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

by Smith, T. W.

  Will wasn’t sure what had helped most—the flares, the exploding propane tank, the deck fire, or the smoke—probably all—but he had no time to speculate. He had to reach the pier steps before the fire did.

  A zombie grabbed his machete arm. He stopped, swung the pistol that direction and shot the snarling woman-thing in the face.

  There were two more behind her.

  Bang! Bang!

  The smoke was thick, burning his throat and stinging his eyes. Holding his breath was impossible because he had been running, heart pumping, lungs craving oxygen. Instead he forged headlong into the haze, embracing it and the camouflaged it provided.

  A flaming cadaver appeared, blocking his path. He shot it, dodging the fire as it fell.

  Another flare whizzed to his right, but he couldn’t see anything.

  Three more lengthy strides and his foot met with something solid, tripping him. He went sprawling onto the deck, hands pulsing, white-hot pain. His machete skittered away from him, dropping off the edge and clanging on the rocks below.

  Will rolled over to his back as a cluster of zombies emerged from the smoke. He saw their flame-lit ravenous eyes as they descended.

  Lisa loaded another flare. She heard two more gunshots, then nothing.

  He’s out of bullets.

  She could not see much more than fire now. Her eyes drifted down from the burning house, past the scattered mobile fires, to the deck. The flames there had spread high and wide, creating a bright orange curtain she could not see behind. Beneath was a layer of thick black smoke, above the steps. She couldn’t tell where the smoke began and the fire ended but it was clear that the window for Will reaching the steps was closing fast.

  She pointed the flare gun and fired into the highest flames.

  Will crab-walked on all four as the clan closed in on him. He wasn’t sure where the steps were and he couldn’t risk halting to raise his gun hand. Another flare zipped through the smoke above him but the creatures were only briefly distracted, not dissuaded.

  He lifted his hand and shot the closest one in the forehead, and then another, all the while scooting his ass backward.

  He was aiming at a third when the deck slipped away and he was falling.

  Lisa watched Will tumble down the steps, dropping from the smoke like something unwanted aborted.

  She gasped, lifting her hands to her mouth.

  He rolled legs-over-head two or three times before coming to a stop past the midway point—a miracle he had not slipped under a rail and fallen to the rocks.

  He managed to get to his feet, swaying from the loss of equilibrium, and began limping his way down the rest.

  Lisa exhaled, long and deep.

  Then something horrible came pouring out of the dark fog behind him—an endless stream of the living dead, expelled from the smoke, and stumbling down the stairs in pursuit.

  Will concentrated on walking fast. He had twisted his ankle in the fall and struck his head so hard that his ears were ringing. He had his hand on the railing for balance and he was taking the steps one at a time.

  The dead behind him didn’t care about his hardships, or about their own. Of the first three that emerged, only one landed on the actual steps, shambling awkwardly after him while the other two toppled over the railing on either side, plunging to the rocks below. A charred and smoking one was next, falling face first into the steps and then using its arms to pull its body downward, sliding on its own entrails and leaving a treacherous trail for the upright behind it. Then came another, slipping in the muck and diving completely over the crawling body, impossibly regaining its footing farther down. Others began avoiding the central obstructions and were creeping down the sides.

  And the smoke continued to vomit them out.

  When Will reached the bottom, he turned and shot at the nearest one.

  Bang!

  It went down, creating another obstacle to slow them. He fired again.

  Click.

  His limp became a faster gait—almost a skip—as he came down the pier toward the boathouse.

  The Esmerelda had drifted far, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be in that water with her.

  Another flare shot by him, so close he could feel the breeze.

  He didn’t turn but hobbled on, past the gas pump, floundering like a wounded animal, but determined.

  When he arrived at the end of the pier, he dove.

  The cold water was welcome, exactly what he needed to jar him from the lethargy of being beaten, burned, nearly suffocated. It was difficult to acclimate though, bouncing between the extremes, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  He came up for air, managing to pocket the gun. He wasn’t sure how it would do wet, and didn’t care at this point. What did alarm him was what might be below his feet.

