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

by Smith, T. W.

  He went back to the gate and sat down with his back against it. He would wait about an hour here, long enough to be certain nothing else was going to come up that driveway.

  As the noise of the departing group and the decoy’s cries diminished, he heard something else, near—a soft rasping. He stood and walked to the driveway’s edge, peering into the ravine. About twenty feet down, he saw the decapitated head of the creature he’d slain, wedged against a tree stump, face up, mouth writhing. Even from that distance, its eyes found him.

  Will looked at the body in the driveway; it was still.

  It’s definitely something in the brain.

  Duh. Some scientist you are.

  The noise from the head—though softer than a whisper—had to be dealt with. Even if it were too quiet to attract attention, he wouldn’t be able to sleep in his house knowing that just on the other side the fence was a living decapitated head. And he was certain that it would be there for months, maybe even years, before it quit moving and rotted away. No. Something had to be done.

  Will took slow, precise steps down the embankment into the woods. Once he reached the head, he fully expected it to speak to him like Lonnie or Betsy, but it did not. It just gaped at him, mouth gesticulating, like a fish.

  He got down on his knees to stable himself, held the machete an inch or two above the creature’s eye-socket, and let his weight take the blade through.

  Back at the gate, he waited another half hour to be certain, and then entered his backyard. He wanted to go inside and collapse on the bed, but he was determined to unload the Camry first and take care of a few other noisy tasks while there were still fires and babies distracting unwelcome visitors. He could rest later.

  He lowered the garage door quietly and locked it. It was darker, but there were still light from the blinded windows.

  After unloading all but one plastic grocery bag in the passenger seat, Will removed the Camry’s original battery from behind the seat and replaced it within the engine. He left his good Santa Fe battery near in case he needed to jump the Camry. He turned the key and the engine cranked up instantly, settling into a continuous purr after just one rev.

  Hmm. Guess I didn’t need the Santa Fe’s battery after all.

  No matter. He wouldn’t have risked it anyway. Everything had worked according to plan.

  He let the car run for a couple minutes, the fumes making him sleepy, and the pangs of a headache promising. When he turned off the engine, he went inside and retrieved his cell phone. In the bag he’d left in the car was an item of particular interest, and one that he wanted to test immediately—a car cell-phone charger.

  Will connected the phone to the charger and plugged it in to the cigarette lighter. He turned the key in the ignition just enough to engage battery power. The phone lit up as charging commenced. He left the phone on the passenger seat and closed the door.

  We’ll check back on that in an hour.

  Before pulling the door to, Will eyed his growing supply horde in the garage. He now had an additional car and three car batteries that he could alternate keeping charged with the Camry which, in truth, would probably never leave the garage again. There were also several plastic gas containers in one corner adding up to roughly twenty gallons of fuel.

  Good work, Will.

  He shut the door and went upstairs.

  Awake

  He got up and fixed a typical Sunday morning breakfast. He put some water with cream and butter on to boil, seasoned it with salt and pepper, and got the grits from the pantry. He turned the oven on to preheat (for the biscuits), and got fresh spinach from the refrigerator to chop and sauté with the eggs. And cheese—lots of extra sharp cheddar.

  Frank entered the kitchen, yawning. He was wearing pajama bottoms and an open robe. He looked child-like despite his massive frame, blond hair tousled from heavy sleeping and his eyes squinting from the morning light.

  “Morning, Sleepyhead,” Will said

  “What are they barking at?” Frank asked.

  “I didn’t realize they were.” But he could hear him them now, plain and clear in the backyard. Rocko’s bark a deep baritone mingled with Lola high-pitched yap. “Probably Chaucer. But now that I think about it, I haven’t seen that cat in a long time.”

  Frank crossed the breakfast nook and went out on the screened deck. “ROCKO!” he shouted. “HUSH!”

  As he passed Will noticed his cell phone was on the kitchen counter. I need to plug that up. It’s been dead a long time.

  The dogs trotted up the deck stairs and came in with Frank.

