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

by Smith, T. W.

  The work was time-consuming, but productive. He consolidated items for transport in boxes, his backpack, and a rolling cooler with a telescopic handle. The number of trips down the hill to the boathouse quickly blurred and he embraced the beautiful day—bright sun above, vast blue water before him—and the sweet isolation. He chose items that he knew would travel well, and that he could easily pack into both vehicles. The camper would hold a lot more than the boat, so his objective was to maximize every inch of space on The Esmerelda for this single trip—a challenging task, but Will was suited for the job, and solving puzzles like this had always relaxed and comforted him.

  That evening, he lay on the bed in Ben’s room, looking up at the sports memorabilia on the walls. Ben had been an Atlanta Braves fan—Lyle had no doubt influenced this—as there was a framed picture on the wall of the two of them at a game, big smiles and hot dogs.

  He was glad he had chosen this room to sleep in. His first inclination would have been to sleep on the couch in the library with its vast inventory. But he had no intentions of removing Lyle’s suspended body and could not stomach the idea of sleeping in the same room with it. Bad enough knowing that he was just a couple of doors down from the remains of both Lyle and Vivian—or Gran and Grandy, as Ben had known them.

  As the day grew long, and the late afternoon sun descended in the sky, he allowed himself some time to peruse the library though, averting his eyes from the hanging corpse and breathing through a handkerchief to avoid the stench. He filled a box with at least twenty books, obsessing a bit as to what titles out of hundreds he would include. He gravitated toward unread classics, though he did include a best-selling potboiler or two.

  Welcome to the Monkey House was now resting upon his chest, the light in the sky outside Ben’s window darkening, his eyelids growing heavy. He had just completed the short story More Stately Mansions, and he felt sad, sated, and melancholic. Vonnegut was good that way.

  He finished loading the supplies the following morning. Aside from the cliff-diver, he had not encountered a single zombie either day of this endeavor—though he’d run to the front yard at least a half a dozen times both days to make sure there wasn’t a legion of them shambling through the woods and down the driveway. Eerie. The Oberon’s had remained a paradise untouched.

  It’s an illusion, Will. It seems protected, isolated. But its beauty and peacefulness would lull you to sleep. And when you woke it would be too late.

  He felt this was true, but would it not be the same for any place? Would he always have to keep moving?

  He had consolidated the plastic gas containers at home and brought two empties with him. They were lined up neatly with several others near the pump where he had left them, along with a few more supplies.

  Everything on his list was completed. When he returned on foot, he would bring very little with him. He could avoid going back into the Oberon house all together. He would start the generator, get the pump running, fill up the remaining gas containers and the boat, and be on his way.

  Sounded simple.

  Too simple.

  Time would tell.

  He waited for a large cluster to pass before he came out of the woods and crossed the street to the Spiderhouse. He walked softly, but it was no matter as the group was captivated by the by the fires down the street. They continued to move en mass toward the burning buildings as if being pulled by gravity.

  Two stragglers—one a man and one whose sex Will had difficulty determining—were left in the front yard. He dropped the man quickly and, upon closer inspection decided that the other was a very butch woman—buzzed haircut, flat-chest, piercings in her eyebrow, nose, lip, and all the way up one ear. She was a fresh cadaver, no apparent wounds, wearing a Black Flag t-shirt, jeans, and red canvas high-tops. She hissed and lurched at Will. She was strong, but he held her back, ramming the screwdriver up her nose and into her brain. When she hit the ground he saw that her lower back had been mauled and a kidney was missing.

  Maybe she’s an organ donor.

  Ha, ha.

  I got a million of ‘em.

  He did a three-sixty and found himself alone with the Spiderhouse.

  No matter how well he planned, there would always be bumps—unexpected interruptions, difficult terrain, bad weather, whatever—but, on paper, this was where Will had the largest question mark. He had not known the owners of the red brick home, nor had he ever been inside. He couldn’t just throw a grenade through the window because—what if the glass didn’t break? An explosion outside of the house would summon the dead before he had a chance to burn it completely, maximizing its draw.