  It’s a deep-water dock, Will. They can’t swim, but you can.

  So he did, at a slow, steady pace. The boat was at least sixty feet out and he swam toward it through the cold water, keeping his body horizontal and ignoring the phantom fingers he imagined clutching at him from its depths.

  Shortly after Will dove, Lisa watched the zombies in pursuit begin toppling off the pier behind him like the rats in that old fairy tale. Most sunk quickly; others struggled in the foreign environment, splashing frenetically until their bodies took in enough water and they sank too.

  She kept an eye on Will as he inched toward the boat, dog paddling now—but she was mesmerized by the endless parade of the dead, descending from the fire and smoke, creeping the length of the pier, and plunging into the water like some bizarre mass suicide.

  When she realized that it wasn’t going to stop, she distracted herself with the ladder.

  Will saw Lisa’s head and shoulders peaking over the railing. The ladder thumped the boat’s hull, as she made sure it was firmly attached.

  He reached out for the first rung, pulling himself up slowly. He was certain his hands would be singing high protests, but they had been reduced to minor keys in the symphony that was his throbbing head and aching body. His ankle would have a voice soon too, once out of the cold water.

  He crawled over the side, shimmying past the padded seat to the floor where he rolled to his back. Lisa was standing close; she had no other option as the cargo on the overstuffed Esmeralda restricted her movement.

  She allowed him several minutes to gather himself, not knowing what to say, only glancing toward the pier now and again. Finally, Will slid upward into a sitting position. He looked at the oversized flare gun still in Lisa’s grip and gave her a big grin.

  “There’s still one more thing to do before we leave.”

  He eased up on the throttle and circled back in front of the boathouse. They were close—close enough that Lisa could study the splashing floaters, some face-up and gurgling as water filled their rotten throats. The one nearest locked eyes with her, reaching up even as its body began to sink, its hands gradually submerging like masts on a sinking ship. She watched the white, twisted face go dark as it sank deeper into the green water, before vanishing below.

  Will was watching the dock where the dead continued to drop, less frequently now, stepping off in the direction of the boat, its rumbling motor the current lure. He recognized the next one approaching the edge as Ben—of Lonnie and Ben—heavier than Will had remembered. He was naked other than plaid boxers and eyeglasses, his distended, hairy belly challenging the elastic waistband of the former. Ben’s eyes grew wide with the sight of them and reached out before plunging off of the edge.

  He did not float.

  The Oberon house was completely ablaze now, roaring strong at the top of the hill, overpowering the smaller deck fire below. Will could see hundreds of tiny figures moving around the yard in all directions. He also saw the roving fires Lisa had seen, satellites creeping between the two before collapsing into burning heaps in the dark haze.

  They observed all this destruction and chaos with less a sense of awe than that of weariness. Will
put his hand on Lisa’s shoulder and said, “Ready to go?”

  She looked up, nodded.

  Will pulled the key from his last grenade and lobbed the dark green lemon into the boathouse via the lake access doors. He was back at the helm, propelling the boat away when it exploded, not bothering to look. He had seen enough. He wanted to be home.

  Lisa watched though, above the wide trail of bubbles in their wake, she saw the boathouse explode, its timbers blasting far and wide. She was new to explosions and this was a good one, better than the one on the deck. Not only had the building blown apart, but the foundation beneath it had been compromised and the pier’s end had slanted abruptly—tossing several of the creatures high in the air, while others went sliding into the water.

  And then the gas tank blew—splintering the remains and erupting in such an enormous ball of flame that Lisa had to shield her eyes. The Esso pump shot straight into the air like a rocket, the flames and black smoke swelling and rolling skyward like a miniature nuclear explosion—so huge all other activity had been obscured, and so hot that Lisa could feel its warmth even while speeding away.

  Will steered the boat out of the cove and toward home. He was beaten, bruised, and exhausted—but still he smiled.

