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

by Smith, T. W.

  Will smiled.

  “I can put it back,” she said.

  “No. You should have it.”

  “My name is Will, in case you’re wondering.” He went to the closet, removing a winter coat and adding it to the pile. “I know it’s hot now, but it won’t always be.”

  He handed her one of the totes and they began packing.

  He left her outside the shed to keep watch, with both doors propped open to illuminate the interior. The generator’s gas gauge read half of a tank. He took what fuel was left in the can and added that. The tank was now close to full.

  He gripped the pull crank—a brief flash of pain in his palm—and gave a tug. It was tight, but loosened with each pull. One the fourth try, the generator started up with a loud humming roar. Lisa approached the open doors, eyes wide beneath the brim of her cap, her mouth a perfect o.

  “I know it’s loud,” Will said. “But it’s not like I can do anything about it.”

  They shut the doors and that helped muffle the sound a little. But all the way down to the boathouse a constant hum present, like that of fluorescent lights in an empty room.

  Several things were neatly organized on the dock near the gas pump—three mason jars, a spool of wire, pliers, a pile of rags and six plastic five-gallon gas containers, plus the one he had retained from the shed. They added their totes to the lot. Will noticed the ESSO sign on the pump was now lit and he used his key to unlock it.

  “We need to gas up the boat first, in case something happens and we have to get out of here.”

  Lisa said nothing but followed him to the boathouse door. Will opened it with a key as well. He turned on the flashlight and went toward the lake access doors. He was holding the flashlight with his mouth, flipping through the keys, trying to find the right one.

  “I need to get these doors open first,” he said. “That’ll give us more light to work with.”

  Suddenly, the entire boathouse was lit from electrical lights above. Will’s eyes found Lisa, still standing next to the entrance door where she had flipped a switch. She offered a mischievous little grin.

  Will chuckled. “Guess I should have thought of that.”

  With the lights on and the lake access doors open, it was easy to see The Esmerelda. What had at one time been a leisurely cabin cruiser, Will had transformed into a floating barge of supplies. It was overwhelming at first, seemingly stuffed to the point of sinking. But he had been careful to note weight limitations when studying the owner’s manual and made sure to leave some room for additions—mainly for the gas containers, but he was certain there was room for a small child and her meager belongings as well.

  “I think there is enough gas, but I don’t want to take any chances. I’m going to start her up and dock her by the pump. Bring me the totes.”

  She collected the bags from the dock and brought them in, handing them to Will.

  “Now, untie the ropes and toss them in,” Will said, pointing toward the nearest one. “Two on each side. Then meet me outside. It’s about to get loud in here.”

  She nodded, scurrying around the boat, looping the rope away from the stainless steel cleats and tossing them in. Will was not certain, but he thought she might be enjoying the task. Achievable goals and the sense of purpose gave him comfort. Why wouldn’t it be the same for her? Of course, the idea of being on water would appeal to anyone these days, its promise of potential refuge from land-roaming monsters.

  When she finished, the boat was drifting slightly, bumping against the portable fenders. Will put the key in the ignition and turned it. The motor roared, farting out blue smoke and bubbles. Lisa ran to the door and outside as if the noise itself was chasing her. Will grinned and put The Esmeralda into reverse.

  Driving a boat was much easier than he had imagined it would be—all he’d needed to boost his confidence was to read the owner’s manual. Parking was a bit of a challenge though. He pulled her up close as he could to the outside dock then cut the motor, letting her drift. He tossed Lisa a rope.

  “Loop it around, don’t try and hold her. I don’t want you taking a bath!”

  She did as he said, and Will hopped over to the dock and did the same. Once the boat was secure, Will pulled her in closer and tied her off again, snug against the worn, padded dock where Lyle had gassed her up so many times before.

  He removed the cap from the tank and inserted the nozzle from the ESSO pump. When he squeezed, the rotary numbers began to circle, a bell-like ding announcing every dollar spent. Lisa studied this for a moment—as if it were a new technology instead of old—but her gaze kept lingering on the Oberon house up the hill, and the shed with its humming generator.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here soon enough,” Will said.

  When the boat’s tank was full, Will commenced with filling the first of the six gas containers. He showed Lisa how to fill the others and began loading the heavy plastic jugs on the boat.

  Once the containers were loaded, Lisa looked to Will impatiently.

  What’s next? Let’s go.

  “There’s still one more thing to take care of.”

  Will squatted, unscrewed the top of a mason jar and pumped gas into it. He capped it tight and wiped up what gas he had spilled with one of the rags. He then cut a piece of wire from the spool and fastened the rag to the rim of the jar with it.

  Lisa touched his shoulder.

  He looked up but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking up the hill.

  The first had arrived, a tiny figure in the distance, shambling its way from the house to the shed where it commenced clawing at the walls.

  “It’s OK. Just keep an eye out for me.”

  Will continued making the Molotov cocktails.

