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

by Smith, T. W.

  Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking.

  I think I could put down one of those dead things.

  What if it wasn’t a zombie? What if it was someone alive, someone you knew?

  This had not occurred to him.

  The police aren’t coming, Will. Only you can save yourself.

  He knew deep down this was true—everything he’d read in the manifesto so far had been. The power had not come back on, not even blinked. The water had stopped yesterday. The Internet and satellites would follow. Car batteries and engines would deteriorate from lack of use. The world was now a paradox, moving forward to a primitive age. Nothing would ever be the same.

  He had turned his cell phone off days ago, and left it on the kitchen counter where it sat now, collecting dust. He found very little comfort in knowing it still held a charge. Who was he going to call? The one person who mattered most to him was gone.

  With the voices had come a horrible depression—a dark void, somewhere between mourning and remorse. He had relived the day of Frank’s disappearance on a continued loop, his own private purgatory—their phone calls, the choices made, the empty car—as if by replaying them he could somehow find a missing piece to fill this newfound emptiness. Even if an absent element should surface, the blocks of time could never be realigned to alter the events as they had occurred. But he sought solace in order and was continuously reconfiguring, grasping for answers in continuity—like an alcoholic, always celebrating sobriety with one, final drink.

  The simplest of activities were impossible and sleep had been out of the question. He would just lie awake and stare, contemplating what had happened over and over and over again. He found himself going to the refrigerator several times a day, knowing that it would not be cold, and that the light would not come on, and that Frank’s insulin would still be sitting there on the shelf where he had left it—proving it had happened, was happening.

  On the third day, with the dissolution of the voices and Brian’s curious arrival, Will leaned to the dogs as motivation for recovery. He and Frank had often discussed how their own personalities were reflected in both Rocko and Lola—Rocko representing Frank—savvy, energetic, and easily distracted; Lola being Will—meticulous, stubborn and fiercely loyal. Whether subconscious or not, they had found themselves drawn to their counterpart dogs. Will surmised his fondness for Rocko as organic a process as his falling in love with Frank—their shared traits reemphasizing his affection for both. He had suspected the same could be said for Frank and Lola. It was a fanciful notion, silly even, but it had comforted him, especially lonely nights when Frank had been on the road.

  He and Frank had found each other later in life—both in the twilight of their 30s—and children had never been a part of the equation. Twice they had considered adoption, but their freedom had outweighed the compulsion for kids, and dogs were easier and far less expensive. So the dogs became their children, and they spoiled them, often speaking with other couples as if they actually were kids. Will couldn’t imagine life without them, and he would protect them even more now because they were his only living connection to Frank.

  It was with this rationale—and Brian’s urgings—that he climbed out of the hole he’d found himself in, and began developing what evolved into The Routine.

  He’d used the manifesto for guidance and commenced daily tasks that appeased his much-needed semblance for order and balance. Bathroom breaks, exercise, treks to the lake, sterilizing water, meals, reading—these chores renewed his sense of purpose, and he would need them even more when the meds ran out. It helped the dogs as well, establishing a familiar practice that brought, at least, some variety to their minimal activity.

  One hour a day was devoted to specialized tasks—which could range from stuffing a backpack and placing it within reach of last-minute escape routes, to organizing and rationing the pantry. Also falling under specialized tasks was developing strategies for final escape should their fortress ever be compromised. Organization was a large part of these tasks, and Will excelled in that department. There were fourteen rooms, three and a half baths, and an attic in the house. Each day he would focus on a particular section to scour for useful tools while contemplating methods for continued survival.

  The largest, ongoing specialized task involved readying the Winnebago. Packing and organizing it was easy, his only challenge to remain silent while doing so. But he also had to get the vehicle’s gas tank filled and crank the engine periodically to keep it in good running order. This would not be easy. According to Brian, short sound bursts were enough to attract zombies, so the fifteen to thirty seconds of a rumbling engine—provided it started on the first crank—was sure to be a death knell. Also, foraging for food and supplies was one thing, but transporting heavy gallons of siphoned gas would be difficult. He would also need reserve for the road, wherever it took him.

  Where would it take me? I can’t leave here. Where would I go? What if Frank comes home?

  Thoughts like this bombarded him daily.

  During his preparations, he was also scrutinizing the streets for activity, speculating—in conjunction with Brian’s writings—that the contamination would reach his neighborhood fast. After all, it wasn’t as if he was waiting for the dead to shamble all the way north from Atlanta. People in the suburbs, including many that lived in his very subdivision, worked in Atlanta. It was possible that some were injured on the first day and brought the infection into their homes. Kids would bring it home from their schools or day-care. Hospitals were no longer safe. Infected neighbors would return home for rest. Where else would they go? People come home to die.

  And though these daily tasks did help to lighten his depression and grief—there was always the night. When the days wound down, and the sky dimmed past twilight, he would wait for sleep on the daybed in his office. It was at this time that any temporary alleviation would evaporate and the weight of his worry and grief would descend again, submerging him in relentless fear.

  Sometimes sleep would find him; often it would not.

