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

by Smith, T. W.

  Pfft!

  The first one collapsed, toppling almost to his feet.

  Pfft!

  Another fell, piling on top of the first.

  He kept this up as they filed down like endless lemmings. After he shot the fifth one, his gun came up empty. He reached in his belt and withdrew a screwdriver. There were two more that he could see. The first one lurched for him and fell face down into the pile at the bottom of the stairs. Will slammed the screwdriver into the back of its head. The next one—a woman—dove, groping for Will. He used the screwdriver again.

  No more came.

  Will reloaded his gun. He began to drag the top zombie off of the pile when another idea came to him. He dropped the body and crossed to one of the boarded windows. Light speared through the boards in different sized triangles, motes floating lazily in the golden beams piercing the shadows. He could not readily access the crossed boards on the outside, but he could break the glass and possibly remove those on one of the windows.

  He shined his flashlight around the basement. There was shelving, paint, cleaning supplies, a tool bench, and next to that a metal cabinet. Above the tool bench was a pegboard with a hammer, screwdrivers, saws, and other tools. He pocketed the screwdrivers and—while considering the hammer—found a small flat crowbar. It was too short though. He needed length for leverage.

  The cabinet was locked with a padlock, no key in sight. Will figured there were more expensive tools in there, probably power tools that would be absolutely useless to him.

  He reached for a large pair of extendable tree branch trimmers on the wall and stood a few feet from the cabinet, clipping the blades to the padlock. He squeezed hard. Nothing. He repositioned the clippers and his stance and tried again, squeezing so hard that bright stars flared behind his eyelids accompanied by a repetitive pulse in his head, machine-like pounding of blood, rushing.

  This is what an aneurysm feels like. I’m going to keel over any second.

  The lock snapped.

  He released the clippers and opened the cabinet. There wasn’t a longer crowbar in there, but what he did find gave him pause.

  Will read a lot. He was never into war stories, or espionage spy-tales, or even crime novels or mysteries. But he recognized at once what he was looking at.

  He reached out and plucked a small two-handed gun from the cabinet. He thought it might be an Uzi, but he wasn’t certain. He had seen such things in movies, but really had no idea what any of the automatic and semi-automatic weaponry he was looking at was called. There were two more of these type guns, roughly the same size but different in shape. There was also an old rifle, with a bayonet.

  In the bottom of the cabinet was a small footlocker. He flipped the latch and opened it. Inside he found several clips of ammo for these small machine guns and something else that gave him even more pause: grenades, seven of them.

  Well, well, Hank. Guess I found your secret stash.

  He supposed Hank was a war veteran, or more likely, a war enthusiast. He was older, which meant he could have been a vet from the Gulf War, or maybe even Grenada—but Will didn’t think so. Hank seemed more the type to glorify war while running in the opposite direction. Still, like many good southern boys, he loved his guns—especially the kind you have to hide in locked basement cabinets.

  The duffel was already heavy and there was no way he was going to leave this stuff behind—so, he removed two of the shotguns to compensate. Carefully, he placed the grenades and clips into separate interior pockets, holding his breath the whole time. The idea of explosives terrified him, so much that he considered omitting them. But his gut—and Brian—said to take them and anything else he could carry.

  Once everything was packed up tight and manageable, he went back to the window. Peeking between the boards, he saw Hank out there in the grass, still agitated, growls muffled by the glass. There were four others now, drawn by the sound. No telling how many more would accumulate.

  A face smashed up against the window, so unexpectedly that Will stumbled backwards almost falling. It was dark inside—he’d grown accustomed to the dim light provided by the windows—and he was certain that the creature could not see him. But it was still jarring though, as he watched it back away, leaving a smear of blood and slime on the glass.

  The windows were out. Even if he could find a decent crowbar, there were too many of them out there now. As soon as he broke the glass they’d be on him. No, he’d have to exit via the only other alternative—the way he’d come.

  One at a time, he dragged the corpses away from the staircase and over to where Betsy lay. He wished he’d remembered to bring gloves. He didn’t like touching them even though he was mostly using their clothing for a grip. About halfway through, another appeared at the top of the stairs hissing—a child. Will shot it. When he lifted its body, he tossed it as easily as he would have a bale of pine straw.

  Once the steps were clear, he grabbed the duffel and went up. The bag was heavy, not easy to travel with at all. He needed to get it someplace safe and divide it, so he could move faster.

  Upstairs was empty. There was still clawing at the front door, but the back was free and a much easier exit than having to lift a garage door. He crossed, extending his hand for the knob—then hesitated, easing the duffel back down. He knelt, unzipped, found an Uzi, and rummaged through the pockets for a clip. His stomach clenched when his hand brushed the pocket with the grenades.

  The second clip he found slipped easily into the weapon. He looked for a safety and then slipped the gun into the back of his pants.

  You’re going to have to try using it sometime, might as well be now. There is no practice range. The world is your target.

  When he stood, there was a zombie standing right in front of him on the other side of the door. It reached out, its hands breaking through the upper glass panes. Will raised the pistol and shot it in the face. It tumbled backwards, crashing into a table, and overturning a multi-layered plant stand.

