by Smith, T. W.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Copyright © 2020 by T.W. Smith. All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Damonza
Cover Copyright © 2020
For Dennis
Contents
ENDINGS
The Routine
D-Day
Interruption
The Day After
Lonnie
Aftermath
Katie
Hank and Betsy
The Kids
BEGINNINGS
The Plan
Awake
James
Awake Again
Lyle
Hank and Betsy Revisited
Spiderhouse
Operation Oberon
Departures
EPILOGUE
Que Será, Será
Afterword
Free Story
Contact
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Bio
Gratitude
ENDINGS
I am talking about the reanimated dead—corpses that seek out the living to eat their flesh. Are we clear?
—Brian Wilkerson
The Routine
Now.
William Taylor Rutledge tightened his grip on the pistol, raising it slightly until the paperboy was in the crosshairs of its sight. The silencer floated into the circular frame just barely at the bottom; otherwise, he had a pretty little picture dissected into quadrants, like panes on a tiny window.
The zombie was at the foot of the driveway by the mailbox, his delivery saddlebag bouncing lightly against his hip. He was staring at the house as if he could sense Will standing behind the front door, a sliver of man within the opaque sidelight. He knew the creature couldn’t see him—but it was eerie the way it stared, as if challenging him to step outside. It swayed for a moment longer, then turned and walked toward the next house.
Will exhaled and lowered his hand, watching the boy stagger up the hill until it was past several houses and out of sight. He went into the bedroom and released the dogs from their kennels. Rocko and Lola sat before him, anxious and whining. There had been only one bark, the batteries in the Quiet Collars still active, silencing Rocko with vibration. Will scratched the big hound behind the ears. “Let’s go make breakfast,” he said, and they followed him into the kitchen, tails wagging.
It wasn’t the first time the dogs had sensed the things outside and Will worried that it might be too dangerous to keep them. He dismissed the thought fast because he couldn’t imagine his life without them. They were his only connection to the past and essential on so many levels, maybe as precious as the pistol he now placed on the kitchen counter. Their alertness kept him on his toes—the warning growls and yips one of several traits balancing their symbiotic relationship. They always knew when one was close.
After eating, they began their daily routine. Will lit a candle and the dogs followed him downstairs into the dark basement. They passed through his and Frank’s old offices, then a large, windowed recreational room and into a hall. At the end of this hall, the dogs went right, through a doggy door into the boat garage to relieve themselves. He and Frank had never owned a boat to keep in this secondary garage and had used it as an oversized garden shed, for tools, the riding lawn mower, and such. Now, it was a community toilet. Sometimes, when it was clear—less and less these days—he would take the dogs in the backyard to defecate. The paperboy sighting this morning had nixed that idea for certain today. So, boat garage bathroom it was. To keep the odor down, Will would collect their droppings and add them to his personal capped bucket for disposal later.
He went left, taking the candle into the weight-room because it had no windows, only cinder-block, subterranean walls. He began his stretches on a yoga mat. The room was nothing fancy but included a Bow-flex, some free weights, a bench, and the ghost of a treadmill machine. The weight bench had been a gift from Frank on Christmas, their New Year’s resolution having been to lose some pounds and get healthy (Will had high cholesterol and Frank was diabetic). Come February, those goals had evaporated as most New Year’s promises do and the room went unused, gathering dust and very few memories—until now. Will had lost thirty pounds since beginning this routine and cords of muscle now rippled beneath his t-shirt. He longed for Kylie Minogue, or any other upbeat techno or dance music, something that would lend incentive and push him further with lifting—but the electricity was long gone, as were the batteries, as was Frank.
After doing three sets of squats with agonizing pulses, he stopped and drank from his bottle of water. For a while he jogged in place, counting in his head to measure time. The battery in his watch had died, so now he never knew what time it was. He had once longed for a world where watches were obsolete; now, he was living in one. And though the continuing habit of glancing to his naked wrist was a nuisance, it was at least a reminder that he was human—all too easy to forget in a world alone, your sole company canine.