  By the fifth day following Frank’s disappearance, things were even more noticeably different. There was exceeding activity in the neighborhood. Clusters of the dead would appear in people’s yards and on both the main and side streets, congregating near whatever sounds drew them. Screams would startle him awake at night, as well as gunshots. The windows became his portholes to the neighborhood. In the daylight, he observed from peepholes or through Venetian blinds. At night he saw nothing, only sounds in the darkness tormenting him.

  One night, following a violent thunderstorm—where stroboscopic flashes revealed dark figures wandering the rain-filled streets—he heard clawing at the vinyl fence beneath his window. It was pitch-black now, the storm having subsided and overcast skies preventing any moonlight. Will was petrified, simply could not bring himself to go out in the darkness to investigate. He listened to the creaking fence for hours, waiting for it to give way, knowing that one would be followed by masses and that the end had come.

  The following morning, the sound had stopped. He looked out his window to find that a pine branch was lying atop the fence, twisted at an odd angle, but still connected to the neighboring tree. The wind had been strong, the swaying tree pulling at the hooked branch for hours. He went outside and dislodged it, tiptoeing around other branches and leafy debris, all the while watching, listening.

  Voyeurism was now commonplace and mandatory. The windows had become his most frequent tool, dictating where he could be, for how long, and his volume levels. Apprehensive as to what new horror they may reveal, he could not deny their necessity. And even if they weren’t essential, they would always lure him. Screams were impossible to ignore.

  He had visibility from two sides of the house—clear views of four homes and the streets, partials of three additional lots and the intersection. From the front, the peepholes in the painted glass constricted his vision a little. From the side, nothing had changed. He witnessed horrendous attac
ks from both—many involving people he knew or recognized—but was forbidden to intervene. The guilt was nauseating, his instinct insisting he help these poor people. Instead he cowered behind closed doors, observing murder unfold as if he were watching television, powerless to turn away—for if he did any events unseen may affect his own safety. What if someone came to his door, leading the creatures to him? What would he do? Would he let them in?

  No matter who they are, or how well you know them, you must never attempt to offer assistance or you will make you and yours vulnerable. No exception. It is human nature to help others less fortunate, but you MUST NOT. In these times, survival means accepting that others will die in your presence. Turn the other way, or better yet—manipulate the situation to your advantage.

  That’s pretty harsh, Will thought, yet he complied, sometimes unaware. Catching sight of an attack through the front windows was the perfect time to accomplish tasks in his backyard for instance. There was no need to linger for the post show, nor would he ever want to. The creatures were sated with their conquests, no longer a present threat, and their victims being dismembered, disemboweled, and devoured were not required viewing—at least, not in his book. He could leave it and get busy—collect water a second time, or lift his garage door and load supplies into the camper—the zombies concentrated elsewhere making these tasks safer… for the moment at least.

  One night, jarred awake by gunshots, Will was surprised to find his new office-bedroom consumed in a pulsing, orange glow. Panicked, he went to the window and adjusted the blinds. Heat assaulted him, fire as bright as the sun making him squint, perspiration moistening his brow. But it was not his house burning. Ruth and Nate’s beautiful white Victorian on the corner was now nothing but a massive wall of flame, reaching more than a hundred feet into the night sky and illuminating the entire block.

  Beyond his fence and across the street, Will caught movement in this intense brightness and reached for his binoculars on the desk. Through them, he found two figures in the grass to the right of the burning house. Nate’s next-door neighbor, Hank, was running shirtless and barefoot in his own front yard with Nate in pursuit. Hank turned, raised a rifle, and shot Nate in the chest. Nate took two steps backward, and then continued after Hank as if nothing had happened. Hank shot him again, in the head. Nate went down.

  Will stepped back from the upstairs window, uncertain if he could be seen, but conscious of his presence behind the glass. Seeing these acts of violence from a distance made them no less disturbing—especially knowing the people involved—but it did remove him a little, as if he were in a theater with really bad seats.

  Hank went toward Nate’s body, stopped short, and then ran opposite to the woods behind his house. The side street was filling with the moaning dead, drawn by the fire and gunshots. In mere seconds, the tragic duet he witnessed had morphed into a full-fledged chorus.

  Will watched fascinated, observing the actions of what was the largest group he had seen so far. At least forty zombies were clustering around the flaming house, transfixed—some even venturing close enough to burst into flames themselves. Most just stood there though, in the grass and street, swaying, eyes glued to the fire as if worshiping a giant, burning deity.

  Will closed the blinds and made his way through the dark house to the master bedroom. He shut the door. The dogs were there in their kennels, a little nervous and whimpering. They couldn’t see the flames or feel the heat in here, but sensed something wrong nonetheless. He opened their kennel doors and let them accompany him on the king-sized bed he’d avoided since Frank’s disappearance . The dogs nuzzled him, fidgeting until satisfied with their positions. Will sank in between them, his fatigued mind embracing the comfort, drifting fast toward blessed unconsciousness. And while the remains of the burning house collapsed, he slept well for the first time in a week.

