by Smith, T. W.
“Yes,” he said sternly, in a harsh whisper. “Don’t make any noise and wait until they’re well past us before you move. I’ll be right over there. He pointed to another large tree across the driveway and up a little.
To bad we don’t have any tripwire, he thought. We could go all Three Stooges on their asses.
She looked at him, afraid but trusting. He held a hand up, fingers spread. “Five minutes,” he whispered. “Don’t move until at least five minutes after they pass.”
She nodded, understanding.
As he crossed to the other tree the second grenade blew, a little softer in the distance, like a rumbling clap of thunder.
Fucking dud.
He stopped in the driveway and looked back. The girl was peaking out from behind her tree, eyes wide. He held his hand up again.
Five minutes.
So behind their trees they waited.
Time crawled. Will had chosen the tree nearest the driveway edge and the street for two reasons. First, should their presence be detected, he would be closest to danger, allowing her a chance to run. Second, it provided a line-of-sight both to the driveway’s summit and to her. Well, at least the tree she was behind; there was no sign of her.
Good girl.
A few more minutes and he became antsy. Where were they? They should have been here by now. Why couldn’t he hear their feet shuffling? Did they go back toward the explosion? Maybe that was it. The grenade had finally blown. If he went back up now, maybe he’d see them all shambling back toward the Spiderhouse.
No, Will. Wait. You know from experience that visuals trump sound. And they saw you in the cul-de-sac. They’re coming for you, Will.
And with that thought, he saw the first one’s head appear at the top of the driveway. It was a male, crazy-eyed and sneering, its jerky movement spastic, but in pursuit. Behind him was a female cop, more lethargic—juxtaposing the former, but also moving with intent.
As their full bodies came into view with the descent of the driveway, a third appeared up top—male, long hair, gaunt and gray, shirt open, ribs bulging beneath shrunken flesh. Behind it came another—female, frail and desiccated, hobbling on skeletal legs.
Will watched as all went down the driveway toward the Oberon house. He looked across to the girl. No sign.
The fifth zombie to come over the hill was neither male nor female—just a burnt and blackened figure. Other than its lipless teeth, the only white showing was the orb of its one, lidless eye—the other apparently having succumbed to the flames. Trails of smoke wisped off the charred, sexless body as it followed the others.
The first two had already moved beyond Will and were now passing the girl’s tree. The two withered specimens were at his level, and the burnt thing would follow. Will’s eyes went back and forth, studying their progress, waiting for the next one to crest the hill.
Nothing came.
Once the burned thing had moved all the way past the girl, Will looked to the summit again.
Nothing.
This makes sense. The stronger ones would be in front, the weakest in the rear. Maybe the others did respond to the explosion.
The girl peaked out from behind her tree, her eyes inquisitive. Will lifted a finger to his lips and with his other hand gave her the five fingers again. She nodded, her head drifting back behind the tree.
In three quick but quiet steps, Will was back on the driveway. He debated whether he should ascend and reassure himself that nothing was coming, or take out the ones below. He opted with the latter, for fear of being sandwiched. The smell of the charred one as he came up behind it made his gut wrench.
The only smell worse than burnt flesh is burnt rotten flesh.
The black husk of a thing heard his footsteps, but was slow to respond. Will stabbed with the screwdriver before it could make the entire turn. He felt the tool pierce the back of its head like papier-mâché, flecks of ash rising where his fist made contact. The creature collapsed.
Little sound had been made, but the two immediately below had taken notice. They turned and began ascending toward him. Beyond, Will saw the cop and the spastic one far in the lead, continuing toward the house.
He glanced back up to the top of the hill.
Nothing.
Long-hair-with-ribs-showing was stronger, passing the old skinny one as it came back up the driveway growling. Will wanted his machete—growing weary of close contact—but he had left it at home in favor of the gas jug.
He let the zombie come all the way to him, targeting its large, sunken eyes. When it clawed for him, teeth gnashing, he jabbed with the screwdriver and it dropped to his feet. He stepped toward the brittle one behind it and did the same.
While this transpired, he was trying to keep an eye on the two down near the house. But this small task proved impossible—the brief kills diverting his concentration. He lost sight of them in the encroaching foliage.
They’re down there though, somewhere. You’ll have to find them.
He heard a soft gasp and Will yanked his head toward the girl. She was struggling with another of the burnt ones, this one not much more than a blackened stick figure. She held its hands away as its charred head bobbed at her biting.
Will charged toward them, crunching in the brush as he left the smooth concrete of the driveway. The thing looked up at him, oddly silent. Smoke rose from its burnt flesh, its bulging white eyes held in sockets of coal. There was a small hole where its nose had been, above an open mouth with yellow teeth and no tongue. It resembled a marionette, or some type of movie animatronics, as something of such little substance should in no way still be moving.
But it was.
It dropped the girl and lunged low for Will. He kicked out, the toe of his boot striking its jaw and breaking its entire head off. Footing compromised and balance fleeing, he fell landing mostly on the headless creature’s ribcage, which cracked and broke like dry sticks. The girl scurried away.