  So much for silent departures.

  He picked up the duffel and stepped through the door.

  On the deck, he peered over the rail again. Hank was there, splayed like a discarded marionette, eyes filled with what appeared to be rage. At least a dozen zombies had been drawn to him, his endless growls luring them from all directions. Some were already climbing the deck stairs.

  Will considered shooting him, but the distance and angle was tricky. He chose not to, telling himself that the noise was an active decoy, but knowing deep down that he preferred the idea of Hank rotting slowly from months of exposure.

  I’m a monster.

  Not the first time this concept had crossed his mind.

  You’re a survivor.

  He swiftly walked the length of the deck and rounded the corner to the garage entrance and driveway. What he encountered there was the mental equivalent of a gut-punch: The dead were everywhere, all being drawn his direction, funneling into a gigantic mass on Hank’s property—way more than he could count—from the surrounding yards and street, funneling in the driveway. Even behind the furthest he saw more coming, a slow but continuous movement from extreme periphery.

  He used the pistol to dispatch those nearest, dropping five and missing two. When the clip was empty, he released the duffel and got the Uzi.

  Please. Let this work.

  The trigger and recoil was surprisingly light and he soon found that he needed only one hand to use the weapon. A spray of automatic fire left the gun as he guided a steady stream of shots from left to right. The dead appeared to dance, jerking and stumbling backward but not going down. He was aiming too low.

  Will glanced back and saw that two from the backyard had reached the top of the deck stairs. He pointed the Uzi at them with a quick burst. He missed the kill shots here as well, but the blast sent one back down the steps and the other spiraling over the railing.

  I like this.

  He returned his fire to the driveway, aiming higher and taking them down as syst
ematically as he could. There was less animation to the hits now; they were simply falling. One second, a row was standing—the next they were going down from left to right like dominoes.

  Yes, sir. I could get used to this.

  The bullets stopped as the clip came up empty.

  Shit.

  He had managed to take out maybe a dozen. He knelt, rummaging through the bag and found a similar clip for the gun. It didn’t fit. He tossed it back and clawed through the duffel, frantically searching for another. His hand found the pocket with the grenades.

  Desperation could be a man’s friend or foil.

  Upon later reflection, he would consider the whole situation dumb luck, but at that moment a great sense of calm fell upon him. There were no second thoughts. Will removed a grenade, pulled the pin and lobbed it over the first row of his pursuers.

  Nothing happened.

  OK. We’re at war here. You could fall back, get in the house, and maybe find an attic to stow away in.

  But he knew that would be his grave. With all this activity, the dead would never leave.

  And this is all across the street from your house, by the way.

  Fuck off, Brian.

  His hand found another ammo clip and this time it clicked into the Uzi snugly.

  The grenade exploded, a large blast of hot, moist air blew his hair back and then debris was peppering him. He remained down for a moment, staring into the duffel and wondering just how close those things were getting to him. When the heat subsided and the tiny pricks of showering grit settled, he stood, ready with the gun.

  The horde had literally been blown to bits, a big chunk seemingly evaporated. No, not entirely true. There were pieces scattered—an arm here, a torso there, a head—surrounding a large crater in what once was Hank’s driveway. Many of these parts were still moving.

  Will, you were way too close to that blast.

  This was true. He had panicked when he threw the damned thing and should have taken cover back on the deck. He looked down at himself, extending his arms as if trying on clothing. It was not so much dirt that he’d been sprayed with, but detritus from his dead assailants. Bits of blackened flesh and blood covered him like a textured layer of speckled paint.

  There was still a mass left—more than a dozen of the creatures—even though he had blown up its nucleus. Some were stumbling around the shallow crater, some pitching forward into it. And then there were also those he’d seen in the distance, in the streets and neighboring yards, closing in as methodically and persistently as a swarm of bees, in no way deterred by the blast—their relentless pursuit maddening.

  If anything, he had only bought a minute before the nearest reached him. And from the sound of it, more had reached the summit of the deck stairs.

  He didn’t fire the Uzi, tucking it back into his belt. He loaded a fresh clip into the pistol, zipped the duffel, and looped its straps over his left shoulder.

  His advantage was that the mass had been dispersed. He walked slowly but steadily away from the driveway and into Hank’s front yard, only firing when one was close enough that he could almost touch its head with the barrel. It was slow going, but equally as systematic as their ceaseless approach.

  And I’m going to lead them away.

  The duffel was heavy, pulling at him, forcing him to lean right to counterbalance—but his adrenaline had kicked in, kept his legs moving, his brain focused on the fastest path to the woods and the lake beyond. The weight alone dictated his use of the pistol. Every thirty feet or so he would have to stop, drop the bag of guns, reload and begin all over again. When the situation permitted, he would rest a little longer, use the screwdriver on a few, then reload, and keep moving. The process was repetitive and tedious, but effective—its continuity almost a calming side effect. He had entered a zone of concentrated automation, transformed into a machine whose only goal was progress—and later he remembered very little of it.

  When he found himself at the wooded cul-de-sac, he looked back at the trail of chaos he’d left behind. The smoke had cleared, and the crater in Hank’s driveway was still partially visible, scattered body parts indistinguishable in the distance. The street, its curbs, and the beginning of lawns were littered with corpses, all the way to where he stood. He was bewildered to see just how many he’d taken out.