  “Have you fed them?” Frank asked.

  “Not yet.” Will went to the pantry and opened the large plastic bin where they kept the dog food. The only things in it were some crumbs and a red scoop at the bottom. “Hmm. I guess we’re out of food. We’ll pick some up later today. I’ll fix some extra breakfast in the meantime.”

  “Did you hear that, guys? Eggs and grits. Yummy, yummy!”

  “What we’re they barking at?”

  “Hank and Betsy were at the fence, taunting them.”

  “They need to get off our property.”

  “Well, the dogs are in now. Hopefully, those two will go away.”

  Will switched off the stove and turned to find that Frank was gone. “Everything’s ready,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in here, watching TV.”

  Will went around the corner into the den and found Frank sitting in his favorite chair, the dogs at his feet. The TV was on but there was no picture, just snow.

  “Cable out?” Will asked.

  “I guess. Can’t seem to find anything on any channel.”

  “Is it cold in here?”

  “No. I’m hot.”

  “I’ll say,” Will said with a wink. “I’m going to wash clothes first. Go ahead and fix your plate.”

  In the laundry room he put in a load of whites. He poured the last few drops of detergent from the cap into the washer. Selecting HOT, he turned the machine on. The water filling the reservoir smelled funny, earthy. He cupped his hand under it and found the water cold and brownish in color.

  “Frank,” he shouted. “I think something’s wrong with the washing machine.”

  He went back into the kitchen and saw that all the lights were out. The pans he’d prepared the food in were still on the stove but empty, dry and crusty. The sink was full of water and dishes, and something like mold was floating on the top. His cell phone was still lying on the counter.

  “Did you eat it all?” he asked.

  No answer.

  The doorbell rang.

  Will entered the den to find Frank’s chair empty. The dogs were gone and the TV was off. He could see a shadow moving behind one of the front door sidelights. “Special delivery,” a voice said. “Special delivery for William Rutledge.”

  Will crossed the foyer and removed the painter’s tape from one of the bullet holes. Outside the door was a handsome, bearded man in a UPS delivery uniform. His playful smirk contradicted his dark, penetrating eyes. He was holding a small parcel in one hand and clutching his bulging crotch with the other. Will felt his hormones stir, lust and shame engulfing him with a hot, rising blush.

  “I got something you need,” the deliveryman said.

  The man was kneading his crotch and Will found it difficult to concentrate. His heart and breath were accelerating, a sense of dread pressing him, heavy and suffocating. “Leave it on the porch,” he said.

  The deliveryman’s grin widened. “Sorry, it’s REGISTERED. I need a signature.”

  Will sighed, leaning on the door, and letting his forehead rest on the cold, hard wood above the peephole. He saw that the man had no paper slip or scanning device for capturing an electronic signature—both hands were occupied with their respective packages. “Sign it for me,” he said. “I can’t open the door. It’s boarded up.”

  The deliveryman’s smile faltered. His hand fell from his crotch as he bent down, placing t
he parcel at his feet. When he rose, his face was closer and Will caught a brief glimpse of a bloodshot eye, then lips and teeth as the man whispered into the peephole: “Why’d you have to be so hot?”

  The breath that emanated into Will’s face was sweet and fetid, like spoiled lamb—and not the usual warmth of an exhalation, but cold. Will cupped his nose and mouth with his hand.

  The man backed away. “See you soon, handsome,” he said, turning and descending the steps. There was a hole the size of a tennis ball in the back of his head. Bits of skull and brain matter jiggled from the rim of this dark orifice, and dried blood had streaked the back of his neck and collar, staining the upper shoulders of his uniform. He rounded the corner walkway and disappeared from sight.

  Will looked away from the door hoping to find Frank, but only found Rocko and Lola sitting nearby. They were watching him quizzically, their tails wagging in unison. Beyond this canine tableau, he saw the breakfast room light was now on. He heard papers being rustled and their were voices.

  “What on earth were you thinking?” Frank asked, exasperated.

