form of headaches and upset stomachs. He agonized over choices like whether to scurry across a street and disappear, or walk painfully slow in hopes that—from a distance—he might just be mistaken for another zombie.

  What if someone shoots me?

  He opted for the fast approach. The sooner he was behind a tree, or a car, or a house—somewhere out of the open—the sooner relief would come and follow-up could commence; the follow-up being a wait period, observing whether his actions had drawn attention—wake in an otherwise still pond. The phrase, hurry up and wait was barked often at the USPS station where he had worked, and that mentality translated to this scenario well.

  If he was seen, he could outrun or divert the creatures—as long as there weren’t too many. He had mentally mapped several alternative routes back to the lake should he need to shake one from his tail. If any were persistent enough to make it all the way to the gate and the trail leading home, he would be waiting in the woods to dispatch them. Homestead protection was sacred according to Brian, and Will had been treating the manifesto like the Bible.

  Killing zombies out in the open was discouraged unless a last resort—defined as a high-risk resolution—the risk being exposure to and/or getting bit by others. All kills were to follow the 4S rule: stealth + speed + skill = success. But in most cases, it was almost always easier—and encouraged—to avoid encounters altogether.

  He had a backpack (filled with two more collapsible totes), a crowbar, two screwdrivers, a flashlight, some wire snips, scissors, and duct tape. The gun was in its own separate compartment within the pack, and the only thing he carried in his hand was his weapon-of-choice: a machete. When he reached the side street, all was clear. After a brief hesitation at the intersection, he crossed over into Katie’s front yard. There was movement in his periphery as he ran—down the street, roughly four houses away—but he ignored the distraction, arriving fast at the corner of Katie’s house, and hiding behind a camellia.

  It was a zombie, and it had seen him—quickening its pace as it headed up the street in his direction. Will made note, doubting it would pinpoint his exact location at such a distance. It would come this way, but there was no telling where it would end up—not exactly comforting.

  He looked across the street at his own house. All was still there. It was odd seeing it from this vantage point, knowing that the dogs were inside and awaiting his return. At a glance, the white paint on the wi
ndows gave the illusion of Venetian blinds, but on closer inspection—seamless, and a little too white on the dark red brick. Sterile. Any signs of boarded windows were completely masked though.

  Another look down the street confirmed that the creature was still moving his way, albeit slowly and haphazardly. Will crossed the side yard to Lonnie and Ben’s basement door. It was locked. He removed the duct tape and scissors, and concealed the pane of glass closest to the doorknob, being sure to extend one flap of the sticky strip above. He used his gloved-hand to smash the pane once, hard. There was a muffled crack and the glass folded inward, adhered and hinged. He removed and discarded it intact.

  Before he entered, Will darted back to the camellia for one last look of the approaching zombie. It was two houses down now, and he thought it might be a Realtor he’d met once at an HOA meeting. Another had joined him—a woman that Will didn’t recognize—both moving slowly in his direction. He went back to the door, found the deadbolt, and went inside.

  Darkness enveloped him as he shut it and engaged the lock. His heart was hammering, but his sense of smell told him that the basement was clear. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the light, listening for any movement on the floor above. He was standing on concrete. There was a workbench with several tools to his left, and a large mid-century hutch, sanded and prepped for refinishing to the right; in between, a bare staircase. He scanned the tools hanging above the workbench, grabbing another flashlight before he moved on.

  At the top of the stairs, he found the door unlocked. He opened it and entered the kitchen, squinting as the brightness of the sun assaulted him. In the adjoining breakfast nook, exterior French doors leading to a rear deck were wide open. He closed and locked them. There was a smell here, but faint. Again he listened for movement. Nothing. He went from room to room on the main level fast, inspecting and closing doors, making sure the entire floor was secure. Once satisfied that it was, he went upstairs.

  The smell was coming from up here. The hallway was shaded from closed doors, the lone exception being a sun-drenched door ajar at the end. There was a bloody handprint on it—dark red fingers stark and smeared to the left, leaving a fading, crimson tail.

  Will steeled himself—trying to suppress the memories of his encounter at Hank and Betsy’s.

  It’s OK. It’s daylight this time. You can see and you know this house better.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit hallway, he saw blood drops on the carpet leading to and past him, and faint maroon smears brushing the banister rail. Whatever had been here had gone, likely out the deck doors. But if that was the case… then what was the sound he was hearing?

  It was coming from the end of the hall, the room with the handprint—wheezing, very slight, almost inaudible within the sound of his own breathing. His heart sped, sending pulsing throbs to his temples. He began moving down the hall toward the door, his feet growing heavy, as if the carpet had liquefied into some viscous adhesive, and he was pulling from it with each step. Still, he trudged on.

  He lifted the machete to the door, avoiding the dried handprint, and pushed. The door opened softly, no haunted-house creaking, no sound at all. A tastefully decorated master bedroom was revealed, floral curtains stirred by the breeze of open windows. There was a master bath off to the rear left. Between Will and the bath, a large-framed bed divided the center of the room. Extended from the corner of the bed was a bare foot. There was no blood—everything was crisp, the linens, carpet, and curtains in shades of ivory print. The only thing odd in this picture—a picture that could easily be found in the pages of Better Homes and Gardens—was that foot; that lone, gray foot.

  And the smell.

  Will took a few more steps into the room to see what it was that the bed was obscuring. It wasn’t curiosity so much, as it was a need to placate his restless mind. He had to know who that foot was attached to, or he would always wonder.

