by Smith, T. W.
“Just in case of an emergency” he said.
He had two of the empty containers with him—light and swinging as he walked—as well as a spiral of cut garden hose he would use for siphoning. The trip was reminiscent of his old daily routine only water was no longer the objective. He had been drinking bottled water ever since the Pied Piper event with the dead in the cove. He could not stomach drinking that water ever again, even boiled.
The late-afternoon sun illuminated the trail through the woods, dappling through the trees with streams of golden warmth. It felt wonderful to be strolling in the sprinkled shade of this verdant forest on what had turned out to be a scorcher of an August day, but mostly it felt good to simply be outside without the worry of always looking over your shoulder. Strange how you could adapt and grow accustomed to a stale and sheltered environment, forgetting the glory of such simple things as a walk in the sun.
As he descended the trail toward the lake, immersed in the comfort of leisure, Will wondered how the situation would be at the farm in Tennessee. James had spoken of military confiscation. Would that mean more or less freedom of movement within the confines? Would James and Cody, be safe to walk their own property because of military armament, or be restricted, held prisoner by those with weapons?
He pushed the obsessive thoughts away. He could do nothing without being there and accessing the situation for himself. No sense in worrying over something he had no control over, at least until he was actually there. Best to live in the moment and survive, remove all extraneous thoughts from cluttering his mind.
Though less often now, he recognized the familiar patterned behavior, dismissing it in most circumstances. But distractions always surfaced—whether in his thoughts, or in reality. And it was when nearing the lake—its tranquil stillness revealed through the trees—reality came barging in.
He heard the laughter of men, and conversation. Gruff snippets brazenly barked.
Will crouched down, releasing the containers and edging up to a tree.
“Got gas?” one said. He was urinating off the side of the boat.
“Plenty,” said the other, shouting from inside the cabin.
A zombie was on the shore, heading toward the boat and the loud men. The man, penis in one hand, gun in the other, shot it and it fell—the retort and its echo a sonic blast from another world.
Lisa had to have heard that.
The man in the cabin emerged. He was large and heavy, an odd site this man who ate well when food was scarce.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Where would we go?” said the other, putting away his member and zipping his pants. He was smaller than the other man—thin but not skinny, tank top with a shoulder holster, angular nose pointing from beneath a pork pie hat.
Steinbeck, Will thought. Surreal.
“Doesn’t look like it’s been here long. It’s clean, shiny even,” said the larger man.
The smaller man mumbled something back that Will could not decipher. It sounded like “Why here?”
You need to go now, Will. Forget the gas. Get Lisa and the dogs into that camper and go.
The profundity of the thought registered so fast that he was standing before its conclusion. He turned to make his way back up the path, leaving the containers and hose, moving fast but not loud, taking exaggerated steps on the pine straw, anticipating the distance to where he could break into a full-fledged run.
Then he heard another sound, equally as otherworldly as the pistol shot: Rocko’s bark—a distinct, deep hound’s bellow echoing through the woods, reverberating in the trees. And it didn’t cease—soon joined by another, higher yap.
Lola.
He stopped, looking back down through the foliage toward the boat. He focused hard, finding scant pieces of their bodies and The Esmerelda through the leaves, until he locked in on the smaller man’s face, staring up into the woods, listening.
Will ran.
When he reached the break in the hostas, he found Lisa standing by the tree, Rocko at her side. She was pointing across the yard where Lola was pacing back and forth in front of the chain-link gate. A zombie—skull-faced with raised brow and no nose—just a dark, spade-shaped orifice hovering above its stained and gnashing teeth—was clutching over the fence with bony fingers. Lola issued a low, predatory growl as she paced, hair spiky on her rear end and back. She’d quit barking. She was snapping at its hands as they reached close, but not actually biting, as if warning it to stay away. The thing had no inhibitions though, stretching long for the dog. It would likely tumble over the fence very soon.
