by Smith, T. W.
Fuck you.
No. Fuck you, Will. You need to make decisions faster. Good decisions. You’re on the right track, but you’re too damn slow.
Will continued walking and the dogs followed. Instead of turning and going up Lakeland Drive, he continued straight. As he passed the intersection he saw a metallic balloon floating from a mailbox two houses up.
“It’s a boy,” he said.
Back to the point, Brian continued. In case you haven’t noticed, the zombie population is growing fast here. Every sound draws activity from no telling how far away. Motorcycles, car alarms, fires, explosions, horns—all of this noise is one big dinner bell for the dead.
They were bearing right, down an extended cul-de-sac that had 3 homes on it—two lakefronts. Will remembered his real estate agent saying that these two were the most expensive in his neighborhood—primarily, for their lake access and privacy. They were big too, at least eight thousand square feet or more. He and Frank had never met the owners—neither of the residents had ever participated in any neighborhood events or HOA meetings. For all he knew they were secondary homes, occupied seasonally. He often walked the dogs down here, but the houses were barely visible from the road—especially in the warm months. Private driveways snaked down into thick, dense woods—both homes almost completely captured by foliage.
See, Brian said. You hadn’t even thought of these two. Isolated from the rest of the neighborhood. These people had money.
What if they’re still there?
Not likely. These were second homes for rich people. You should investigate more closely.
“It’s a big job,” Will whispered.
Well worth the effort, Will. These people have boats. You could get everything on one of those boats and cruise it around to Judy and Howard’s dock. When the coast is clear, bring everything up and straight into the camper.
I don’t know how to drive a boat.
It’s easy. You’ll figure it out. Even if it takes some time, you’ll be on water where nothing can get to you.
Maybe.
And gas. I bet they have their own gas pump.
It’ll be electric.
They’ll have a generator.
The dogs grew restless, pulling their leads.
That’s funny. I don’t remember harnessing them.
Go home, Will. You need to sleep on this.
Ha, ha.
I mean it.
The driveways at his feet divided and disappeared, down into the shaded forest like mysterious paths in a fairy tale. The snow was now gone, evaporated, everything lush and verdant. It was hot out—the sunbeams bright, reflecting faraway slivers of lake visible through the trees. He caught fragments of the two homes—shingles here, a window there. Both houses would have to be cleared. It was a monumental task—his most ambitious yet—but raiding homes was an endeavor he was growing accustomed to… wasn’t it?
I’d need a major decoy…
The dogs pulled at their leads again.
“OK, OK. Let’s go.”
He turned and headed back the way he’d come. Not only was the snow gone—it was hot. Mid-summer heat. His coat was gone, and he was wearing a t-shirt—Foo Fighters on the front; Let it Die on the back—and cargo shorts. Before rounding back left, he saw the third house on the curving cul-de-sac, not encompassed by the woods like the other two, but still recessed enough that he had missed it on the way.
The house was facing the direction of the others, red brick, its driveway touching the asphalt a good three-hundred-or-so feet from where the others’ began. It was not nearly as large, but an expensive house nonetheless—probably sold as “lakefront” with water barely visible from the second floor. There was an overturned bicycle in the yard, sparkling tassels hanging from its handlebars. The house stood alone, placed perfectly like a dwelling built for a movie, its dark windows seemed to be staring at him; the mailbox was open and empty, the yard unkempt.
There was a giant red X on the front door.
The dogs pulled him that direction and they began sniffing and urinating in the tall grass. He dropped their leads and walked over to the bike. It was a pink Schwinn, lying on its side, wheels just beginning to rust. There was a white, woven, nylon basket attached to the handlebars with a nameplate: Molly.
Like the other two, the house was isolated from the rest of the neighborhood—vacant, wooded lots on either side. He wondered if the owners of any of these homes had bought up the surrounding lots to maintain privacy. The front door was as black as the windows, brick steps leading up to it. On either side were tall blooming shrubs in need of trimming—Hawthorns, and he smelled their spicy scent before he the thought was complete.