  The voice that answered him sounded pinched, almost automated: “I told you… technology’s infrastructure was expanding way too fast. Media alone was available in such abundance we were literally drowning in it. Misinformation, excessive lies, truths, mental saturation… I had to stunt the growth, turn off the switch.”

  “So you decide to halt progress and destroy mankind for what, nostalgia? Just because you couldn’t handle it, doesn’t give you the right to take it away from everyone else.”

  A third voice, gruff and dry intercepted: “Times were better before the Internet. People had each other and not their damn smart phones.”

  Will entered the nook as Frank stood, frustrated. He squeezed his forehead with one hand while gesturing with the other. “Gentlemen,” this is my husband, Will Rutledge. Will, this is Harvey Freelander, and his associate, Charlie Biggs.”

  “Great,” Biggs said. “Homos.”

  “That’s enough,” Freelander said.

  “Have a seat,” Frank continued. “I was just about to have Mr. Freelander here explain how he manipulated the expanding media he loathes so to brainwash and exploit people like Charlie here into carrying out his nasty deeds.”

  Freelander put his face in his hands.

  “That’s not true,” said Biggs. “I’m a free man and I take responsibility for my actions.”

  “Of course you do,” said Frank.

  “I think I’m going to take the dogs out and throw the ball,” Will said.

  “I don’t blame you.” Frank said, placing a quick kiss on Will’s cheek. He whispered. “Hurry back. I’m going to ditch these bozos soon and make us some dinner.”

  “OK.”

  Will tried the light switch leading to the basement with no luck. He felt his way down the stairs and the dogs followed. He used the glow from the light of the basement windows as a guide. When he reached the exterior door, he turned the key in the deadbolt.

  A voice behind him said: “Wait.”

  A man was sitting in the overstuffed lounge facing a blank TV. In the dark room, Will could only see the silhouette of the man’s head above the chair.

  “Who are you?” Will asked. “And why are you in my basement?”

  “I’m Brian,” he said, as if it were answer enough. “You don’t want to go out there. It’s not safe.”

  “I’m tired of people telling me what to do,” Will said, and opened the door.

  There were zombies in the yard, motionless, at equal distance from each other. Will stepped out with the dogs and the creatures remained still, like statues.

  “Don’t stay out to long,” Brian said from inside. “I’m not sure how long it will last.”

  “Whatever.”

  Will approached the nearest figure. It was the lake-monster. Its corpse was standing just off the patio, decapitated—shoulders slumped and head held in relaxed hand, as if it were a basketball. The body was wet—slimy vegetation hanging from its shoulders, and from the ribs of the gaping hole in its abdomen. As Will walked past, sun flashed off the polished bolo tie hanging from the stump of the creature’s neck.

  Next was the UPS man he had wrestled with in the Inman’s yard. His face was mauled, and Will recognized the wounds, including the one he had inflicted—one eye punctured, recessed deep in the socket from his killing jab with the screwdriver. Its good eye rolled in the socket, following him as he circled. Otherwise, there was no movement at all.

  Behind the UPS man, near the Winnebago was the paperboy, his delivery bag still hanging from his shoulder. There was a grisly part in the boy’s hair that continued deep into his cranium where Will had lodged the machete. Like the UPS man, the paperboy’s eyes followed Will but his body remained motionless.

  Next was Sophia Inman, recognizable only from her tattered floral print dress, her face indistinguishable pulp from where his heavy boot had crushed it.

  Just inside the gate was the bearded man—Brad. There were two dark holes in his head—one absent an eye, the other centered in his forehead where Will had shot him. His torso was torn open, ribs exposed and broken, and streamers of intestines spilled down to a large pile of looping viscera at his feet. He startled Will by reaching out, but the gesture was subtle, non-threatening—as if he were saying: Mister, can you spare a dollar?

  Will opened the vinyl gate and found Brad’s hoodie-wearing son on the other side. The kid’s body and clothing were shredded, muddy, his face obscured from the red hood. One arm was missing, the other lifting, pointing—You did this to me. Will ignored the silent accusation, making his way left, beyond the hedges and toward the entrance walkway.

