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

by Smith, T. W.

  He accessed the work shed by the side door off of the laundry room, lifting the boat key ring off the hook as he went. He made a quick check out front first though—all was still clear, nothing shambling down the driveway. The shed was much larger up close—sporting two barn-like doors with a padlock—big enough to house a couple of tractors or a small horde of zombies; he found neither. What he did find was as neat and clean as any room in the house. Lawn and garden tools were organized on the walls by size, like some elaborate and perfectly assembled puzzle. There was a riding lawn-mower and a couple of gas containers—one being in a corner next to a large generator with a pull crank.

  Jackpot.

  After securing the shed, he crossed the lengthy slope that was the backyard. The only thing that kept the house and grounds from being pristine was that the yard had not seen maintenance in months. He was certain that Lyle wound have been perturbed. Imperfections still nagged at Will, but from a now distant, reserved part of his brain. Something about the idea of escape and working toward this goal was abating his compulsiveness. He identified his past urges more readily, respected them for what they were, and filed them away—giving them less emphasis in priority within his Rolodex of thoughts. He suspected hunger was another cause for this transformation. Basic human needs—food, water, shelter—outweighed previous fixations of visual and mental order. His thoughts these days were much clearer and he was grateful.

  Maybe shamans were on to something with the fasting.

  Like the shed, the deck overlooking the pier was much larger than it had appeared from the window. The wood was sun-bleached a little but the seal had been maintained at least semi-annually—good old Gran—and the furnishings, though weather-worn, were tasteful and comforting. There were large tables with umbrellas, a love seat, chairs, and small side tables. There was stone fire pit in the center, and a small cabana—kitchenette and bathroom—all the way right, with a bar and bar stools. The deck was a perfect setting for small parties, after dinner coffee and desserts, or a romantic sunset.

  These people knew how to live.

  He counted forty-two wide, wood-plank steps before landing on the pier, and then another fifty strides before reaching the dock.

  Sheesh! I bet it took me fifteen minutes to get all the way down here—at least ten.

  Outside the boathouse was a gas pump.

  Really? Who has their own gas pump?

  It was an antique—or more likely, a replication—of an old ESSO pump, complete with a light up sign at the top. The numbers measuring gas and dollars were the old-fashioned rolling type, replaced long ago by digital readouts on modern devices. The pump was in pristine condition, its polished chrome body still shiny despite having been abandoned.

  Gran, you never cease to surprise me. Keep ‘em coming.

  The boathouse was a good deal larger than the shed, but had only a regular sized door—not including the nautical entrance for the boat. The flooring was elevated, doc-level, on barnacle-encrusted pylons. It was dark in there, would remain dark unless he opened the lake access, which he had no intention of doing right now. He removed his flashlight.

  He shined the light through a pane of glass on the door, fully expecting to be greeted by some awful face gazing back at him. The bright sunlight made it difficult to see anything at all. He knocked lightly and waited.

  Nothing.

  He deduced the correct key by process of elimination, one being too small and the other having been for the padlock on the shed. He inserted it and opened the door.

  A little more light spilled in but it was still very dark. The air was musty, thick with the scent of mildew. Will did not like being in here at all. He made quick work of it.

  The boat was a small cabin cruiser, named The Esmerelda. He shined the light down the side of her looking for a footing. The water between the boat and the landing reflected green, and Will did not shine it there too long for fear that he would see one of the watery dead—like the one he had killed in his own backyard—looking up at him from its murky depths. He wasn’t sure how deep the water would be this far out, and even if it were ample enough to prevent groping fingers from reaching him, he still didn’t want to see them or their fish-eaten faces. This was an irrational fear, he knew—Lake Lanier was an enormous lake, and the chance of one being precisely where he was on the skinny side of slim—but the mind played tricks sometimes. And one had managed to stumble out of the water and into his own backyard, hadn’t it?

  Near the rear of the boat was a small half ladder, spaced between the dockside bumpers. Will put the flashlight in his mouth, stepped out to the second rung, and climbed aboard.

  The boat swayed gently with his movements, rubbery thumps and squeaks from the bumpers, as he gave himself a moment to get acclimated and regain balance. Everything was as predictably neat as the house. Seats in the bow and stern housed portable boat fenders and life vests in storage compartments under their cushions. There was a steering wheel at the helm in front of the captain’s chair, and what looked like a large gearshift to its right. The dashboard had displays including a speedometer, and a depth reader that was telling Will that he was currently in fourteen feet of water. There was also a gas gauge with a needle that read just left of a half tank.

  Across was another swivel seat and a hinged compartment. He pushed the button and the miniature door flapped down to reveal three things: a tube of Coppertone sunscreen, a pair of women’s sunglasses, and an owner’s manual.

  Yes! Gran, I love you.

  Will removed the manual and tucked it into the back of his pants.

  The bow of the boat had a small cabin with a generous amount of storage available, as well as a trapdoor with space in the hull. The stern housed the engine, battery, and gas tank, with little room for anything else. Will lowered this door, easing it back into place and stood. He shined the flashlight three hundred and sixty degrees, spanning the entire building to see if there was anything else of use in here. On one wall there was an anchor and ropes—more decorative, than practical. On another there were additional life vests hanging above a couple of gas containers. Nothing else.