Will shook his head, disoriented as he got back to his feet. “Are you OK?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer, keeping her eyes on her now headless attacker. Her hands were black with ash and other residue.
“Where did it come from?”
She pointed in the woods. Will followed her finger and through the trees located the driveway of the house next door. This mute straggler had wondered down it instead and come up through the woods behind her. His eyes followed what he could see of that driveway. There was indeed other sparse movement, but all leading farther down and away, toward the house for sale.
So that’s where the others went.
“We don’t have to worry about them. If they tried to come up from all the way down there they would get trapped in the kudzu.” He pointed right at the slope he himself had climbed on his first outing. “Besides, we’d be long gone by that time even if they could. That one must have seen or heard us, probably lagging behind them all in his condition.”
He went to her and examined her arms. There was a red mark on one of them where the thing had grabbed her, but no broken skin. Maybe it was a burn. He would look at it more closely at the house.
“Come on. We have a couple of more to take care of before it’s safe. And I want to see something.”
She pointed at the thing’s head several feet away. Its eyes were on them, mouth moving without sound.
Will walked over and brought his boot down on it a couple of times, crushing it into the brush.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded.
When they reached the foot of the driveway they found the female police officer clawing at the Oberon’s front door. Jerky-man was nowhere in sight.
Will motioned for the girl to wait and went over to the landing steps just below and behind the zombie.
“No one is home,” he said
The woman quit scraping the door and turned around slowly. She reminded him a bit of an actress from the eighties named Nancy Allen—only her hair was blonder. She wore it in what F
rank would have referred to as a Poodle-cut—curly, ball-shape on top, shoulder-length curls on the sides, like ears. She was fresh, maybe less than a day or two old, pale skin, not gray. Her sunken eyes were bloodshot but not yet cloudy, and there were dark bruises circling her throat. She came at him, hissing like a cat, mouth stretched wide.
Will stepped back and let her stumble on the two steps. She fell to the concrete at his feet. He knelt, forcing her head to the ground and inserting the screwdriver into her ear canal. He was conscious of the girl behind him, but intentionally blocked her view. Why—he didn’t know. Clearly, she’d seen a lot and taken care of herself.
The zombie twitched a couple of times and was still.
He rolled the body over, removed her gun-belt, and strapped it on. He checked the pistol to make sure it was loaded and re-holstered it.
Again, he looked into the woods and up the driveway in the direction they’d come. Nothing. But there was still one to go.
I’m not only lighting fires, but I’m putting them out as well.
The metaphor brought a tiny grin to his weary mug.
“I’m betting the other went right, toward the shed. Let’s go see.”
Jerky-man wasn’t at the shed, but they could see him moving farther down the yard, toward the overlook deck and cabana. Will stopped outside the double doors, digging in his pocket. Using a key from his ring, he unlocked the padlock and opened the storage building. Inside was dark, and he had the girl hold one of the doors open to illuminate the dusty interior. On the wall, hanging to the left of the generator, he found what he wanted.
Halfway down the hill, Will spoke. “Hey you! Can I see your invite?”
The spastic creature halted, turned, and began lurching its way back up the hill toward them, its erratic movement at times making it look as if electrified. Will motioned the girl back a few feet to keep her safe, again trying to block her.
Lyle’s machete was sharp, but one swing from his wounded hand did not separate the zombie’s head from its body. It fell to its knees and Will hacked more, until the skull was crushed and the brain incapacitated. Its jittering movement finally ceased.
When he turned, he found that the girl was closer, watching.
“I didn’t want you to have to see this.”
She looked at him with no expression.
“OK. Let’s go inside and collect a few things before we hitch a ride on a boat.”
Originally, Will had no intention of re-entering the Oberon home. His meticulous packing and planning had taken care of everything up to the final details, all of which would take place outside the house. But that was before the girl. She would need things he had not considered. Also, he wanted to wash and properly bandage his hands.
He led her into Cindy’s room. She stopped just inside the doorway, glancing around the pristine decor. Will nudged her on in and she moved first to the bookshelf, lifting the picture there. Her finger traced the glass forever encasing a young girl at the beach, balanced on the shoulders of her handsome grandfather.
I shot that man in the back of the head.
“Did you know her?” Will asked.
She shook her head and put the framed photo back delicately, as if it were part of an exhibit.
“Well, you both look about the same size and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you had some of her things.”
He went to the dresser, opened a drawer, and held up a pair of blue jeans. He tossed them on the bed, and rummaged further in the drawer. “Now, we need to be practical,” he said. Get things that are easy to travel in, like what you’re wearing now—you know, t-shirts, jeans, underwear, socks, sneakers…”
He turned to find her still staring at the picture on the shelf, silent tears spilling down her face.
“Molly?” He dropped the socks and went to her, crouching with his arms open. When she didn’t reciprocate, he pulled her into an embrace and felt her small body trembling. Her sobs came—deep, mournful wails, sounds Will had not heard in so long, bubbling up from her diaphragm and flowing from her quivering lips. At first, she remained stiff as granite, her body denying what her eyes had already surrendered. Then finally she gave in, clutching Will tightly in a vise-like grip of desperation—the longing and hopelessness of an abandoned child.