  At the foot of the steps between him and his front door stood Katie. She was not mutilated like the others, but she was bone-white, her mouth rimmed in crimson. She glared at him—head tilted back, eyes impossibly wide. Her arm was also extended, a crooked finger pointing at him like a prophesying oracle from a Greek tragedy.

  Feast your eyes on me, puny mortal. Behold your efforts!

  Will averted his eyes as he passed, climbing the stairs, and retrieving the parcel from the porch. The box felt good in his hands, solid. When he passed Katie again on his way back, her fingers clutched at his sleeve and he jumped, almost dropping the box. He turned and shoved her hard. She toppled, motionless to the concrete walkway where she shattered into pieces like glass, but without sound.

  “Fuck you, Katie!” he said. “At least I tried to do something—something other than watch from an upstairs window!”

  The fragments of Katie were tiny and indistinguishable, scurrying on the sidewalk like peculiar insects, quivering as they sought, met, and began to reassemble, bit by tiny bit. Eventually, she would be whole again.

  Will turned to go, moving back the way he’d come and trying not to notice that the boy in the red hood was now closer than before.

  He shut the gate to the side yard and turned to find Brad—the bearded monstrosity right behind him, arms open and clutching—his trail of vitals longer now, stretching behind him several feet as if tethered. Again, Will shoved, driving the thing to the ground where it broke like the other—only this time the pieces were larger, and he could make out jagged quadrants of its face as they slithered back together, merging, its one eye never losing sight of him.

  The dogs were now barking. Will ran past Sophia and the paperboy, their arms rising as he passed. The UPS man was lurching at Rocko and Lola, frozen in mid-grab. He could see the bristles raised on both dogs’ backs as they crouched, growling and snapping at the groping, statuesque figure. Will set the box down, grabbed a patio chair and swung it from the side and up, clipping the thing’s chin and landing a hard blow to its chest. There was a sickening crack, like that of a tree being downed in a forest. The tall deliveryman collapsed backward at an odd angle, and Will saw that the creature had broken in half at the waist. The torso had fallen backward but the legs remained standing upright, as
if cemented to an invisible base.

  “Rocko! Lola! In now!” Rocko went to the door immediately. Lola hesitated. Sophia and the paperboy were closer—not moving, but closer. Lola looked to Will, pleading.

  Are you sure, daddy? You know I can take them.

  Will pointed at the door and she conceded.

  Before joining them, Will took one last look at the UPS man. His arms had broken off the torso, but were wriggling back to their respected sockets. He wasn’t sure how it would reattach itself to the standing legs and had no intention of waiting around to find out.

  Once the door was secure, from the darkness Brian said: “See. It won’t last forever. You have to do something. Eventually, they know.”

  “Shut up,” Will said. “No offense, but I don’t need your help anymore.”

  When he got back upstairs, Frank and the two men were gone. The kitchen was the same as always—dark, dirty dishes in the sink, no evidence of anyone having been there.

  Will placed the parcel on the breakfast table. It sat there, the deliveryman’s bloody fingerprints smudging the cardboard in an unidentifiable Rorschach pattern. Will opened the blinds to let the light in.

  He sat down and lifted the box, noticing first the bold letters of a phrase he was familiar with:

  Carrier leave if no response.

  There was no label, but below those words he saw that the package was addressed to him, Rocko, and Lola, scrawled childlike, in black Sharpie. In the same script, the return address read simply: James and Cody, New Market, Tennessee.

  Will opened the box and removed the top layer of crumpled tissue paper. Beneath, nestled in the soft packing material, was a car’s cell phone charger.

  James

  The sound of James’s voice on his cell phone that morning immediately triggered uncontrollable sobs. The dogs came rushing into the kitchen to find a sniveling Will, collapsed on the upholstered bench at the breakfast table, clutching the phone to his ear.

  It was only a message, but it had been his voice nonetheless.