  Well, Gran, I was hoping to find a small arsenal organized alphabetically or, perhaps, by size. But, if you were the type to collect guns, my guess is that they would have been in the house with you—probably the study. And that wasn’t the case. Seems we have more than OCD in common. Guess beggars can’t be choosers.

  He climbed out of the boat.

  Once outside, and back on the trail up to the house, he stopped at the overlook and did another three-sixty, surveying the grounds and making sure there was nothing he was overlooking. The boathouse was below him on the water, the work shed, about halfway or more up, and then the house. It was an enormous piece of property. He could tell that the yard had once been gorgeously landscaped by the placement of the shrubs, trees, and planters—but now it was an overgrown tangle of weeds, months of neglect having taken its toll.

  There was a little bit of a rocky beach extending the length of the cove and around until it disappeared behind the trees of a neighboring property. Will wondered if the majority of coastline would be this way, easy to travel, all the way back to Howard and Judy’s dock. Doubtful. There would be longer, deeper coves, some with beaches, some with small cliffs. Some of the land would be wooded all the way up to the water with no beach at all, which meant difficult terrain and God knows what venomous creatures.

  But wouldn’t it be smarter to come and go this way? There would be less chance of a run-in with the dead—at least, less chance of encountering a large group, like the ones he’d been seeing in the neighborhood.

  How long would it take? Two hours? Three?

  He looked at the sun. The late-summer days were growing shorter, but he calculated that there was at least four hours of light left.

  He wanted to risk it. It wasn’t like there were many opportunities for test runs, and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to hacking his way home via the stre
ets. Travel this way would be more serene, and he would hear them approaching much easier than if they were stumbling through the woods. It might take longer, but he could just as easily be detoured returning the way he had come.

  Decision made.

  He went back to the house for his backpack and to raid a few more food items for himself and the dogs. Once done, he snatched a pair of car keys he’d seen hanging by the garage entry, found a house key, and secured all the exterior doors.

  From the beach, Will took one final look at the Oberon house on the hill. Mixed feelings welled within him. He was grateful for having found such a bounty but dread was seeping in.

  What if I come back and everything is gone?

  Or worse…

  What if it was never here in the first place?

  Working through his obsessive disorder without medication was difficult but—for the most part—he was doing a good job. He knew he had to push nagging thoughts away or they would devour him. Some used counting or repetitive tics for solace, but this to him was bad—merely substituting a physical obsession for a mental one. So when he recognized the symptoms, he developed creative new ways of removing them, avoiding previous, proven methods for the sake of repetitiveness. The results were consistent; the solution varied.

  He imagined the questions as tangible, using his hands to condense them from the ends like squeezing an accordion. He placed them in a burlap pouch and tied it with a bright colored ribbon—red. He placed the sack on an orange inflatable raft, and pushed it out into the lake.

  Goodbye questions.

  Will turned away from the water and began walking home.

  He had not walked a full fifteen minutes before the beach disappeared and he was back in the woods. It was slow going, and he did his best to keep quiet in the brush. He was unaware at first, but the ground was rising and soon he was as high as twenty feet above the water. This went on for a while but eventually he descended and found his way to another and beach. It was a deep cove, curving and receding so far in that he couldn’t see where it joined the shoreline on the other side.

  The sun continued to get lower in the sky. He could swim across, likely cutting his travel time in half if not more so. But he had a heavy backpack, a machete, and a gun that he did not want to get wet. He did not know much about guns and was terrified that it wouldn’t work anymore if submerged.

  So, the cove it was. He picked up his pace, and soon rounded the bend, now able to see the complete cove and shoreline. There was movement ahead. About twenty feet before a small boat dock he could see two of the creatures on the shore. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

  He considered swimming across again. No, bad idea. The splashing would just lead them to a rendezvous point, and then they would stay there until he drowned. And there was the gun to consider…

  Yes. There was the gun.

  He drew the pistol and continued toward the dock.

  When he was close enough, he could see that the two were feeding on a deer, ripping large chunks of viscera from its abdomen and shoving the bloody mess into their maws.

  The one facing his direction noticed him first, stood and began walking his way. Will thumbed the safety on the pistol, made sure the silencer was secure, and closed the distance.

  It was a man, eyes wide and engaged, mouth opening with a big red snarl.

  Will shot it in the face.

  Pfft!

  The sound was muffled enough that the other took no notice—that, or it was too engrossed in its meal. It was facing away, ripping into the carcass with voracious abandon. Will stepped up behind it and put a bullet in the back of its head.

  Pfft!

  He was getting used to the gun. The silencer was a godsend. Not only was it quiet enough to prevent others from hearing, but it also spared him the jarring retort. He was tired, grateful of not having to swing the machete, nor endure the exhausting adrenaline rush of getting up close and personal with the screwdriver.

  Yes, the gun was good.