Something caught his eye to the right of the front door. He veered from the front walkway and saw that there was an enormous spider-web woven between two of the shrubs. In its center, the architect was huge and still, vibrating ever so slightly.
That’s a Writing Spider—just like the ones I used to see at my Great Aunt Flossie’s house in Chattanooga, when I was little.
The web spanned over two and a half feet, its intricate pattern almost perfectly symmetrical. In the very center, was a thicker, whiter zigzag design—its signature. The vibrations were coming from the lower left where a dust-colored moth was caught, fluttering frantically, trying to free itself from the sticky snare. The spider, glossy black with brilliant, Pollock-esque splotches of bright yellow, sat still at the center of the web, waiting.
Will abhorred eight-legged horrors of this or any variety, but he found himself reaching out for the moth. He grasped it by its wings and plucked it free of the web. The moth rested in his hand briefly as if to say Thank you, kind sir, and then fluttered away.
During all of this, the spider remained motionless. And now, with its prey freed, the vibrating stopped as well. Will studied the spattered patterns on the spider’s abdomen as it hovered in front of the red brick wall on its near invisible strands. He felt no hostility from the creature—which might have been better than its still, silent indifference—only saw the mesmerizing beauty of its design and work. So perfectly poised, he wondered if it were even alive.
The walk home was also perfect—the sun high, the afternoon hot. The statues were all gone. Not a soul was to be seen, just Will and the dogs on a walk like the good old days. The neighborhood was theirs alone.
As they approached home, Will was pleased to see all the lush, green well-manicured lawns, perfectly edged curbs, and summer flowers blooming. Bright yellow lilies surrounded the mailbox and crisp white crepe myrtles lined his driveway. He needed a day like this badly and he longed to sustain it.
Halfway up, he decided to sit down and relax. He released the dogs and reclined back on the warm cement. The sun felt magnificent on his skin, toasting him to a comfort level almost forgotten. He closed his eyes and imagined he was at the beach, his face warming, as iridescent images spiraled beneath his closed eyelids. He listened for the ocean and it came with its pendulous, hypnotic roar. Within that sound, seagulls squawked—a melody that was as soothing as it was measured. Will felt the hardness of the driveway beneath him melt away into the softness of warm sand. He let himself drift away with these sensations, seeking security in their comfort.
Far away he heard a muffled voice behind the lush call of the waves. At first, he misinterpreted it as that of an insistent gull. But soon the voice amplified in clarity and urgency. It was Brian.
Go away.
There was an audible click in Will’s head and the sounds flipped, the voice now prominent, the aquatic droll subdued to the background.
Ah. That’s better, Brian said.
Why can’t you leave me alone?
Time is of the essence, Will.
But this is so nice. Just let me lie here in the sun a while longer.
First, you’ll have to inspect the big lake houses. See which one has a more suitable dock and boat. Get everything you need transferred to that one and eventually into the boat you�
��re using. Once everything is in place, the third house—the one with the spider—will be the decoy.
Where’d the sun go?
Burn it down, Will. A fire that big will draw them like flies to a window.
It’s cold.
Never mind that. Once you see the fire doing its job, you start the boat and get back to Judy and Howard’s dock. If the coast is clear, you can unload immediately. If not, let it rest for a day or two.
Stop telling me how to do my job.
You don’t want to wait too long though. You need to leave, Will—the sooner, the better.
I don’t need your help.
Will, you’re drifting. You need to focus. We can’t afford mistakes.
I’ve been doing just fine.
Yes. Yes you have. But you don’t see how rapidly the situation is deteriorating.
So there are more of them. Big fucking deal.
Will, it’s because of you that there’s more of them. Everything you do has an echo effect. They may not know where you are specifically, but they know to come to this neighborhood. And they’re coming in droves, Will, from miles away. Gunshots, motorcycles, car alarms, firebombs—
I don’t have a choice, Goddamn it! I thought I told you to leave me alone.
