by Smith, T. W.
Brian spoke: You have very little time, Will. Every zombie within miles heard those shots, the screams. They’re headed this way. They’re probably already trying to get in.
I know, I know! Maybe I could remove the boards and go out the front. Make a run for it.
No. That’s no good. You’ll just lead them back to your place. Besides, you have to get the gun.
The gun—his whole reason for being there.
But I can’t get it now. Betsy’s buffet is taking place directly in front of the goddamned gun cabinet.
Yes you can! You have a meat cleaver, and those other knives on the counter. Go get her. PUT… HER… DOWN.
Will stood, meat cleaver in hand. He knew that he would have to land a really heavy blow to penetrate the skull and incapacitate the brain. He saw other knives in the shadows on the kitchen counter, but none long enough to get in her without having his hand up close. He would rather take his chances with the cleaver; it was heavy, felt comfortable in his grip.
Betsy’s attention was still on her meal, the awful grunts and smacking sounds she made enhancing the whole dreadful scenario. Will did not want to sneak up behind her, afraid he might get snagged or trip on the chain. Better to stay planted, let her come to him.
“Uh, Betsy?” he said.
She stopped eating, and made a low guttural sound. Will watched her rise, still facing away. They stood there, seconds passing, and Will thought of that scene from The Phantom of the Opera—the original silent movie with Lon Chaney—where the girl removes the mask and the monster turns to face her. But as the woman before him turned, her mask remained—dark red blood covering most of her face, the only white exposed high around her eyes and forehead. But underneath the gore, behind the dripping remnants of Hank and that horrible gesticulating mouth, Betsy features still penetrated—a hateful visage that would permanently haunt.
You tried to seduce my husband, you fucking queer. How dare you.
She moved toward the kitchen, chain in tow.
You thought you could have his cock all to yourself now that he keeps me locked in the basement, but you’re wrong. That precious cock is in me right now. Forever in me!
Will clutched the meat cleaver to his chest, whispering to himself that she wasn’t really speaking. He repeated a mantra, his lips trembling as he did: Not real. Not real. Not real.
As she reached the kitchen threshold, he raised the cleaver, steeling himself. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
Betsy cackled. I’m going to get me some of yours now, Mr. Will. Come on and pull that bad-boy out. Let’s have a party.
Will stepped toward her, hitting the slick spot again. He pitched forward, the meat cleaver coming down but not with the force intended. It caught her square in the face and the blade lodged in her brow-bone. Momentum carried him farther though, and to prevent from going down completely he lashed out with his free hand. It landed on Betsy’s sternum and—more from repulsion than achieving stability—he shoved, sending her backward into the dark abyss of the open basement doorway. As she tumbled down the stairs, chain receding fast, Will clutched the door frame, imagining one final glimpse—the cleaver in her bloody face, bisecting her writhing mouth as she tumbled into oblivion, eyes brimming with rage.
But it was pitch-black and he saw nothing.
Come down here with me queer-boy. I’ll make a man out of you!
Will pulled the door closed and switched the bolt.
He made his way back to the gun cabinet. He told himself not to look, but he did anyway. Hank’s naked legs were streaked in blood from the seeping nub in his crotch. But it was nothing compared to his upper torso where Betsy had dove in like a rabid surgeon. His ribcage was broken, bones protruding a gap where she had dug deep for buried treasures. His vacuous eyes stared up at the ceiling and Will looked away, reminded of the inevitability of their finding focus on him.
He grabbed what he could in less than a minute. He found the pistol he dropped, checking to make sure that it was loaded and the safety was on, before putting it in a cargo pocket. He couldn’t find Hank’s Diamondback, lost on the floor somewhere in his scuffle with Betsy. He grabbed all boxes of bullets and shells, the silencer, his knife and screwdriver, and whatever else he could fill his backpack with. He stood, and removed a shotgun from the upper display.
A windowpane in the back door broke. A pale hand with darkened fingernails reached in, groping for the doorknob. Hank had a two-by-four brace in place, but the hand would find it soon, remove it.
And who knows how many are waiting in line?
Will grabbed the candle and went back into the kitchen, remembering this time to avoid the slick spot. As he passed, the basement door began to shudder. Betsy was back.
Will, she pleaded. Please don’t leave me down here in the dark. Come down here and help me get warm. I promise I’ll be good. You’ll see.
“Fuck you, Betsy,” he whispered, making a right into the front hall. He passed the boarded front door in the foyer, blowing out the candle before he entered the living room.
The first thing he saw as his eyes adjusted was the large bay window, illuminated by the moon. There was oddness to its shape, as if it had been bisected and raised. The sheers were not drawn, nor were they short—they hung loose, all the way to the floor. Will felt for the lower, missing half of the window and discovered that it was boarded, but only halfway. He reached between the boards and glass and found—as he now suspected—that only the lower half was painted black.
Why?
Will looked to the sofa and coffee table facing the window. On the table was another near-empty bottle of bourbon, and next to it a pair of binoculars.
Son-of-a-bitch. He’s been stalking me.
What did you expect, Will? said Brian. You were doing the same.