  The creatures reeked, and he considered leaving them be. But it would be foolish not to search them for anything useful. He went through their pockets and found nothing. One had a military ID in his wallet, but no weapon.

  As he was rummaging, a thought occurred to him: How could the dead have caught a deer?

  His eyes went back to the carcass and Will saw—above the bloody cavity—that its neck had been pierced by an arrow.

  You need to leave, Will.

  There was a sound—a light hollow bumping, barely audible. He stood, listening, but the sound had stopped. A bird cawed in the distance. He continued down the shore toward the boat dock and the other side of the cove. There was a trail leading up through the woods and he guessed that it would eventually lead to a backyard similar to his own. He stopped again, listening for anything, especially the sound of footfalls in the woods.

  Nothing.

  When he passed the dock, he heard it again.

  Thunk, thunk.

  He stopped and looked back. It was a small dock, a fishing dock really, but large enough to block Will from seeing that there was a canoe tied to it. He had walked right past it and would have kept on walking had he not heard its soft bumping on the wooden pylons. The water was calm, but there was just enough wake…

  Thunk, thunk.

  He was making much better time now. He had never rowed a boat that he could recall, but once he got used to the placement and rhythm of the oars, it was a piece of cake. He didn’t go too far out, for fear he would not be able to identify the cove with Judy and Howard’s dock, but he remained far enough to avoid zigzagging between the coves until he thought he might be getting close.

  There had been nothing in the boat indicating that it had belonged to a bowhunter, just the oars. But as he was pushing off, he thought he’d seen what looked like a red cap from an aerosol can on the ground just beneath the dock.

  Don’t think will. Just go.

  It was difficult identifying the coves—most he had not seen from land, much less water. He had no previous experience with lake navigation, but he told himself that this would be good practice for the large haul. They had gone out with Howard and Judy on their boat a few times, but not enough to retain any substantial sense of direction. He tried to estimate how many lake lots there were between the two houses, but that was impossible, as they were practically at opposite ends of the subdivision. After passing four coves, he decided to start rowing in closer, fearing he would miss it if he didn’t. It was too soon, he knew, but he would rather assure himself of his location than have to backtrack. The sun, the fresh air, and the safety of the water were welcome motivation, but he suspected his body would pay for it tomorrow.

  The first inlet entered was a shared one. Several docks were lined up opposite each other, boats of all varieties—pontoons, houseboats, cabin cruisers, and fishing boats. Paths snaked off from these in different directions leading to backyards and homes, some visible and some obscured by foliage. The shore between boats was empty, but there were plenty of hiding places on or behind the larger boats—especially the houseboats.

  He thought for a moment about whether or not he could survive on a houseboat. Seemed like a good idea, maybe anchor offshore and use a canoe to travel back and forth with supplies. You could fish, but how would you cook? A hibachi? Will had never liked fish, and the thought of eating fish that had fed on the dead made his stomach lurch. A houseboat would definitely be more sanitary than designating a room in your home as a “toilet.” But wouldn’t a boat on the water eventually deteriorate with weather? There were a lot of pros and cons to consider, the main advantage being able to sleep soundly without fear that some thing would wake you—the drawback being further travel for supplies. The water retrieval runs would be eliminated, but would you want to drink it knowing it was your toilet too? The dogs would be confined to a life of virtual immobility, but wasn’t it that way already?

  The questions kept coming. His mind was racing as the sun contin
ued its descent. He had to keep moving, but decided the concept warranted revisiting when he had more time.

  He continued rowing.

  For a while there was steady shoreline, but the next inlet eventually came, along with his recognition of it. There was an enormous single dock, two-tiered, with a children’s slide and a diving board. He remembered this as belonging to a couple named Zimmerman, Don and Brianna. He and Frank had attended a summer “float” party in this cove. There had been floating beer coolers and a number of floating chairs and rafts. A gas grill on the lower tier of the dock had filled the air with the smell of hamburgers and grilled sausages. His mouth watered remembering it.

  Now, there was just the dock structure, nothing else. No boats or jet skis, just the skeletal framing and that solitary slide, another reminder of the world that was. Will kept rowing, this place made him sad, and he was afraid that if he didn’t get away soon he would hear the sounds of splashing and the laughter of dead children.

  The next cove further confirmed that he was indeed headed in the right direction and had not somehow missed his destination. It was a shallow inlet with a modest pier for sunbathing. It had belonged to Linda Hollingsworth, a widow they’d known from dog walks. She’d had a Yorkie named Sophie.

  There was movement near the pier—a female, though he could not tell if it was Linda as he was too far away. She had spotted him and was in pursuit, groaning, splashing out into the water as if it could simply reach him that way. He waited, drifting, until it submerged itself and the noise stopped.

  OK. That, I was not expecting.

  In retrospect, he should have… but for some reason he thought that they would just wait on shore—like animals, intimidated by the water—follow him along the coastline until he outdistanced them. But it made perfect sense. They wouldn’t know not to stop. Just like the one that came out of the lake and into his back yard.

  He looked over the edge of the canoe and into the dark green water.