You made the choice, Will, and that’s good. Honestly, I never thought you’d commit. I’m just trying to speed things up. There’s not a lot of time left. They’ll discover where you live.
Whatever. I read your shit. Stay inside! Make weapons! Live like a rat!
It got you this far, didn’t it?
I GOT ME THIS FAR, ASSHOLE!
Yes, Yes, you’re right, but I’d like to think that I at least pointed you in the right direction.
Will said nothing.
All right. All right. I’ll back off. But before I go…can I ask you one thing?
Will said nothing.
Why do you hate me so much?
He opened his eyes. The sky was gray, cold and sunless.
“Because you’re me,” he answered.
There was no response. Brian was gone. Will was shivering from what was now an icy wetness beneath him. The plush comfort of warm sand was snow again. He blinked as fresh flakes landed gently on his face.
Rocko’s face hovered into his vision from the right, and then Lola from the left, both giving his cheeks big, solid licks. There were tiny crystals sparkling on their fur from where snowflakes were melting on contact. They were cold and ready to go inside.
“OK, I know. It’s time.”
Will sat up. The statues had returned—hundreds, maybe thousands of them, as far as he could see. They were in the streets, yards, and driveways, perfectly still with black eyes and blank stares. The smiling sculptures were gone—replaced with row upon row of hateful effigies of the horrid and disfigured dead. The beautiful, blanketed snow he’d remembered was now streaked with ugly red and black, and it was falling heavier, as if trying to camouflage the carnage and render the scene docile again. But the attempt was futile—the contrast in light and shadow only heightening the menace—so many grimacing faces surrounding him that he could no longer identify specifics, just huddled masses of depraved, hungry souls with a sole purpose: to devour him.
And then they started to move.
Lyle
The house wasn’t exactly as it was in the dream. There was no overturned bicycle, no red X, and no spider—but it was red brick and in the same location as Will had remembered it. Why wouldn’t it be? He had walked the dogs down this cul-de-sac hundreds of times.
He was crouched down on the far side of the house, peeking around the corner. There were three of the creatures a good distance back, but in pursuit. Maneuvering his way across the neighborhood had taken almost three hours. Scurrying through the woods, and slipping from house to house was increasingly more difficult. The dead were everywhere. On this trip alone, he had already disposed of five and now he would have to put these three down as well. He was growing accustomed to his weapons of choice—a heavy-handled, twelve-inch screwdriver and machete—but kept the gun close just in case. Dispatching the dead was never easy and the rush of adrenaline that accompanied the task not welcome. These were the side effects of survival and he dealt with them as best he could—embracing the fear, harnessing and using it. The surprise of intimate encounters with the dead was comparable to being electrified—briefly shocked, and then reversing the charge. Will allowed himself the fear, maybe even coddled it, as he knew that becoming jaded, cocky, or complacent, would lead to his demise.
He looked across the extended cul-de-sac toward the driveways of the two lake houses. All was clear. He had considered these two homes when first strategizing supply raids, but had chalked them up as being too far away. But he was aware of them, which explained their presence in his dream. He had always looked forward to this part of their dog-walks for its wooded privacy and occasional glimpse of the lake. But it was isolated somewhat from the rest of the neighborhood and perhaps, subconsciously, he had dismissed them for that reason alone.
He considered throwing a stone to mislead his pursuers into the woods across the street, but that would lead them closer to his final destination and ultimately prove problematic. Destroying them was the efficient solution—though his least favorite—and the simplest way to do that would be to reveal his presence… draw them in… take care of business.
He walked out into the front yard.