When he finished working out, Will snatched a hand towel and headed back down the hall to the offices. The dogs were on the couch waiting for him, immersed in their own habits—licking, scratching, farting. The three of them used to spend a lot of time in this room but now it was too dark. Of the three basement-level rooms with windows—all of which made Will a little nervous, even with the property being fenced—most were shaded from the deck above, allowing minimal light. Without power, these rooms had lost their functionality and there was no reason in dwelling in them anymore. His new office was in a guest bedroom upstairs with two windows and an abundance of mid-to-late afternoon sun. This was his chosen place to read and write and—though the smallest room in the house—was fast becoming his favorite space.
Upstairs, the dogs cut through the kitchen—nails clicking on the hardwood floors—and trotted toward the den and their beloved furniture. Will continued down the hall to the master bedroom. He passed the large, crisply made—and long unused—sleigh bed and went into the master bath. There was a fresh bucket of wash-water on the vanity and Will removed his clothes and used his workout towel to give himself a sponge bath. When satisfied with his cleaning, he went into the walk-in closet, leaving the door ajar to expunge some of the darkness. He put on fresh clothes and tossed his dirty ones into the bathtub with some others that were in the hamper. He poured the remaining water in the bucket into the tub and began washing his clothes. There was no soap and not a lot of water, but he made do. After wringing the excess, he hung the various pieces on hangers and took them out to the porch to dry.
The porch was actually a screened-deck, overlooking the back and side yard. The former, enclosed with dense woods and a path leading down to the lake; the latter, to his left, bordered with sparser foliage, their secondary driveway, and the side street. As he was hanging the garments, Will studied the surrounding landscape for activity in all three possible directions—the third being another fenced-house next door. This home belonged to Howard and Judy Drinnon who were also gone. Everything was clear, no movement in the woods or street. He went in to get his boots.
After securing the dogs in their kennels, Will returned to the basement and went outside. He pulled the door to as quietly as possible and surveyed his surroundings. He was under the deck on the patio. Nearby, there was a long-dry water hose on a spool, housed in a fiberglass container with a crank. In front of this were two buckets, one plastic and one a galvanized-metal pail. Beyond the smooth concrete, pas
t the decorative pavers at the foot of the deck stairs, was the yard they were once so proud of—long overgrown and unkempt, filled with dandelions and other weeds, some almost as tall as himself. The driveway from the boat garage veered down to a wide, chain-link gate. Both yards—divided by the driveway—were modest “islands” nestled in the trees, the back tapering down into a wooded trail. The fence closest to the house was cosmetic, white, seven-foot vinyl—not the strongest but opaque and effective—transitioning into black, four-foot chain-link where the trees began and all the way to the lake. This would be a problem if his presence were ever discovered. He always kept to the center of the back yard where he could see most of the immediate chain-link perimeter and beyond. It helped that the property was wooded.
And he had the gun.
All was still. He lifted the buckets, and began.
At the outer edge of the back yard, past Frank’s beloved hostas, the ground began sloping down into the woods. The path had been jagged in places, but Will had been good about expanding the pine straw mulch beyond the established hosta borders. One spring, he had scattered pine straw almost the entire length to the lake—hundreds of feet—creating a soft path with a few scattered jonquil patches along the way. Frank had thought this was a bit much, but Will was happy with his work—transforming an average trail through the woods (complete with an unsightly drainage ditch) into something pretty. Will was even more pleased with it now—being well worn and quiet.
Water was the goal of this daily trek. The water in the house had stopped running weeks ago and—though he had filled the bathtubs, sinks, and every container he could find with reserve—he now had to retrieve water from the lake. This task was paramount in his daily ritual unless unforeseen obstacles prevented or deterred him. Sustenance was motivation enough for these morning hikes, but he was also comforted knowing he had reserve for laundry and in the event of something unexpected; it also helped break the monotony of his days.
His lot had lake access but no dock. The property funneled into the cove, as did the Drinnon’s. The dock there had belonged to Howard and Judy, who had been keeping their boat in storage due to drought. Lake levels had been low the past two years, the cove so shallow they had feared their boat would be damaged or land-locked permanently. Howard used the boathouse for fishing though, and told Will and Frank that they were always welcome to do the same—the boathouse being no more than a covered dock sans walls. Will was grateful for this—the daily trip to fetch water was stressful enough without having to worry about what could be hiding behind boathouse walls.