  Lisa watched as another, then two more appeared, joining the one at the shed. All were clawing at the walls, the humming drone of the generator drawing them there like a magnet. When she counted ten of them, she touched Will’s shoulder again. He ignored her, crossing to the boat. He dumped the books from one of the Lyle’s totes and got his machete.

  She looked at him, realizing what he intended to do.

  “No,” was all she could manage to whisper, grabbing at his arm as he went back for the jars.

  Will squatted, placing his hands on her shoulders and looking in her eyes. “We have to burn it down. The generator won’t continue to draw them. Once they find a way to get in there they’ll stop it. I won’t be long, I promise.”

  Her eyes were wide. She was shaking her head, adamantly, bestial; as if she were reverting back to the feral animal he’d found surviving in the Spiderhouse.

  “I want you to get in the boat. I’m going to untie it and push it out a little. It won’t drift far. I can swim to you when I get back.”

  Her eyes welled with tears and she lowered her head, avoiding eye contact.

  “Lisa, I’m coming back. You have to trust me. I don’t like it anymore than you, but it has to be done. We still have work to do on the other end and the more gathered here, the less there. Now, come on. Climb aboard.”

  She complied, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. He helped lift her over and into the boat. When she turned back, she hugged him fiercely. Will squeezed her tight.

  “I promise I’ll be back,” he whispered in her ear.

  They separated and he removed his watch. “Here, take this. I don’t want it to get wet. I shouldn’t be gone more than ten minutes. You can use this to time me.”

  She took the wristwatch and Will untied the first rope.

  “There’s a ladder you can hang over the side for me, but don’t do it until I’m in the water.”

  She nodded, the timepiece clutched tightly in her fist.

  He untied the second rope and pushed the boat backward and away from the dock. She looked so small amid the piles of supplies.

  “Ten minutes,” Will mouthed, holding both bandaged hands open wide. She nodded.

  Will gathered the three sealed jars in the canvas book t
ote. He bunched the cloth together tightly at the top, to keep the jars from clanging and breaking. With his other hand he grabbed the machete and began the long trek back up the hill to the house.

  Lisa watched him from the boat. There was really no place comfortable to sit and be able to see, so she remained standing, studying Will’s progress as his figure became smaller with distance and his ascent of pier steps.

  Once he cleared the overlook deck—briefly obscured by the umbrellas—he veered right, up the grassy hill toward the house, away from the surging activity at the shed. Not a one of the creatures took notice because all were preoccupied with the humming motor, drawn to the small building like ants to sugar, in a rapidly swelling mob.

  Lisa watched Will reach the exterior door at ground level. There he stopped for a brief moment, and then the door vanished into a dark rectangle and so did he.

  Will entered the basement, passing the sailboat painting on the easel, and going left into the following room. He ascended the staircase and crossed the great room, through the kitchen and into the dining room. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d chosen this room—probably because of the floor-to-ceiling drapery—but he wanted rooms on separate lower levels and this one had come to mind.

  He lit the cloth on the Mason jar and gently tossed it over the mahogany table where it shattered on the hardwood floor below. A whoosh of flame burst forth as fire spread beneath the table, climbing up the linen drapes toward the ceiling.

  But Will saw none of this. He was already on the stairs headed back down.

  Lisa looked at the wristwatch. Two minutes had gone by since Will had disappeared into the house. Five since he had left the boat. He should have been out of there by now.

  She felt uneasy. The boat continued to drift away from the dock, deepening her feelings of isolation. She wondered what she would do if he didn’t come back. She looked at the helm and saw that the keys were in the ignition. She supposed she could start the engine, maybe even drive the dang thing, but where would she go?

  There was an emergency kit to the left of the captain’s chair, as well as life vests, and a flotation device—none of which she was eager to resort to.

  The humming noise from the generator suddenly got louder, it went from a mild insect buzzing to a harsher, metallic whine. Her eyes shot toward the shed. A dark rectangle had appeared there as well, only bigger than the one at the house—the barn doors were open. The mass surrounding the building was deflating, pouring into the shed.

  She looked back to the open basement door.

  Nothing.

  Come on!

  The generator motor stopped with a tortured squeal and several chugs. The lights in the boathouse and on the ESSO pump went dark. Lisa had grown so accustomed to the electric humming that the silence was odd and displacing.

  Only it wasn’t complete silence. The death of the generator had ushered in a new sound, low in volume but equally consistent. It was the voice of the dead en masse—grunts and growls from the confused as the draw from the generator ended and focus shifted. Lisa watched horrified, as clusters of zombies began emerging and dispersing from the shed, joining countless other new arrivals and creeping into the yard.

  Will was back in the basement, in the room with the sailboat painting and the exterior door. He had been conflicted with torching the Oberon house—especially knowing that just one room away was a plethora of supplies and food. But it was too late to dwell. There would be no returning here. He had what he needed and it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  He held his machete in his armpit as he lit the fuse of another cocktail, backing out of the exterior door and into the afternoon sun. He lobbed the flaming glass container on to the cement floor, below the workbench with all the painting solvents. Glass shattered and flames spread, like a bright low-rolling fog, consuming the easel with Vivian’s painting and climbing the walls.

