by Smith, T. W.
He’d seen Hank shoot Nate from his window last night—twice, in the chest and in the face, before running into the woods. But Nate had been one of those things. Hank was just defending…
What if Nate wasn’t a zombie? Brian asked.
Will had no answer. This had not occurred to him. Nate had certainly moved like a zombie, hadn’t he? It had taken more than a shot to the chest to put him down.
Just covering the bases… you never know.
Now he was even more on edge, and his head still hurt. What he did know was that Hank was still surviving out there. Had he made it back into his house? Probably. Will had learned from the manifesto that it was best to use circuitous routes to prevent the dead from following you home. Hank would know this instinctively from being a hunter, trapping prey and all.
What if he is in the house waiting for me?
What if Betsy is in the house waiting for me?
What if those things are in there?
Brian had bowed out; these questions were his own. Similar ones could be asked of any house on any outing—but this being the Connelly’s had made the deed all the more weighty and ominous. He needed a plan, a good one. He would begin by watching the house for a few days, see if anything out of the ordinary occurs. He would need a weapon, something easy to conceal and carry. He would also need several options for routes to and from their house, and collapsible totes for transporting supplies…
A list was now growing, a garden sprouting with the promise of fruit. And as he tended it, prioritizing and relegating tasks, calmness returned.
I can do this. I can make this happen. I need a gun to protect my family and I know where to find it. And when I succeed, I’m going to do it again. I’m strong, I can adapt, and I will survive this.
The affirmations were loud in his thoughts, lauding his initial efforts and bringing much-needed confidence to his fragile psyche. And though his thoughts were soon buzzing with preparation, they still could not completely vanquish the tiniest of all the voices asking what if…
Katie
Now.
Katie Gadsen was the first neighbor to introduce herself to Will and Frank. She was a little older than them, divorced, with two grown children. Like many of their lake neighbors, she was an empty-nester, enjoyed working in her yard, and was ready to respond with a casserole when a crisis ensued. Katie was the first person to warn them about Hank and Betsy Connelly, long before anything questionable had transpired. She was not a close friend, but she was a good neighbor and someone Will would help out in a pinch.
And now he knew that she was alive and in her house across the street.
He needed a way to communicate with her. His cell phone was still on the kitchen counter, unused since Frank’s disappearance. He went to the desk in his office, pulled open the top drawer, and found the neighborhood directory where he’d left it weeks before.
He powered up the phone and was surprised to find he had messages: two voicemails and a text. He checked the text first and found Judy’s directions to Lake Hartwell. He got a pad and pen from the drawer in the sideboard and jotted them down before dialing his voicemail.
The first message was from James. James and Chris were friends Will had known long before he met Frank. They had a dairy farm in east Tennessee and were somewhat reclusive—so much so that neither had ever even met Frank. It had been years since he’d seen them, so long that they now had a six-year old son, Cody, whom Will had only known from pictures. He and James kept in touch through Facebook, and the occasional e-mail or phone call. Their ties stretched far and Will felt guilty for not having at least tried to make contact.
It’s called shock, said Brian. Not to mention grief, and survival.
James’s deep, Kentucky drawl spoke:
“Hey, Will. Just wanted to check in with you two, make sure you’re all right. Things are kind of crazy here. We’re not over run with those things or anything, but some military types have taken over the farm, using it as some kind of base for researching ways to fix things. Honestly, I don’t think they have a clue, but they like to boss us around and make us feel like we’re the idiots. Thought I’d let you know, in case maybe you guys were passing through, from DC or Atlanta—never really sure where you’re at these days. Things aren’t great here but, as I’ve told you before, it’s always better here than in the city.”
Will grinned at the familiar sentiment.
“Chris is dead—got bit by one of them things while he was out feeding the chickens. He had a bad fever. It was quick. Some of them military folk wanted to keep him in a pen out back with the others, but I wouldn’t let them. I put him down before they could stop me. Cody’s taking it OK—me, not so much. I just wanted to hear your voice. I really miss him.”
Will closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.
“We have a generator, so I can keep my phone charged. Give me a call if you can. If things are bad there, y’all get up here. I got plenty of room and if these guys don’t start behaving better, I’ll have even more. Miss you. Love you. Bye.”
The automated voice informed him that the message had been left three days prior and then asked him what he would like to do with the message. He saved it. The second message began:
“Will, it’s Judy. I just wanted to tell you guys not to come up here. Howard got hurt. We managed to kill the thing that bit him and drug it into the lake. But by the time the kids arrived, Howard attacked Kathy, and Rick had to force him into the shed. He’s locked in there now and he’s been beating on the door for hours. I don’t think he’ll ever stop. Kathy’s got a fever and we’re not sure what to do. We have the boat, but where would we go? We need a hospital and, even if one was near, I don’t think it would be a great place to be right now. I feel so… I don’t know. I just didn’t want you guys to drive all the way up here and us be gone. I especially didn’t want you to stumble in on that thing in the shed. Whatever it is, it’s not Howard anymore… I hope Frank made it home safely and you two are OK. Take care.”