  The last grenade had not been a dud.

  Departures

  When The Esmerelda had reached Howard and Judy’s dock all was calm. Will killed the engine for the last time and let the boat drift up to where Lisa could loop a rope around one of the dock posts. Meanwhile, he jumped over and secured the stern, all the time keeping his eyes on the water, convinced that he would see slimy, fish-eaten monsters rising to the surface, following the boat like a beacon. But this did not happen. In fact, the cove was so peaceful—the water still, glass-like before the boat’s wake—that it was difficult to imagine days before when it was brimming with activity.

  Will was grateful for this, and suspected that it would be equally as quiet at the house. He wasn’t certain, but he had hoped that four house-fires and multiple explosions on the far side of the neighborhood would buy him a couple of days to finish preparations for leaving. It was not in his power to create a larger diversion, nor would he ever want to. He had almost not survived, and again it had all come down to timing, specifically his being inside the house when the generator died. His mind had replayed the scenario a dozen times—could have left the boat earlier; could have started the fire in the basement only; could have—before he managed to calm and convince himself that he was okay, what was done was done, and there was no undoing it now. He was alive, albeit tired and wounded; goal accomplished.

  En route home he had asked Lisa to check him for bites and scratches. The shock in her expression was hard to decipher—was she uncomfortable examining a man’s body, or was she afraid she might discover a death sentence? He told himself it was the latter and encouraged her to hurry. “I have some alcohol ready to disinfect if you find anything.” His clothes were torn, body bruised and scuffed, hair singed, and there were several bad burns and blisters on his arms and face, but nothing indicating he had been marred by the claws or teeth of the dead in anyway.

  Another reason to be grateful.

  They had remained silent for most of the ten-minute trip. The boat engine was already loud, easy enough to draw attention without the addition of their raised voices. Once they had the boat secured and saw no immediate threats, he whispered, “Okay. See that gate over there? That’s a trail that leads through the woods and up to my backyard. We need to haul all of this stuff up to my house and put it in the garage behind the camper. We have to do this while their attention is on the burning buildings we left behind. Understand?”

  She nodded, and he started by handing her the totes with her belongings.

  When they had cleared the woods and stepped through the hostas into the backyard, will realized that introductions were necessary. “When I open that garage door my dogs, Rocko and Lola, are going to come out. Are you okay with dogs?”

  He had felt he knew the answer—she’d had a dog herself—but used the question as preparation. Lisa nodded and, before Will could even raise the door completely, two tail-wagging blurs came barreling out. Rocko, beyond excited, went straight for Lisa and she clung to Will, shocked by the hound’s size. Lola’s tail was down, but wagging, as she assessed the situation.

  “He’s big, but friendly. Why don’t you walk out in the grass so they can get used to you and do their business. It’s okay, they won’t hurt you.”

  Lisa let go of Will’s waist, hesitantly moving toward the yard. Rocko bounced like Tigger all around her as she attempted to pet him. Lola came to Will and sat as if asking permission. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “You can join them.” He scratched her head and off she went. Lisa was now rolling in the grass, Rocko nudging her. Will winced as Rocko raised his leg and peed inches away from her face. Lisa sat up quickly, ball cap askew and Rocko gave her a huge tongue across the face. She grinned and hugged him fiercely. All was forgiven.

  Will witnessed this healing power, nothing short of magic… and certainly worth burning houses down for.

  Lola joined them but did not engage in the play. She squatted for a quick squirt and then sat still, nose up sniffing the air.

  It’s the smoke. The whole neighborhood smells like it. Probably will for days.

  Lola had glanced back at him as if intuitively acknowledging this, but something in her eyes made him feel uneasy.

  After the sixth trip from the boat to the house, Will lost count. It had never seemed like a long distance to him on his daily water-gathering ritual, but now that they were carrying heavy loads up the hill—cases of canned goods, bottled water, 40 lb. sacks of dog food, five-gallon containers of gasoline, etc.—the distance seemed to increase with each trip. Lisa was a great help—by himself, it would have likely taken him two days to complete the task—but her age and size limited the amount she could carry. It was up to Will to do all of the heavy lifting and by the time they finished his ankle was throbbing and he was ready to crash.