  The following morning, he went back to the windows on the west side to investigate. Ruth and Nate’s house was nothing but ash and smoking cinders. No fire department had come and Will had seen firsthand how fast a house could evaporate. There were still a few zombies wandering around, but most had dispersed already. He closed the blinds and went to the front foyer.

  From his peephole in the sidelight, he looked out to the main street. Only one of the creatures was out there. It was his paperboy, standing at the foot of the driveway and staring up at his door.

  Three days in a row.

  He’s repeating his old route, said Brian. Some form of residual memory.

  Go away. You’re creepy.

  The boy turned and continued up the street, carrier bag bouncing on his hip.

  Will sighed. He didn’t like it. Unsettling, the way it showed up at the same time every morning, like that old movie with John Cusack—the one where the paperboy kept appearing in odd places, demanding his two dollars.

  Better Off Dead, said Brian.

  The specialized task that day was dedicated to planning and preparation for his first excursion. His need for a gun was paramount. He knew this in his gut without Brian’s Manifesto pounding it into his brain… which it did… on every other page:

  There are hundreds of household tools that can be utilized as effective weapons, but nothing is more important than a firearm. If you don’t have one in your possession, you must get one as soon as possible. Silence may be your best friend, but nothing is faster or more effective than a gun when you find yourself in a tight situation.

  Food and water were not a problem yet, but he knew to look for anything of use when scavenging. Brian explained that buildings should first be secured, and then needed items were to be collected and placed in a central location, preferably near an established exit. If the supplies gathered were more than could be carried in one outing, all would be accessible for a quick return trip later. He was to keep record of raided homes and their remaining inventories.

  His list of provisions was growing, and items were allocated into two categories. Weapons, dog food, medications, salves, bandages, contact lens solution, batteries, and gas were Essentials. Luxuries, including toilet paper, books, and alcohol would make the cut if the load were light enough. Everything went into the stockpile for future excursions.

  He had to be smart about finding a gun. Suburban Atlanta, like the majority of the southeast United States, was brimming with proud, gun-toting conservatives. He and Frank had been perplexed to discover that many of their female friends actually carried pistols in their cars and purses, as if they lived in the ghetto instead of around the corner from Macy’s and The Cheesecake Factory. At a party once, Frank found Will staring dumbfounded at an old woman explaining that she carried her gun with her to the kindergarten where she taught.

  “You never know when someone’s going to rape you.”

  Using an old, dog-eared copy of the HOA neighborhood directory—everything was conveniently online now—Will concentrated on people he knew in Lakeland, his subdivision. Many of them would have guns, but his mind was hazy in remembering anyone mentioning so in past conversations. Surely, he’d heard or overheard someone claiming to have a gun, or having used a gun, or having cleaned a gun, or that was a hunter perhaps. But sensible owners wouldn’t boast, and braggarts could be liars.

  I need a sure bet.

  He paged through the directory while sifting through his memories, trying to remove any assumptions and recall genuine snippets of conversation. His head was hurting from the strain. When he reached the last of twenty-three pages, he had narrowed focus to three distinct probabilities—two of which were too far away for his liking, and the third he liked even less:

  Hank.

  Hank was a hunter. Hank had guns. Will had seen him run into the woods the night before with a shotgun. Yes, Hank had guns, all right. He not only remembered Hank talking guns, but also recalled him bragging at a party about a specific incident—something to do with scaring away kids attempting a late-night Halloween prank. Hank had loaded a pistol with blanks and shot at the teens as if they were
criminals.

  Of the entire neighborhood, Hank Connelly and his wife, Betsy, were the only neighbors to show any hostility toward him and Frank for being gay. They had been crafty about it—avoiding skirmishes by using indirect methods to exercise their animosity—anonymous complaints to the HOA board for false covenant violations, anonymous vandalism to their property, anonymous hate mail. The incidents may have been anonymous, but evidence always led to Hank and Betsy.

  At neighborhood functions, Betsy would be the first to greet him and Frank, feigning friendship to the point of absurdity—but later, true friends would inform them of vile comments made behind their backs. The irony of the situation was that the Connelly’s would stop at nothing to make Will and Frank the black sheep of the neighborhood when, in reality, Hank and Betsy won most-loathed couple hands down. Hank was a charlatan, never holding a real job, often profiting from shady pyramid schemes and boasting of tax evasion. Betsy owned a collection agency, employed a bunch of thugs, and was a bi-polar disaster, known to go from crying jags to screaming obscenities in seconds flat. They were crass, racist bigots, manipulating others for sport like George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

  Frank, ever the optimist, was always hesitant to judge… but not Will who often exploded with anger, spouting things like:

  “He’s a self-loathing closet-case, trapped in a loveless marriage.”

  “You think everyone is gay,” Frank would comment, casually flipping through a magazine.

  “Kinsey, babe. Kinsey.”

  “Why don’t you have another beer?”

  Whether or not Will’s suspicions were valid, they had learned from experience and the word of others to avoid the couple at all costs.

  And that was exactly what he wanted to do right now.

  But it was the surest bet.