That message had been left weeks ago. Will checked the phone charge and saw that he still had a sliver left of the green power bar indicator. He found Katie’s number in the directory and dialed. The call went to voicemail and he left this message:
“Katie, it’s Will. Are you OK? Do you think you’d be safer over here with me? I have guns. I just wanted to make contact since I saw you in the window. I’m going to turn off my phone to save the charge, but please leave a message if you call. Maybe we can work out some plan. Bye.”
It was odd hearing his voice after being silent for so long. In the stillness of the house, he felt vulnerable, as if his words had been spoken with megaphone.
Check the perimeters. Ease your mind.
He held the power button till the phone shut down and placed it on the kitchen counter. When he turned he found Rocko and Lola sitting behind him, tails wagging.
“Sorry, guys,” he whispered, squatting down. “That was Miss Katie I was trying to call. But I have time for you too.” Rocko’s large tongue found Will’s cheek. His paws marched in place, nails clicking on the hardwood. Lola had already dropped, belly up and ready for scratching. The poor pups were filled to the brim with energy and no way to tap it. It had been a long time since they could run and play outside.
“You understand what’s going on. Don’t you?”
Lola lifted her head, her sad eyes meeting his.
He spent a few minutes giving them both a good rub down before heading to the windows.
That night, before going to bed, he checked the phone for a message. Nothing.
The following morning he was awakened by the sound of motorcycles. The dogs were agitated and whimpering, excited by the heavy rumblings of the bikes. He had let them sleep out of their kennels and with him in the office—foolish perhaps, but he’d felt guilty for further confining them. “Shhh,” Will whispered, cupping their snouts and steering their focus to his face. With a firm but quiet voice he annunciated, “No barking.” They calmed
a bit—not much though. He grabbed his shirt, shut the office door, and went to the foyer.
The roar of the vehicles was much louder out here, vibrating the floorboards, alien and unsettling. There were seven motorcycles, a Dodge Charger, and a Ford F150 sputtering to a halt in front of Lonnie and Ben’s house. One of the guys on the bikes was pointing toward the open front door.
Damn. They’re going to take the stuff I left. The gas, the water…
Brian had warned him of situations like this in passages from the manifesto:
Zombies are not your only enemy. There will be others out there who mean you harm. They will want what you have and will stop at nothing to obtain it. Law and law enforcement is lost. Remember—you are your only protection… Avoidance is almost always the best option. If something doesn’t feel right then likely it is not.
This did not feel right.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a beard got out of the pickup truck and approached the bikers. The Dodge driver and a boy in a red hoodie who looked no older than thirteen joined him. They conversed for a while but Will heard only sparse intonation, and was forced to interpret their gestures. The dodge driver pointed at Katie’s house.
The noise of the convoy was drawing zombies. Sentries, spaced at the perimeter of both yards dispatched them nonchalantly with hatchets and knives.
These guys are used to this. They take what they want and kill easily.
Will saw a familiar creature—the girl with one arm that he had seen initially. One of the bikers grabbed her from behind, and another put a motorcycle helmet on her head. A third undid her belt, and yanked her jeans and underpants down, lifting her legs so they could lay her down. She was fighting, but the helmet prevented her from biting anyone and the jeans gathered at her ankles served as binding. Two of the men remained, holding her down. Several were laughing and pointing as two more of the bikers grabbed the boy in the hoodie and lifted him toward the squirming, half-naked zombie.
You have got to be kidding me.
He wondered if Katie was seeing this.
The boy tore loose and ran back to the Charger. The man with the beard was smiling and shaking his head. Another biker—bald, skinny, and covered in tattoos—dropped his own pants. He spit in his hand and stroked his erect penis before lowering himself and penetrating the one-armed, dead girl. The men were laughing, cheering him on. More creatures were attracted by the noise, but the sentries put them down.
Will watched with horrified curiosity, disgusted to find himself aroused. He was really hoping the man with the beard would take a turn next.
This is sick. You need to do something.
Brian had explicitly forbid any interaction that would betray his presence. But he was already in trouble and he knew it. These guys would investigate more than one house, and his was in the immediate vicinity. It wouldn’t be long before they were at his door.
The man finished with the girl and pulled his pants up; her writhing suggesting both throws of ecstasy and wounded impalement. No one else took a turn. One of the others removed the helmet and stuck a knife in her ear. She stopped moving.
The bearded man spoke and pointed toward Lonnie’s house, then at Katie’s. With a thumb, he gestured over his shoulder to Will’s and Judy’s.
Let’s take these two houses now. We’ll get those two next. Will interpreted.
The men divided, a handful of guards remaining stationed at the perimeters. The bearded man and the boy took some of the bikers toward the open front door at Lonnie’s. The rest went toward Katie’s next door.
Katie.
There was nothing he could do to help her now. Maybe she had a good hiding place—an attic, perhaps. He hoped so.
He collected the dog leashes and harnesses from the laundry room and went back to the office. Both dogs were excited to see the leashes. Nothing pleased them more than a walk, and they hadn’t been on one in a long time.
And surprise—today we’re going to the lake! Maybe we can wait it out there, come back after they’re gone.