  No, that was risky and wasteful. This was an intricate chess match he’d set up and every move had to be expertly executed. So, he had come up with another idea…

  The other two homes had been targeted first for reasons more than sequential placement, or that they were secure—they were also immediate decoys to divert attention while he broke into the Spiderhouse. He would make a quick entry-level sweep, raise a strategically located window, and haul ass.

  As he gazed at the structure, he told himself that it was just another house. There was nothing that extraordinary about it, just five, four and a door. Like all of Lakeland now, the yard was unkempt, hedges overgrown, and weeds abundant. Its windows were dark, no curtains or blinds. It stood tall, thin, and—other than the forest encompassing it—there were no trees near. Solitary it sat, apart from the other homes, removed by the woods of the elongated cul-de-sac, as if it were on display. It reminded Will of looking into a snow globe .

  The front door was locked, so he circled around the garage to the only other exterior door in the back. No surprises greeted him. On the patio, he found a weathered gas grill and there was a swing-set in the backyard. It was a hot day, no breeze, and he averted his eyes from the swings for fear they would begin to sway—a ghost child playing tricks on him, or worse… his mind.

  The grill was not covered and beginning to rust from exposure. He grasped the handle and lifted the lid. A blur flew out at him, grazing his head as it whipped through his hair. He teetered backwards, almost losing his grip on the lid, swiping at the fiend that was long gone. He had not realized his eyes were closed, and when he opened them he found resting on the greasy grill grates, a nest with three small blue eggs inside.

  He lowered the lid.

  French doors again, sheered and locked. He used duck tape on the panel closest to one of the knobs, and forced the screwdriver handle to break the glass. It wasn’t loud at all but, in his mind, Will heard tornado sirens. He braced himself for hundreds of grubby fingers to come bursting through the windowpanes, groping for him.

  Nothing happened.

  He reached in, released the lock mechanism, and opened the doors.

  Evidence of struggle here was immediate. The house had been ransacked: overturned furniture, dark stains, cabinet doors open and askew, broken dishes, and odors of filth and decay. His adrenaline kicked in.

  Will, you don’t have to linger. Just splash some gas, throw the grenade through this door, and be gone.

  It was the logical thing to do, but something inside him said—

  No.

  He stepped inside.

  He tiptoed through the litter, and around an overturned floor lamp, making his way into the kitchen. On the floor near the entranceway, he found a compartmentalized dog-dish—a few morsels of long-dried dog food crusting one side; the other empty, brown rings at different levels where water had evaporated over time. Most of the cabinets were open and empty, only the discarded remnants of a box or crumpled bag remained. His feet crunched on broken crockery as he crossed to the sink. The air was stale, thick, making the odor of rot seem palpable. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, caked with moldy bits, and there were maggots squirming in clusters.

  Someone had survived here for a while, but what was in the sink was old, the smell revolting. He had grown accustomed to disgusting odors these days and distinguishin
g between them. His nose was leading him elsewhere.

  The dining room was empty, barely touched with the exception of an overturned chair. But the smell was getting stronger, and it led him into the following room—a living room.

  What he found there was not living.

  On the floor, laid parallel to a traditional mahogany coffee table, was a man dressed in khaki’s and a white shirt. The shirt was pristine, its sleeves rolled up revealing a neatly wrapped bandage on the man’s right forearm. His fingers were interlocked, hands resting on his stomach. Protruding from the man’s head was a large butcher knife, residing in Will’s orifice of choice: the eye socket.

  There was no sign of struggle, the opposite actually. The man was neatly laid out as if in a mortuary, the only signs of irregularity being the knife. The body was in the early stages of decomposition, the graying skin drawn tight on the skull, cheeks and temples gaunt. If the man hadn’t been so neatly dressed, Will would have seen further signs—darker areas where blood had pooled, rigor mortis and softness setting in. The man’s other eye was open, yellowish and cloudy, staring at the ceiling.