“Lola!” Will hissed.
She ignored him, eyes glued to the creature.
Will took a long screwdriver from his belt and moved toward them.
“Lola. Back off!” he whispered harshly. The zombie took notice, now ignoring the dog and reaching for Will. Lola leapt for its hand and missed as the creature came spilling over the fence and on to their side of the driveway. Lola went for it again, but Will was there and kicked her, hard. She backed off, whimpering, to the edge of the grass. The zombie began lifting itself upright and Will turned on it, slamming the screwdriver into its head.
Stilled, he pulled the screwdriver from its skull and used the creature’s shirt to wipe it clean. Lola sniffed at the body and Will stamped his foot to keep her away. “No,” he said, deeply and she backed away, head down.
Where had it come from? Why?
Before he could answer himself, he heard another growling. This one was to his left in the side yard, behind the vinyl part of the fence. It shimmied out from where the white plastic ended and the black chain-link began. It was a woman, bloody fingers clawing at the barrier between them. When her eyes found Will, she grew more excited, teeth bared and hissing, desperately shaking the links and seeking a way to get at him.
Will said, “Lisa. Get the dogs. Get into the camper.”
The vinyl gate was rattling now. There were more on the other side. Will could see scant movement through the latticework up top. Several, coming from the front yard. Two more spilled out to the chain-link.
“Lisa—”
“She heard you the first time, boss. But you ain’t going nowhere.”
It was a man’s voice, medium in tone, with a slight slur.
Will looked back, knowing what he would find. The men from the lake were in his yard. The larger one was standing behind Lisa, his hands rested on her shoulders, Rocko at their side, tail wagging, oblivious. The smaller man was crossing the yard slowly, gun in one hand and the siphoning hose in the other. He tossed the hose on the ground toward Will. “You forgot this,” he said.
Lola’s growl returned, deep and guttural.
“Nice Camper. You planning a trip.”
Will said nothing. The noise on the other side of the gate continued, he could actually see the plastic panels bending with the pressure in his periphery. He wasn’t certain if the small man with the gun could hear it, but the camper was definitely preventing him from seeing it.
“Ivan and me have been looking for a ride. Considered that boat you got down there. But I’m more comfortable with wheels. I think this camper will do just fine.”
Will thought about what was in the camper, everything he had worked so hard for—almost died for—rolling out that gate without him. He’d be damned if he was going to let that happen. He’d pull the brake and let the goddamned thing crash into the woods below before he would let anyone else have it.
The man moved toward him, slow steps. The fence was creaking now, its tortured squeaks mingling with Lola’s, low growl. Will wasn’t sure how strong it was, but he knew it would take more than a few of those things to push it down.
“Sounds like you’re about to have a party in here. Just hand over the keys and we’ll leave you to it.”
Will spoke clearly, with conviction. “Don’t have them. They’re in the house, on the kitchen table. We weren’t expecting any problems.”
“There are no p
roblems,” said the man, still moving, one slow step at a time. “Except you’re lying. I believe a smart man like you would keep the keys on him at all times. I believe they’re likely in your pocket right now.”
Oh, they’re in my pocket, all right. And there’s a gun in the back of my waistband. Just lower yours and I’ll show you.
Will said nothing. The man took another step. “Ivan, leave that girl. Check this guy’s pockets.”
The larger man started across the yard.
“I was gonna let you live,” said the smaller man. “Now, I’m gonna hurt you and your dogs and let you get eaten. We’ll take your little girl with us. How about that?”
Will opened his mouth to answer, but paused. Ivan was walking their way and Lisa had dropped to her knees behind him. She came up quickly with the pistol from the pine straw.
Please. Please don’t let her forget the safety.
“Please,” Will said. “Please don’t hurt my girl.”
Lisa fired the gun—a loud, crisp clap in the heavy August air—Ivan toppled forward, face-first into the grass.