  He watched as blinding orange fire consumed the room.

  Lisa looked at the wristwatch. Eight minutes had passed and still no sign of Will.

  The dead were gravitating into the backyard, mostly from the shed, but also from the far side of the house. Lisa watched the tiny, dark rectangle between, waiting for Will to emerge.

  She was about to check the watch again when the basement doorframe went bright orange and she saw Will backing out. Zombies zeroed in on the flashing light, their individual trajectories altering, turning toward the home’s rear entrance and the exiting Will. Lisa wanted to shout, to warn him, but she was too far away. To do so would only lead them toward the pier, putting more in his path. She stood silently, fists clenched, preparing for the worst.

  When Will turned away from the basement door he was up close with more zombies than he had ever encountered. To his left, the path to the boathouse was littered with them; to his right was just one gigantic mob, creeping at him like the tide of some ghastly sea.

  He ran left, weaving his way through the burgeoning crowd and using the machete only when necessary—mostly to remove greedily groping hands and clutching fingers. Outmaneuvering them was easy, but their numbers were beyond intimidating—and the flood of interlopers to his right was closing in on the path to the overlook and the steps leading to the pier.

  He had to beat them to the steps. There was no time to fight or kill, only time to run.

  The figures on the hill were like insects to Lisa, scurrying toward targeted prey. Will was moving fast, dodging encounters along the way, as he zigzagged down the Oberon’s backyard toward the overlooking deck.

  The majority of zombies were coming from the shed—her left, Will’s right—and they were closing fast, less than twenty feet away from him. But the yard funneled down to the deck, forcing Will to run toward much of the encroaching crowd.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  Think, Will. Think.

  He had outrun most to his left, but there was no way he would make it to the steps before the others did. There would soon be hundreds of zombies between him and the dock, the boat, and escape.

  He thought about the last grenade… in his backpack… on the boat. A lot of good it was doing there.

  Probably a dud anyway.

  He had the last Molotov cocktail, the one he had intended to use on the shed, before the situation changed. He could light it and throw it at them, but there was nothing hard enough to break the glass. It would just bounce off of them or land softly in the grass. Another dud.

  He saw the deck ahead—umbrellas, cabana, grill.

  Slowing, he removed the lighter from his pocket.

  Lisa watched Will stop amid the moving crowd. She saw a spark of flame ignite and then arc through the air through the air toward the deck—it was almost pretty from this distance, like a firefly lazily descending toward the cabana and tabletop umbrellas. It reminded her of when her Dad used to shoot fireworks on the Fourth of July. And like those fireworks exploding in the night sky, she watched this one travel a good distance and then explode in a gigantic flash of electric yellow and orange.

  Fireworks.

  Will was running again. The flash and fire had startled and distracted some of the horde, but not as many as he’d hoped. Some closer to the deck were burning, moving away; others were drawn despite their flaming counterparts. Those with him locked in their sights still pursued. But his hand was now free of the firebomb and he drew the pistol.

  He began dispatching the dead with aggressive fervor, ignoring any pain from his bandaged palms. Those that got close to him lost their heads to the machete. Those blocking his way got the gun.

  As he neared the deck, he sought out the gas grill amid the flames. He raised his gun, aiming at the grill’s lower cabinets, but a zombie—male, shirtless and wild-eyed—was staggering toward him fast. He swung his aim right, but before he squeezed the trigger he heard a loud POP in the distance. A glowing projectile whizzed at them like an angry bird, striking the zombie from behind, and forcing him down into the grass. Will saw a burnt, bloodless h
ole in the flesh of the creature’s shoulder blade. It quickly went from black to glowing red and then erupted with plumes of billowing purple smoke.

  Too close.

  Lisa lowered the flare gun she had found in the emergency kit. There had been a bit of recoil, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She had no idea if she had hit anything, or if she was even aiming in the right direction, but she’d be danged if she was just going to sit there and do nothing. She reloaded another of the five remaining cartridges, and aimed more to her left, for the center of the encroaching mass.

  She fired.

  POP!

  Will saw this one coming from the boat—

  SWOOSH!

  —flying fast and direct, a comet of pulsing white light, penetrating the crowd before him.

  You go, girl.

  He raised his gun, zeroed in on the gas grill, and fired.

  Lisa watched as half of the deck exploded. The cabana was there, and then it wasn’t. Tables, umbrellas, and splintered wood flew through the air, flaming debris showering the zombie crowd. But not just the deck was burning, there were mobile fires too—small bits of roving flame, separating from the bright mass and creeping away, some toward Will.

  And higher on the hill, the Oberon’s house had also begun to burn, much larger than the deck fire. Black and violet smoke filled the air, obscuring the yard and drifting up into the late afternoon sky. The burning zombies continued to disperse; some were even creeping back toward the larger house fire.

  And now she could hear firecrackers.