When her cries subsided, he held her at arms length. Her nose was puffed up large and she was having a hard time breathing through it. Pangs of guilt hit him. He used his grubby thumbs to wipe away the wetness under her eyes, noticing that the bandages on his hands had gone from dirty gray to a deep red. He used his index finger to push up the brim of her ball cap.
“This place is safe for now. We’re going to get what we need and go to my house. But I need to clean my hands. Are you going to be all right if I leave you for a few minutes? I’ll just be across the hall and down a little.”
She nodded. He stood, turning back to the dresser.
“You take anything in this room that you want. Just stack it there on the bed. I’ll find something to put it in.”
He grabbed a t-shirt from the drawer and turned to go.
“Back in ten minutes. OK?”
Again, she nodded.
Will left.
There was a window in the bathroom allowing light for him to see what he was doing. He looked at his reflection. A man stood before him that he hardly recognized. He had lost well over twenty pounds and his beard was full, scraggly. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and his cheeks were gaunt beneath the bristles. He looked like a vagabond, nomadic and dangerous. If he had come upon anyone that looked the way he did, he would immediately be suspicious, wary.
No wonder she tried to stab me.
He squatted, opening the cabinets under the sink where he found a folded hand towel. He rummaged through cotton swabs, tubes of sunscreen, lotion, toilet cleaner, and baby oil, before finding some peroxide and rubbing alcohol. When he unwrapped his hands, he winced at what he saw—one hand had sliced fingers, the cut diagonal across the middle and lower pads; the other an open wound in the palm, the cut shallow from the base of the thumb, to deep at the outer edge. The bleeding had mostly stopped, at least with the fingers—so it could have been worse. He would need some stitches though, and questioned whether he would have the balls to do later, when he got home.
He opened the bottle of peroxide and poured it into the palm first. White blazes flashed behind his eyes as electricity ripped through his palm and up his forearm. He switched hands fast, pouring more on the opposite fingers with similar sensation. He set the bottle down on the counter . As the burning subsided, he watched the liquid work on his hands, bubbling white and removing any bits of microscopic debris. After, he used the towel to pat them dry.
Next was what he really dreaded. The alcohol would disinfect his now clean wounds, but it would burn like an inferno compared to the peroxide. He knew hesitating would only make things worse, so he opened the bottle and poured it into his slit palm. Now he was holding lava, and a reflexive moan escaped his lips as his head swayed with dizziness and he grabbed the counter for support. He let the clear pink contents slide from his palm into the drain, thinking how can something so purifying be so fucking evil.
When he was done, he wrapped his hands in fresh bandage strips he ripped from the t-shirt. He tore a few extras and pocketed them, before returning to check on the girl.
He stood in the doorway watching her go through the drawers. There were a few small piles of clothing already on the bed. She turned, folding a Finding Nemo t-shirt. She jumped back a little, startled.
“Sorry.” Will said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I was afraid if I said something I might scare you worse.”
She laid the t-shirt on top of a few others. Will noticed how each type of clothing was in its own stack—shirts, pants, socks, and so on.
“Take your time. I’m going to find a bag to put them in.”
There were totes in the study. Several of those cheap canvas bags that used to come as gi
fts with book purchases. Gran had them in the drawer of his desk and—though tempted to fill them with books from the library—Will had left them in favor of larger duffels for food and other essential supplies. Now, they were there for Molly and, in the meantime, he could grab a few more titles.
Why not?
He opened the study door and Lyle was still hanging there, the stench worse from the room having been sealed. Will hurried to the desk, averting his eyes and avoiding sight of the suspended corpse for fear it would start moving again, its eyes jerking open above the dark crater in its face. Of course, this didn’t happen. Will had assisted Gran in completing his suicide, giving him ultimate and final rest.
But that didn’t make it any less creepy.
He tossed the totes on the desk next to Lyle’s note in the letter tray and went to the nearest bookshelf. After scanning several titles, letting his hand travel down the worn spines on multiple shelves, he chose a few more including Little Women, Wise Blood, and Strangers on a Train.
Just before he turned away though, a title seized his attention: I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. It was the book he’d had trouble remembering that day, the one Brian had accused him of obsessing over—the one about a man alone in a world of vampires. He took it as well.
He was stacking these into the bottom of a tote on Lyle’s desk when he realized that she was standing in the doorway, staring at the hanging corpse. There was no emotion in her face, no fright or disgust. She was just standing there, looking.
“Molly,” Will said, crossing to her. “I thought you’d be a little longer. Don’t look at that. I never meant for you to see that.”
Her eyes dropped down from Lyle to Will. “Lisa,” she said. “Molly was my dog.”
Will stared—no words.
“I’m sorry about your hands.”
Back in Cindy’s room, Will was pleased to find that Lisa had been very practical when selecting what to travel with. There were two pairs of pants, three shirts, and a handful of undergarments and socks. She was wearing a pair of hiking hybrids she had found in the closet. They were a little large, but just fine with a pair of thick socks on. She had placed her own sneakers with the rest of the clothing. The only luxury item on the bed was a boxed paperback set of the Harry Potter books.