The window had been camouflaged, the lower half secured from the reach of intruders and painted black, undetectable from a distance; the upper transparent glass offering a panoramic view of Will’s property, the back driveway, the woods, all the way up to the very window of his second floor office.
He watched me come across the street. He knew the whole time.
Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly.
Outside the window, five ghostly figures were moving in the street and front yard, all heading his way.
The two-by-four brace hit the floor, and the back door crashed open.
He needed an exit pronto. He grabbed a hefty ceramic lamp from the table beside the couch and threw it into the upper, exposed part of the window. The lamp shattered, but the window only cracked, spider-webbing almost to its frame. He snatched the next nearest thing to him—a pedestal end table—and swung it like an over-sized baseball bat at the cracked window. The window exploded outward in a barrage of breaking glass.
Will yanked down the sheers from one side, wrapping his right hand in them. He punched at the jagged pieces.
Something was in the hallway, getting closer.
He moved a chair to the window, using it as a step and tossed the heavy backpack through first. He lifted his leg over the boarded barrier. In his periphery, he saw shapes enter the living room, but he didn’t hesitate, continuing with his climb out of the house. He was hanging from the top board when cold fingers brushed his hand.
He let go.
The drop was farther than he’d thought it would be. On his way down, a large stalagmite of glass snagged his shirtsleeve, slicing into his tricep as gravity pulled him into the shrubs. He landed crouched with an audible gasp, breath expelled from his lungs on impact. He clutched at his wound—bleeding, but tolerable—and the first thought that came to him was:
I left the fucking shotgun.
It’s OK. You’ve got the pistol and the ammo. Just get out of here!
He rose, facing the street. Seven figures were positioned before him like Chess pieces preparing for a king’s capture
His first impulse was to plow through them, just cross the street and ha
ul ass up his driveway. He wanted to be home, safe, behind walls. But to act that rash would be foolish. They would learn of his sanctuary and they would close-in, their numbers increasing until they overtook him.
The end.
No. He would have to lose them by making a giant roundabout, out to the lake, and then all the way up through the woods to Lakeland’s rear entrance. From there he could creep his way back down through backyards, eventually landing safe in his own. This would add another hour or more to his never-ending night.
Just go, Will. You can rest tomorrow.
He looked to the lightening sky. Dawn was near.
Before Brian could urge him any further, he felt fingers in his hair. He jerked away—almost tripping over a garden hose cart—and looked up to the bay window where there was a ghoulish man leaning halfway out and reaching for him. His features were obscure in the pre-dawn light—pale face, dark sockets, gaping jaw—and he was stretching over the barricade, elongating, almost as if levitating. The same glass shard was cutting into his waist at a ghastly depth as he shimmied past the tipping point and plunged over the edge, landing headfirst in the gap behind the hedges, right beside Will.
He couldn’t have asked for a more effective starting pistol.
He snatched his backpack, turned and ran, darting out from the bushes and ducking below the open arms of another—a woman, also blurred in the dark, reaching out with impossibly white gloves. He swung left, dodging yet another, the second closest, and kept making strides toward the street. They were slow and sparse, not so many as to surround and overpower him, and he was outrunning them just as he’d seen Hank do that night of the fire. Their numbers dissipated as he reached the street, and Will targeted a path, increasing his speed.
He ran past his driveway and all the way to the ending cul-de-sac. On his way he saw others emerging from the shadows, but he kept moving. He concentrated on his breathing, remaining as quiet as possible as he shifted through the trees and entered the darkness of the woods.
This was trickier. There were stumps and stones, briars and vines. He slowed, keeping a steady pace through the whispering fauna, stopping every twenty feet or so to listen for movement and determine his route. There were noises all around him—cracking sticks, leaves rustling—or so it seemed, given that the pounding in his head and his heavy breathing were muffling much external noise. He was worried that he was going to run blindly into the arms of a zombie.
His eyes were playing games with him as well. Dawn had not reached the depths of the forest yet, its soft glow taunting him from high above the treetops. Sometimes, he would imagine he saw movement ahead, be convinced of it, only to slow and realize that there was nothing… nothing at all. At one point, he saw a creature heading straight for him, slight swaying back and forth as it climbed the ravine in his path. But as he forged onward, preparing to dodge, he discovered it was only a baby spruce, immobile, its vibrant needles phosphorescent in the surrounding haze.
When he reached the lake, the sun had risen but the sky had remained overcast. Will leapt from the canopy of the woods on to the crunchy shore within sight of Judy and Howard’s dock. Rustlings continued from the direction he’d come, but far enough away now for a brief repose. He cupped water from the lake and splashed his face with it. He was tired, even sleepy. The water felt good, needed almost as much as a cup of strong, hot coffee.
He checked to make sure the pistol was loaded and walked over to his gate. He wanted nothing more than to enter and hike the path to his own backyard, his home, and his bed. But again, it was too soon. The sound of movement in the woods was growing; those following him were gaining. He took a second to hide the heavy backpack near the gate, and moved around the fence, heading back into the woods east, into the invisible rising sun. They may hear him, but he would not let them catch sight of him.
Following a sound is one thing. But the combination of sight and sound would be worse—increasing stimulation and lengthening pursuit. No. Whatever I do, I can’t let them see me again.