Had the smaller man been intuitive, he would have just pulled his own trigger and shot Will right then. But reflexes forced his head toward the sound.
“Bitch!” was all he had time to say. Will grabbed the man’s wrist, sweeping the pistol away as it went off, chipping the cement driveway mere inches from the front tire on the camper’s passenger side.
Lola latched on to the man’s leg and yanked with Pit-bull strength, tearing ferociously at the denim of his jeans and into his lower calf and ankle. The man grunted in pain and fell into Will. Will, off balance—holding the man’s pistol hand with both of his own—was carried by momentum, stumbling backward, and landing on his side as the smaller man crashed on top of him.
“Fucker,” said the man, kicking at Lola and trying to regain control of his weapon.
Several things went through Will’s mind: First, was that he had landed on his left side and, though it hurt his shoulder like hell, it would have been worse had he landed on his back and the gun in his waistband; Second, shit—if the man saw his gun there, he would have easy access to it; And third—most disturbing of all—was that despite the commotion, he’d heard the fence come down and there was much more to worry about now.
This last revelation was visually confirmed from what he saw beneath the camper on the other side—the first of shambling feet, wearing muddy loafers and black jeans. Following was a single sandal and bare foot. Following those were athletic shoes… then slippers… then Crocs, until there were too many for Will to distinguish. Amid the crowd of feet, a body appeared—withered and desiccated—crawling on its belly and trying to keep up with the others. It saw Will, opened its black maw, and pivoted, creeping under the camper toward him.
“Lisa, get in the house! Get the dogs and get in the house! Lock the doors!”
Something was tugging at them from below and Will was certain he would soon feel teeth tearing at his ankle. Then he remembered that it was Lola, attacking the man’s leg. The man had relinquished one hand from Will’s and was using his other to dig into Will’s pocket for the keys.
The crawling atrocity underneath the camper was slow, but continued inching toward them, determined. It would make a meal of their fingers while he wrestled for the gun.
Lisa stepped in and placed the muzzle of her gun on the small man’s bicep. The man had time to look at her with angry, pleading eyes before the shot went off. Red mist sprayed the right side of Will’s face.
The man howled. “Fucking bitch!”
The gun was suddenly free in Will’s hand, as the man now clutched at his bleeding arm.
“Lola, come!” Lisa shouted, taking a few steps back.
Will rotated the gun in his palm, aimed, and pulled the trigger, blasting the crawling thing under the camper in the face. It collapsed.
He squirmed beneath the man straddling him, arching his back and turning upward. The man was holding his limp, wounded arm, blood pouring through the cracks in his fingers. He wasn’t looking at Will though. He was staring at the little girl pointing the gun at him, both dogs behind her.
Will raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
This bullet hit the man’s collar just below the throat and he groped for it with his good hand, like an old woman checking her pearls. He grimaced, blood again leaking through splayed fingers. His face slackened, but his gaze never left Lisa, eyes wide with idiotic uncertainty.
How? How could this be happening?
And then he fell backward and off of Will. There was a hollow metallic clink on the driveway. Something forced from the dying man’s back pocket as he collapsed: a small can of red spray paint—
X, Will thought.
—rolled down the driveway toward a mass of zombies rounding the front corner of the camper. A smaller group was veering off toward Ivan’s unconscious body, but the majority were headed straight for Will. He crab-walked backward to his feet, and had time enough to stand before he realized who was leading the mass.
It was Frank, wearing the black jeans and muddy loafers he had seen under the camper moments ago. Will froze, dumbstruck.
The zombies behind Frank were already coming around and crouching for the smaller man’s corpse, but Frank eyes never left Will’s as he stood there, forcing the group to part.
He had seen better days… but to Will—who had accepted that he would never see his husband again—he looked good. He had lost some weight, but still had his height, broad shoulders, blond disheveled hair and beard. He was wearing his business casual ensemble, dark denim, loafers, and a button-down Oxford—now partially untucked—that Will had given him last Christmas, plaid with dark reds and greens, his favorite. There were circles under his cloudy blue eyes, and his mouth was not menacing like the others, just open, and slack. It was all Will could do not to embrace him.