  On their final haul, he had stopped to secure the gate. The sun was approaching the horizon and his eyes lingered on the dock and the now-empty cabin cruiser.

  She’s waiting on us if we need her. Thank you, Lyle.

  He turned and followed Lisa up the hill for the last time.

  Once everything was inside, he lowered the garage slowly—limiting the noise of the rollers as much as he could in case any stragglers were nearby. The light had diminished to only that of the blinded windows and the smell of smoke was quickly replaced with one less pleasant. Will apologized—though it was nowhere near as foul as Lisa’s previous environment—explaining that the garage doubled as their bathroom and steered her around any recent piles to the interior door.

  The dogs were inside waiting, greeting them again as if they had been gone for days.

  The next morning, he was drinking hot coffee for the first time in months—thanks to Lyle, and getting a little creative with his gas grill. He sat at the table in his breakfast nook and turned on his phone. There were no indications of a text from James, so he began his own:

  Almost ready. Leaving day after tomorrow. There’s a girl now… Cody’s age? Travel time uncertain. Days? Week? Will update from the road.

  He hit send on his phone and, as he set it down on the table, it beeped. He picked it back up and looked at the screen:

  Error message. Unable to send to one or more participants. Code: #9870450350

  Great.

  He had known communication with his phone was tenuous and would likely end soon all together. In fact, he was grateful that it had lasted this long, the device having been a major player in his motivation to keep going. Still, he had hoped he could rely on it while on the road to Tennessee. Fragile connections were better than no connections at all.

  He had a backup plan though, should things go awry. There were vacation chalets sprinkled all over the mountains of East Tennessee. His friends and he u
sed to pool their money and rent them for Hot Tub Weekends when they were young and dumb. Should they not make it to James’s—or if they needed to make a quick exit from the farm—Will was familiar with a nearby resort, Starry Nights, in Jefferson County. The cottages were high-elevation and had fireplaces. There would be game to hunt as well.

  Never thought I would hear myself say that.

  The farm was first though. What could be more perfect than a dairy farm nestled in a quiet valley—isolation, livestock, milk, eggs, and fenced in. No wonder the military had confiscated it—to James’s dismay, no doubt. If Will knew anything about James, it was that he was anti-establishment—always questioning authority and challenging accepted norms. He was the atheist son of a Kentucky preacher, handsome, smart, athletic and gay—guys were oblivious, and girls swooned.

  James would never hand the farm over to them unless forced. If so, he would be planning a way to get it back. And if I can get there, I’m going to help him.

  It was a goal… and he now knew that goals were what led to survival. Whether taking baby steps in a routine, or a leap of faith into territory unknown, both journeys started the same. Waiting for things to happen was not an option. This had never been clearer to him than right now.

  They rested all day and he stayed off of his sore ankle, keeping it elevated for the most part.

  When the sun was setting he prepared for bed. In the darkening den, Lisa was already asleep on the couch, Harry Potter tented on her chest and Rocko at her side—his long body stretched the same length as her. Lola was perched on the ottoman next to them. It was a scene Will was more than familiar with—only it used to be he and Rocko on the couch and Frank in the chair with Lola at his feet. Will watched the steady rise of Rocko’s ribcage with his breathing. Lisa’s ball cap was on as well as her shoes.

  She’s accustomed to quick exits.

  Who was this girl? He hadn’t pressed her with questions because he was certain she would open up when she was ready. There was no telling what she had been through, or how long she had been living in filth at the Spiderhouse with the thing she called “Mama” in the room next door. What was important was to maintain her trust—something that had begun organically with the spectacle at the Oberon’s yesterday, and was now further cemented with the presence of Rocko and Lola. Things would also be better when her blackened eye faded and the swelling in her face was gone.