Seeing him excited the creatures. There were two females and one male. The male was slower having baked in the sun a few days too many. His hair was matted to his skull like a helmet, and he wore a baggy three-piece suit, masking the true shape of his body. He had been old and brittle before turning, and now he resembled a scraggly child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. The females were coming faster, arms out, snarling. One was in shorts and topless—stringy, blond hair swinging with her steps. Her breasts were gone—just black, puckered cavities in her chest. The other wore a nurse’s uniform and was limping—her ankle broken and misshapen.
Will swung the machete a little high at the blond, missing her neck and lodging it in her temple. He released the blade and she went down with it. He took the screwdriver from his belt—comfortable with its length—and plunged it into the nurse’s eye. The tip of the tool went through until it struck the back of her skull, his fist remaining a good five or six inches away from snapping teeth. Its mouth went slack and she dropped.
The male was lagging—tripping on its lengthy pant legs, his dress shoes loosely clopping on the asphalt. Will retrieved his machete from the blond and charged the old man. He swung, striking its neck and removing its head, not so much with a slice, but more a dry, cracking snap. Dust puffed up from its shoulders as the body collapsed. He used the machete to pierce its decapitated head.
There was another growl. Coming from the side of the Spiderhouse, where he’d been crouched moments before.
Sound carries. You can’t afford to lead any of them to your destination.
Will crossed back into the yard. This one was fresher, bright red blood staining its clothes, eyes wide and white. It was a boy, a teenager—maybe a little older, shirtless, in jeans and barefooted. It reached for Will and he swung the machete hard, removing its hand midway through the forearm. Undeterred and fast, it dove for him and they both fell to the ground. Will’s right arm and the machete were pinned, sandwiched between the creature’s body and his own, his left had the thing by the neck, holding its gnashing teeth inches away from his face. He could feel the stump of the thing’s arm on his chest, bloody wetness soaking through his shirt as the creature tried gripping him with a phantom limb.
Will rolled to his right, freeing his arm. The creature struggled, writhing wildly beneath him as he reversed positions. Their upper bodies were now both slick with blood.
This one’s fresh. Strong.
He lifted the machete and the creature bucked, heaving upward and driving him off, the blade slipping from his hands. He rolled aw
ay—oblivious to where the machete had landed—and scurried up into a crab-walk. The boy-thing was now crawling toward him, limping from hand to stump. Will slid the screwdriver from his belt—careful not to lose his grip—and got to his knees. He allowed the creature to close on him, reached out, grabbed a handful of its hair, and inserted the screwdriver into its ear.
Please.
He pushed—resistance at first, and then the screwdriver pierced deep. The boy’s body went limp and collapsed.
He didn’t dally. He stood and collected his weapons, nervously surveying the surroundings for others. He wasn’t at all certain of how much noise they had made, probably not much. His breathing was thunderous in his ears though—staccato gasps like hiccups as he gathered himself.
He saw no more in the immediate vicinity—but there was a couple, way down the street from which he’d come. He couldn’t tell if they were wandering his way purposely or coincidentally.
There are no coincidences.
He decided not to wait. If they caught up with him at one of the lake houses he would deal with it there. Time to move.
He left the yard of the Spiderhouse, running the final length of asphalt to the first of the two driveways at the north end of the cul-de-sac. The driveway plunged down into the woods and he followed it as it wrapped around trees and over gullies. He had to force himself to slow down on the steep slope. Falling would only make things worse, especially if he injured himself. Running from zombies was difficult enough without a twisted ankle.
When the woods finally opened, he was confronted with an enormous stone home with three garages. The lake behind it was olive green, still and beautiful. Of course, it was—why wouldn’t it be? Nature was oblivious to human strife, always constant and indifferent.
There was a box on the front door. Will climbed the few steps toward it, opened the hinged lid, and removed a brochure. There were faded color pictures on bowed pages, a caption reading:
5 Bedrooms, 6 and a half baths. Updated kitchen! Granite countertops. Hardwood floors throughout. Stunning lake views! Contact Cindy Berenstein, Remax Realty Group, for showing. 678-555-5645.