His brain kept firing thoughts like these—theories and strategies as he made his way through the trees and now up steeper ravines to the back entrance of Lakeland. The adrenaline surge had given him more clarity than ever. At least, he told himself that. It could also have just been a way of distracting himself, mental reprieve from the jeopardy of his current situation—a balance.
A “Balance of Terror” perhaps, said Brian.
Ha, ha. But thanks anyway. I know you’re trying to help.
At your service, Will.
I’m sorry I yelled at you back there.
All’s good. Besides, the gay-stuff is your department.
Their thoughts and speculations intertwined now. Will was completely aware that Brian’s musings were that of his subconscious, and often—not always—they were welcome. They came most when he was losing focus, which was prime advantage—similar to having his own built-in Spidey-sense. The little inanities—like Star Trek jokes—were detritus of their collaboration.
But I’m not convinced they’re all that insignificant… Richard Matheson wrote a handful of Star Trek episodes. I know because they’re listed in the credentials of the novel I’m reading right now—”What Dreams May Come”—the one about coping with the death of a spouse.
Coincidence?
And wasn’t he known for another novel, one about a man alone in a dying world? I can’t remember the title… something with vampires.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
You’re obsessing.
You’re obsessing who?
You’re obsessing me.
Maybe. Maybe he was. The important thing was that his mental symbiosis with Brian was keeping him alert. He could deal with jokes. He could deal with subconscious profundities. He could deal with the interruptions—because without them, he might not be here. Somehow, in the whole surreal scheme of things, these quirks were helping him survive.
And that is the goal, isn’t it?
A goal you could live with? Brian said.
OK, that’s a good one. I’ll give you that.
When he emerged from the woods into the Collins’ backyard, he stopped again, listening for any indication of his still being followed. There was no sound. No rustles, no cracks, no shuffling, nothing—just birdsong and the light breath of a breeze in his ear.
OK, kiddo. You made it this far. Now, you just have to tiptoe through six backyards until you reach your own. Be swift and careful, and you’ll be in bed with the dogs in less than half an hour.
It felt safer in the backyards. The maneuvering of uneven ground was behind him, as was the noise of his footfalls. There was no danger of running into trees, or something hidden behind them. The large homes provided ample cover from the street. He would be vulnerable in the gaps between, but he could stay low there, crawl if he had to. The proximity of refuge hastened his travel, silence and familiarity easing his anxious mind.
Brian would have warned him that false-security and travel-speed were lethal companions, but Will was now on autopilot, having relegated Brian to point-to-point observation and navigation. His body had been a rigid vice for several hours now, muscles wrought with tension and demanding relief. He was exhausted, so close to home and already anticipating shutdown, recuperation.
Life lessons come when least expected.
When he reached the third backyard—the Inman’s—Will scurried under their deck, past sub-level basement windows, and eased up as he approached the far corner for a peek. He had not seen the zombie on the deck above him, obstructed from the previous yard’s vantage by a partially closed tabletop umbrella. It had been standing there for days, not moving, just waiting quietly for no reason. As Will emerged from beneath the deck, the creature heard him and followed. It issued a shortened moan before stumbling over the deck railing and plummeting to the patio where it landed on a chaise lounge and glass table in an explosive, bone-breaking crash.
He recognized the creature a
s Rudy Inman, another longtime denizen of Lakeland. Rudy was wearing one of his beloved rugby shirts, ripped and soiled, the once red and blue stripes now crimson and violet, the white collar gone bone gray. Rudy was crippled from the fall, his body bending at odd, disturbing angles—but his eyes were still on Will, mouth gyrating in a vicious growl as he began crawling from the wreckage.
Will backed up against the brick and there was a second shattering of glass. The basement window to his left had been smashed and Sophia Inman’s hands were reaching out from it, clutching at his pant legs. She hissed, groping for him with long, blood-streaked arms, jagged shards of window glass shredding her flesh as she clawed.
Will panicked. Neither of the two was an immediate threat in their positioning, but still he tore himself away from Sophia’s clinging fingers and ran around the blind corner into the open arms of another creature. The pistol went flying from his hands as they collided, both falling to the ground.
He rolled to his back, but the zombie had landed near and was on him quick. Will squirmed beneath it, trying to hold its head and gaping jaw away, but he had trouble maintaining his grip, his fingers slipping in the blood and filth covering its face. Its teeth were gnashing close enough to hear, precariously near his struggling fingers. He had no leverage up top, so he mined for strength below—curling his legs under until his feet were flat, and pushing up from the ground, slipping one arm from throat to chest, and forcing the creature up and off of him while rolling away in the opposite direction.
He was on his feet quick, scanning the nearby grass for the gun.
Not enough time.
Will felt for the screwdriver in his pocket , eyes surveying his vicinity. He expected to see a dozen more zombies approaching, but only saw Sophia. She was struggling halfway out of the basement window, her floral print dress snagging on its ragged frame. Rudy was still crawling impotently on the ground near her. The most recent addition to this soiree was now rising to its feet a few feet away. If any others had heard—and he was certain that they had—they were not within sight yet.