  Will removed a handkerchief from his pocket and cupped it over his nose and mouth. He looked around the room for clues as to why this corpse was here and could find none. There was a small desk in the corner but no note. He let his eyes scan a bookshelf to see if anything had been tucked in among the items there, but nothing. Everything was neatly placed including the body. The entire room was tidy, shrine-like, unlike the rest of the house. He glanced around one last time and turned to go.

  There was a muffled thump—soft, yet distinct. Two thumps actually, like that of a heartbeat.

  He turned back. The body was still there. Nothing had changed.

  The doors had been locked—both… front and back.

  This time, instead of thump, there was creak. Above him, more resonant, but muffled as well. He’d heard this sound before in his own house—weight on a squeaky floorboard beneath carpet. He knew the precise spot in his bedroom where he could achieve the same sound every time.

  Will gazed up at the ceiling.

  He left the room via the dining room again where he found a second doorway leading to a foyer with a polished wood floor. He moved carefully, fearful of making a similar creak even though he was on the ground floor. The rooms in the front were bright, without blinds or shears, vulnerable. The front door’s transom and sidelights were the same. Anyone could walk up the exterior steps and just look in.

  Will went up the stairs, back to the wall so he could see in both directions. Midway, to his left, he could see out the transom. One of the creatures was in the street, stumbling in the direction of the burning homes. To his right, just above the carpeted landing, he could see a closed door, and the sliver of sunlight beneath it. A shadow wavered at the threshold, the light briefly growing dim and then flashing bright. He heard the creak again.

  Will remained poised on the stairway, afraid to move.

  Whatever was moving behind the door did not know he was here.

  He forced himself to continue up the stairs, repeating in his head the mantra—Not here, not here, not here—all the way.

  Similar to Betsy’s basement, there was a padlock on this door—crude, slipshod—placed a few inches above the knob. Upon closer inspection, he could see where the flap of metal connected to the door was glued as well as screwed. Interior doors like this were hollow-core, only solid near the edges, and just two of the four screws were likely secured in wood. Adhesive had been used as additional support. He could see the dried, translucent ridges of what might have been super-glue around the metal.

  Flimsy.

  His eyes drifted down and he found the shadow from whatever was on the other side dancing across his shoes. He put his ear as close to the door as he could without touching it. He didn’t hear anything other than the occasional squeak of the muted floorboard and the pounding pulse of blood coursing through his brain. He backed up slowly, his eyes never leaving the thin slit of flickering light beneath.

  Another shadow darted across the hallway, to his left, all the way at the end.

  That was not a shadow.

  It had been a shape, a dark blur, so fast that in the time it took to turn his head it was gone. His first thought was: rats. The house was a pigsty, what better environment for vermin? But it had been larger than that. Could it have been cat? A dog?

  Maybe your eyes are playing tricks on you.

  The shape had moved from a front room facing the street, to one on the same side as the padlocked door, only further down.

  Get out, Will! Get out now! Blow this fucker up and get gone!

  But what if had been a dog? He’d killed other people now, both directly and indirectly—but he still had a hard time fathoming the destruction of a helpless dog.

  Different world now, remember?

  Maybe so, but if anything this world had further proved something he’d known already: Dogs were better than humans.

  He moved toward the end of the hall, gingerly placing his steps on the carpet so as not to alert whatever he was leaving behind. To his right was a bathroom followed by another closed door, small like that of a closet. The house was exceptionally quiet—apart from the loan floorboard creak spaced at long, metronomic intervals, there was no sound.

  When he reached the door, a horrible odor assaulted him. It was a child’s room—the bed was unmade and there were dark stains on the mattress. There was junk strewn everywhere—newspapers, toys, a pipe, jewelry, books, crayons, a spatula, trophies, a corkscrew, playing cards, towels, a rake, food wrappers and so on. It would have taken him an entire day to inventory the contents and he didn’t have the time or inclination to do so. The source of the smell was in a corner where there was nothing but feces and waste, so many small piles that they had begun to form one large mass. He felt his gorge rise in his throat and forced himself to breathe slowly from his mouth to avoid the stench. He examined the stains on the mattress a little closer and found that it was not blood, but grime—as if a dirty animal had been curling up on it for quite some time.