  What he found stayed with him forever.

  It was Lonnie. Her lower half was severed, as if she’d been gnawed right through the middle. The meat and organs gone, stripped to the bone with the exception of her feet which were not touched, resembling fleshy-socks on impossibly skinny legs. Her upper torso was ravaged, but a little less skeletal—the flesh missing from only one of her arms (hand also intact, like a glove), ribcage empty up to her breasts, housing no heart, no lungs. Her head, shoulders, and one arm were the only recognizable things left. Blood-stained blond hair was draped over her closed eyes. Her mouth was open, wheezing.

  How?

  It was a miniature slaughterhouse, completely blocked from view upon entry by the bed. The ivory carpet was saturated with dark blood and viscera, and the remains of Lonnie just lay there in it, like an absurd stick figure with big hands and feet.

  Will stepped back and Lonnie’s eyes popped opened, large, white, and surprised, as if he’d stumbled upon her undressing. She hissed a raspy grunt, her skeletal frame vibrating as she attempted movement with nothing but an arm. He continued backing out and closed the bedroom door—leaning against it a moment to process and regain composure.

  Again, he thought… how?

  He had not completely secured the house and distracted himself with doing so. He opened and inspected all the other rooms upstairs and the hallway was now flooded with much welcome daylight. He had found nothing other than that helpless skeleton-thing—Lonnie—in the master bedroom, and was now satisfied that the house was empty. He crossed back to a front bedroom—likely a grandchild’s bedroom, as it was superhero-themed, with a Green Lantern lamp and Batman linens—and looked out to the street, expecting to see the two figures still moving up the road, maybe crossing Katie’s yard by now.

  They were gone.

  What’s worse than finding a snake?

  Losing it.

  He couldn’t let that bother him now. The house was secure. He needed to get what he could, as fast as he could, and get the hell back home. He went through the remaining bedrooms and hall bath quickly, snagging Q-tips, Band-Aids, and a bar of soap. Every time he was in the hall, the bloody handprint was in his periphery, taunting him. He knew there would be a cache of items needed in that master bath, but he was in no hurry to go back in there.

  On the main floor, he unpacked the additional totes, put them on the kitchen table, and began rummaging through cabinets and the pantry. He found plenty of canned food, boxed dry goods, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and the prize—a 22 lb. bag of dog food unopened. He skipped the refrigerator, sparing himself the foul odors it would harbor; however, on top of it, he found a pack of bottle rockets and threw them into the growing pile on the table. He rifled through the drawers and found three types of batteries—including the small flat ones for wrist watches—tape, and matches.

  In the garage he found a nearly full, two-gallon gas can, a 24-count case of bottle water, and large packs of toilet paper and paper towels. He looked out a window on the garage door expecting to find something looking in on him. Nope. All he saw was Judy and Harold’s house across the street, next door to his own—nothing unusual going on.

  He opened the door to Lonnie’s Mercedes and the light came on.

  Surprise! Some things are still working.

  He went through the glove compartment and found a map of the southeast United States. He took it, an ice scraper and a tire gauge before snapping it closed. He shut the car door quietly and went back inside the house. The Mercedes keys were hanging on a peg next to the door and he pocketed them.

  Just in case.

  He allowed himself the luxury of sixty whole seconds to peruse the bookcase in the den. He snagged a copy of Great Expectations, Welcome to the Monkeyhouse, and The Postman Always Rings Twice, leaving a multitude of Ben’s beloved political-thriller and military novels behind.

  Will looked at the mounting pile of stuff on the table, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get it all in one trip. He began sorting and arranging things in one of the totes. He would prioritize what to take and leave the rest
for a future trip. He separated a couple of rolls of toilet paper, half the water, and all the dog food. The gas and the paper towels could wait. The foodstuff he got into the second tote, along with his machete, but he still had some room in the backpack.

  The master bathroom.

  There was no avoiding it. He went up the stairs and back down the hall toward the door with the handprint. He turned the knob and opened the door fast, before his nerve abandoned him. He rounded the bed and saw the Lonnie-thing, her movement a little more animated with his return. He swiftly stepped around her toward the bathroom. Her fingers grazed the cuff of his pants, nails catching the fabric slightly. Will whimpered and jerked away fast, slamming hard into the bathroom door jam. He slid down a little, legs quivering, shoulder throbbing. Lonnie could not turn to face his direction, but her eyes were rolling back in their sockets trying to locate him. Her mouth writhed with subtle sound, a continuous breathy utterance.

  Will went in the bathroom.

  He opened cabinets first and found contact lens solution and cleaner, Listerine, and shaving cream. In the drawers, he found razor blades, toothpaste, and—

  Yes!

  —two packs of dental floss. From the medicine cabinet, he took bottles of Vicodin, Claritin , aspirin, Alleve, and a tube of Neosporin. He also found four packs of disposable contact lenses—you never know—and some Vaseline, but left a bottle of Effexor—an anti-depressant he had tried once with horrible side effects.

  He zipped up the backpack, and half-ran, half-jumped, over Lonnie before she knew he was coming. Ignoring her, he went around and sat on the other side of the bed, opening the nightstand drawer.

  Jackpot.

  Will removed a pistol and a box of ammo. He wasn’t sure what kind of gun it was, but it was clean and well taken care of. Ben had been a Marine and Will had wondered whether he might find a piece in the house.

  Two houses, two guns. Welcome to Georgia.