  And still they came, drawn by the commotion. They would follow him forever if need be. They would follow him into the woods where somehow he had to find a way to divert them before he could ever go home—his old familiar trick. But there was no way he could shake this many, especially carrying such a heavy load.

  The canoe. I’ve got to get to the canoe.

  He turned, filled with renewed energy, and entered the woods.

  Other than one bad fall—twisting his ankle on a protruding root hidden in the fauna—he made it to the shore in less than ten minutes. Out of breath and shoulder screaming, he stumbled out onto the beach, dropping the bag and leaning over. Greedy gulps of air filled his burning throat and his heart pounded, the beats an internal metronome drumming in his head. As he regained composure, internal noise subsiding, he was able to hear the footfalls of the dead, shambling in the woods behind him, their groans eerily absent, as if concentrating solely on the chase—relentless and mobile devourers, like terrestrial sharks, slow and consistent.

  The canoe was where he left it, just past Howard’s abandoned dock, hidden in the tall grass. He dropped the duffel into the boat and began pulling it toward the water. It was way too heavy. Would his weight, plus the weight of the guns, be enough to sink it? He had a nightmare vision of the boat capsizing and his prize duffel sinking down into the murky depths of the lake.

  No.

  He removed the duffel and ran back to the grass. Probably no point in hiding it—he’d yet to see any use a tool effectively, much less a weapon—but he felt more comfortable knowing it was camouflaged.

  Once satisfied that it was safe, he turned to see the first emerging from the woods. It was a blond stringy-haired man, sallow face, and eyes wide and white, electrified with frenetic energy upon sight of Will. It snarled, increasing its pace as it stumbled from the woods to the beach, two others close behind.

  Will kept the pistol and the Uzi. He wasn’t sure which reason won out—conserving precious ammo or the fact that he was beyond exhausted—but he returned to the canoe without confronting the zombies. He pulled it into the lake, sloshing through water that felt as thick and unyielding as syrup.

  Imagination. You’re tired, and your jeans are wet, that’s all. Chill.

  When the depth was thigh high and he could climb in with out bottoming out, he did so, careful not to flip the boat over. He landed in it face up, blue sky above, something hard digging into his back. His first thought was the Uzi, but the source was higher, between his shoulder blades.

  Oars.

  For a brief moment, he lay there—oars be damned—tracking the feathers of a cirrus across the cerulean sky, the rush of adrenaline leveling, the racing heartbeat in his eardrums lessening as the boat gently rocked.

  Then came the groans, the splashing.

  He sat up. The stringy-haired man was in the water up past his knees, blood-streaked and tattered button-down now floating at his thighs, a mere ten feet away. The two behind him were stepping into the water, both women—one hobbling on a malformed foot the other completely naked with large hunks of flesh missing from her calf and under her left breast. The wounds on these creatures had long dried, darker than the graying flesh that hosted them. The only brightness left was the whites of their eyes and teeth—but even those had gone yellow, cloudy.

  Will was surprised to see how fast they were closing the distance. He used his hands to paddle farther out, and then shifted his hips to remove the oars beneath him.

  The beach was filling up with them now, all pouring in from the path he had emerged from minutes ago. He hadn’t known for sure just how many were following him, but seeing the constant stream populate the
shore was sobering. Their growls had returned with sight of him, and they all began flocking to the lake like holy-rollers at a baptism. As the crowd swelled, their noise intensified—so loud he worried the dogs could hear them from the house.

  This was a massive blunder. I’ve jeopardized everything.

  He had intended on rowing east, either removing himself from their sight or, perhaps, leading them that direction and away. Once accomplished, he could row farther out and double back. But everything had happened so fast, and there were so many.

  The water was now chest-high on the leader—its arms out like the Frankenstein monster, groping for the food that was drifting away.

  More were entering the water, behind the two women and from the fringes. Will was far enough out that he could see some were entering from the west side of Howard’s dock now as well. And they continued to emerge from the woods—so many.

  My God—a hundred? No—two, at least.

  The shore was now teaming with them. There had not been near this many after the explosion. Stragglers had heard and joined along the way. That was how it worked. The Echo Effect—as Brian had written. And just as promised, they kept coming, an endless flow spilling from the woods like rats.

  The stringy-haired man let loose one last snarl that was cut short with gurgles and then silenced as he went under. For a fleeting moment, Will could still see its hands still groping for him above the water, and then they were gone.

  “I’m the Pied Piper,” he whispered.

  The two women were next, the water waist-high on one, and already up to the naked one’s shoulders. The former snarled, attempting strides and lunging for the boat. She went under first, proximity making the silence of her submersion more pronounced. The latter simply continued forward, submerging expressionless, like a cult-member in a mass suicide.

  Will rowed a little farther out and watched as tens and twenties of the monsters entered the water—some splashing wildly, others slower, more methodical—all striving for the drifting beacon and its promise of… what? Sustenance? No. He didn’t know the answer and probably never would. But nourishment was not what drove them. Of that, he was certain.