He knows he’s home.
Lola saw Frank too. She had left Lisa and Rocko behind in the doorway and was approaching him tentatively, tail-wagging. Frank noticed but made no move toward her. The three of them were suspended in a spacious triangle within the growing melee in the backyard.
“Will?” Lisa whispered.
But Will didn’t hear her, not really. He was immersed in this moment with Frank—a moment never expected and needed so badly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what he had and it would have to do. A gift—and for it, he was grateful.
The bodies of the slain men were crowded now, and others began moving toward Lola and Will. Will wondered if Frank would try and prevent this, heroic allegiance winning in the end… but he knew better. Their moment had passed.
Lola inched toward Frank and he reached for her, a low growl creeping from his throat.
“Lola,” Will said. “Get inside. Now.”
Lola looked at him as if he were crazy, but then Frank stepped toward her, arms out. She jumped back, uncertain.
“Frank,” Will said, raising the pistol. “No.”
Frank looked at Will now, pained. Something was turning the cogs in there, behind those hazy blue eyes. He wanted so badly to understand, but instinct was stronger, motivating his physical self toward inevitability.
Will stepped toward him, gun pointed. “Lola. Go!”
Lola, gave in. With her head down, she turned slowly, moving under the deck, toward Lisa and the door.
Frank went for her.
“NO.” Will said, blocking his path.
Frank halted again, a few feet away, looking at Will confused.
Will’s eyes blurred with welling tears. “Please know that I love you, Frank. I always will.”
Frank stared, no menace really. He took another step toward Will.
Will steadied the pistol, blinking the tears away. “Make it easy for me, babe.”
Frank’s mouth grew wide. He bared his teeth with a snarl and groped.
Will pulled the trigger.
A tiny black hole appeared in the zombie’s forehead
and its body crumpled. Will took one final look, noticing that Frank’s face had relaxed again, showing no hostility. His eyes were closed and it looked almost as if he were sleeping.
Lola zipped through just in front of Will, and Lisa shut the door behind them, turning the key in the deadbolt. Through the windows above the knob they could both see that several of the creatures were headed their way. There were three groups of six to eight zombies—two devoted to devouring the slain men, and the others moving toward the door. And there were still more coming around the camper.
There’s no telling how many he led here. They’ve been following him for weeks, months.
“We’ve got to figure out a way to get in the camper,” Will said to Lisa. The deadbolt will hold them for a while, but these windows will be gone soon and they’ll be in here. Take the dogs out into the garage. I’m going to try something and I’ll be right back. Don’t open the door unless you know it’s me.”
Lisa nodded, leading the dogs through the dark room toward the garage. The gun was still in her hand, pointed down. She looked completely comfortable with it.
She should. She saved your ass.
Once upstairs, Will crossed through the kitchen and den, into the hall and to his office bedroom. He looked out the window there, down to the side yard. The fence was compromised but not down completely. The vinyl gate was open and he counted three zombies, two already through and one approaching.
He went back to the kitchen and the box on the counter. He rummaged through it, placing the framed picture on the counter and tossing the dish towels aside. When he felt the handle of the old cassette player, he yanked at it, not bothering to lift. The box and the rest of its contents went spilling to the floor. He went back to the den and placed the cassette player on the coffee table.
Sounds of glass breaking were coming from downstairs.
He had remembered putting batteries in the player but he couldn’t remember how fresh they were. He had abandoned the idea of using it as a decoy because its age made it unreliable. Cassettes were fossils these days, and he only had the one within its chamber. He pressed play and an odd stretch of sound burbled out of the speakers, before zipping up to the correct tempo of Hip to be Square, by Huey Lewis and the News. Will turned the volume up to max.