  He scanned the room for any signs of movement or irregularity. There was so much garbage, that something could have easily been hiding in the mess and he would have been unaware. The bed was a miniature sleigh with brass-handled drawers for storage beneath. It was designed to look like something out of a fairy tale, pink and lavender in color with large plastic jewels embedded in the headboard. There was a Disney Princess poster on the wall above it next to a poster of some boy-band he had never heard of. On the far side of the room, amid piles of discolored clothing, was a desk, its chair lying overturned like a crippled animal. Above it was a cork-board, with a calendar, and pinned scraps of paper and photos.

  His eyes continued right, past a window where he found another corner, mounted high with stuffed animals and plush toys. The pile was large—much larger than the pile of excrement in the opposite corner—and peeking out in places was an ivory-colored rocking chair that had at one time been its foundation. Some of the toys were in good shape, but others were showing wear—a big jumble, no order, and Will felt that if he stared at it too long he would find the eyes of a real animal, camouflaged and ready to strike.

  To the right of that was a closet door, cracked open a few inches.

  Whatever had scurried into this room had to be in there. There was no space beneath the bed and the only other place would be under the desk or the pile of toys in the corner. He could see under the desk, and the pile of animals—though muddled—was undisturbed.

  He stared at the partially open door. The gap between the jam and the edge of the door was pure black, revealing nothing of the closet’s contents. He told himself that there was nothing to be afraid of, yet his feet did not move.

  Zombies don’t hide, but animals do.

  What if it’s rabid?

  It would have come after you in the hall.

  He wasn’t sure if that was true, but it seemed l
ogical.

  Will crossed to the closet, tiptoeing around any debris that would betray his presence. When he was close enough to the door, he reached out, clasped the knob, and pulled it open.

  Nothing leapt out at him. The closet was a mess too though, packed high with dirty clothes and shoes. Long dresses and other garments hung from plastic hangers on a wooden dowel. On the wall behind the clothing there was writing, a child’s script in heavy black crayon, scribbled peaks visible just above the dowel. Will reached in with both hands to part the clothes and his hands grasped something flat, hard, and cold. As realization hit, the item was quickly removed.

  Bright pain shot through his fingers as his palms went slick with warm blood. He yelled, the hoarse utterance erupting from his mouth sounding like a foreign tongue. He stumbled backward, falling to the floor, his eyes never leaving the dark porthole of the closet. The hanging garments continued to part and a creature emerged from behind them, butcher knife raised and coming right at him.

  At first he thought she was a small zombie—no more than eight years old, filthy face, eyes wild, bloody knife held before her as she stumbled over the closet contents in that familiar, clumsy, undead gait. She was wearing the clothes of a boy, dark jeans, dirty charcoal-colored t-shirt, black high-tops, and a navy Atlanta Braves ball cap hiding her hair. She was freakishly quiet, closing the distance between them like a stealthy predator ready for the kill. She lifted the knife higher.

  “No,” was all he could say as she dove at him.

  He managed to avoid the knife and caught her around the midsection, lifting her high and away, his palms flaring with white-hot pain. She weighed nothing and he could feel her ribcage through her clothing. She tried to swipe again with the knife, and Will threw her to the right where she collided with the dresser.

  He had just enough time to shimmy his body around and lift up on his elbows when she flipped over, and came at him again scurrying on all fours, knife in hand. Her eyes were large and white, not cloudy like the dead, and he could hear her now, her quickened breath emitting in soft grunts. When she reached him, she lifted the knife high to strike again. Will kicked with his right foot, deflecting the knife on his boot sole, and clipping her in the jaw. She pivoted back.