He took them to the basement and secured them, returning to the kitchen for a quick travel bag of food. He also snatched a flashlight, his cell phone, the machete and both pistols.
As he rounded the corner to the basement stairs, he heard a woman scream.
Don’t think about it, Will. Just go.
But he couldn’t—the lure of the sidelight was too strong, its magnetism drawing him back through the living room to his peephole in the foyer. He saw that there were now clusters of activity on both properties across the street, the numbers of the dead increasing, but still being maintained by the men at the perimeters.
They’re busy though. And they’ll stay that way.
From his higher vantage point, Will saw what the bikers couldn’t. Coming from two directions beyond the intersection, a steady flow of staggering zombie traffic was headed their way, summoned by the ruckus. He was certain that he would find the same from the third outlet should he check his office window—and this was only in the streets. Those traveling more direct routes—through woods and yards—were harder to spot without binoculars.
Going outside right now might not be a great idea, especially with the dogs. We are very close to the nexus of activity, our home is right in the path.
Katie was being carried from her own home by two of the bikers, her shrieks loud and piercing. She kicked at the men, struggling to get loose, but they held on to her hands and feet as they lowered her convulsing body to the ground. The bald, tattooed man approached her, helmet in hand.
No. This can’t be happening.
Next-door, at Lonnie’s looked like a frat party, the supplies he’d gathered being tossed about and wasted. One idiot had taken the toilet paper and was running around, streaming rolls high into the air. Others were on the porch steps, swigging from the bottle of Jack Daniels. Two more had lifted the garage door and were pushing Ben’s Mercedes into the driveway.
They’re going to have to have to hot-wire it, Will thought. Because I’ve got the—
He dropped his bag and ran into the kitchen. The Mercedes keys were hanging on the peg next to his own car keys, right where he’d left them. He snatched them and returned to the sidelight.
The bearded man was sitting in the driver’s seat, hunched over when Will pressed the Mercedes alarm button. Siren blasts pulsed, and the headlights flashed in unison to the shrill sound. The bearded man leapt out of the car as if it were on fire. Everyone stopped moving, all attention drawn toward the repetitive blasts of concentrated sound.
The dead did not stop. They continued their relentless infiltration of the scene, inadvertently taking advantage of the distraction. One of the heedless sentries was bit on the neck and collapsed to his knees, his screams subdued in the mounting chaos. More fell upon him, and others behind spilled into the breach. Two zombies took down the man with the toilet paper in Lonnie’s side yard. They drug his flailing body into the nearby woods—roll still in hand—and Will was the only witness. The two men holding Katie released her to fend off approaching zombies. She sat up wide-eyed, assessing the situation—returning up the steps and back into her house. She slammed the door.
Knives and blunt objects were no longer needed for stealth. Guns had appeared in most of the men’s hands, their shots adding to the discord. Three zombies from opposing directions attacked the bald, tattooed man. He jerked away, clutching a wounded forearm, and firing his pistol at them. Another man, without a gun, was shouting for help as a group converged, devouring him. A large biker with a stars and stripes do-rag was trying to break down Katie’s front door.
Will was mesmerized by what he was seeing. A full-fledged battle was playing out before his eyes, all because he had activated the alarm on the Mercedes. He had succeeded in rescuing Katie, and bringing down a group of marauders with the simple push of a button.
Screw you Brian—I got this!
But at what price, Will? They’re going to know someone close activated that alar
m, perhaps someone with white painted windows?
The realization hit deep, heavy in his stomach—an icy rippling of gooseflesh prickled his hair all over.
That was why Brian had said paint them black—because it gave the illusion of an empty house. Zombies couldn’t tell the difference between white and black windows… but humans could.
“Fuck.”
Brian was right again.
The alarm continued blaring and many men were down now. There were small clusters of the dead scattered in both yards, feeding—the largest of groups an undulating mass encompassing the Mercedes. And more were coming, drawn to the melee like pigs to a trough. The biker with the do-rag gave up pounding Katie’s front door and shot the knob off before entering. Several zombies followed him in. The bearded man was now crouched behind the pickup truck in the street. He was shouting something and Will saw that the hoodie kid was peaking from behind a gutter at the rear of Katie’s house. The kid shouted back, oblivious of zombies approaching from the woods behind him.
Will raised the key fob to the sidelight and clicked the red button. The alarm went off.
There were no more shots or screams, just the sounds of the dead en masse. Those clinging to the Mercedes began dispersing.
The kid heard the ones behind him and ran out into Lonnie’s side yard, but there were more now, converging between the houses from both the back and front, trapping him. He was desperate, darting different directions, but fearful to commit. Will distinctly heard the bearded man shout, “Run!” And when the boy tried to squeeze through, a tall gaunt figure snagged his hoodie. The kid’s feet went out from under and they were on him fast. There was a brief, high-pitched scream, then nothing.
Will closed his eyes, squeezing the key fob tight in his hands. He’d seen some horrible things in the past month—many up close and personal—but Christ, this was a kid.
Sorry to interrupt, Brian said. But we have pressing business here.
He opened his eyes and saw that the bearded man behind the truck—the only living person in sight—was just standing there, staring up at Will’s house.