He could see the dock as he approached the gate. He paused, checking his periphery before turning completely, scanning for movement. Way out, on an island across the water, he saw flashing in the sun. Something was moving out there, the flash—a mirror? Wristwatch? Eyeglasses?—bobbing in the sunlight.
Maybe someone is sending a signal.
He searched himself for something reflective. He was wearing contact lenses, no watch, and his belt buckle had an antique, faux-bronze finish. He carried nothing in his pockets but, as he looked to his boots, he remembered the bucket. He held the galvanized pail up in the sun. Its surface was brushed, but still shiny, and he wondered if whoever was signaling him from across the water could see it.
It felt strange, standing there with his bucket in the air, facing the water—a ridiculous parody of the Statue of Liberty. Bring me your tired and your hungry. My dogs and I will shelter them. He lowered his arm.
The reflection was still there but no longer moving, just hovering—a bright silver pulse.
Did they see? Now what?
Nothing was what. The land from which the shimmer emanated was at least a mile across the water and he didn’t feel like swimming.
It was strange how it stopped moving though, as if acknowledging his return signal. It made him feel a little uneasy; most things did these days.
There was no lock for the gate. It was on his list of items to procure, but he had used the only padlock in his possession for the gate in the driveway (not that either being locked would prevent entry—the fence was only four-feet tall, after all). Proximity had ranked in priority, and his house was unseen—close to a ten-minute walk—from the water.
He unlatched and opened the gate, cringing at the squeak it made, and darted across the crunchy stone beach to the water. He filled both buckets up and returned quickly, careful to limit spillage, and closed the gate. Before he made his way back up the hill to the house, he took one last glance across the lake. The reflection was gone.
The trek back to the house was uneventful. Birds flitted about in the trees and on the forest floor, but no unwelcome movement. When he emerged from the trail, he stepped through the hostas and crossed the yard back to the door.
He poured the buckets into the basement tub. The bathroom was dark, but he managed the task from habit and what dim light the windows provided. He returned the buckets to the patio and took one last look before closing the door.
Quiet. So, goddamned quiet.
All of this—his typical morning—took less than three hours. He decided to skip lunch, staring at the closed pantry door. The dogs ate in the morning and the evening and he was trying to stick to a similar schedule. Still, his stomach rolled with the mere thought of food. He knew calories spent with his workout should be replenished, but he would just stay busy with other tasks instead.
He went out to the screened porch, lit the gas grill—having moved it in from the landing weeks ago—and poured roughly a gallon of lake water into a stainless steel pot. While waiting for the water to boil, he walked over to the corner screens and looked for any activity. In the side street, movement caught his eye. He focused on the secondary driveway, beyond the gate, and through the trees. Something was moving down there in the road, in front of Hank and Betsy’s house. He could barely make out the figure, just mere glimpses through the foliage, but he froze. He always did.
Did it hear me? Was I too loud?
He watched for several minutes as the figure drifted away down the cul-de-sac, sparse movement through the trees as it did. Will turned the heat off the water. He lifted the steaming pot—gripping it tightly in his hands to compensate for the quivering weakness fear had instilled in his legs—and placed it on a trivet in the kitchen. He returned to the door, closing it with absurdly grand gestures, turning the knob to withdraw the latch before easing it gently into the strike plate, conscious of every modicum of sound, as if he could vacuum any noise away. The door closed with the tiniest of clicks and he released the knob and allowed himself to exhale. Silence, among all things in this new world, was most precious. Silence was survival.
The dogs watched him from the couch during this display, oblivious of anything out of the ordinary. When he returned their gaze, their tails began thumping. He shushed them.
Without electricity, daylight is divine. Maybe that is why Egyptians worshipped the sun.
Thoughts like this filled his head these days.
He was in his office-bedroom reclining on the daybed—reward for completing his daily tasks. Bright light filled the room and here he would stay until the sun kissed the horizon. He had made the rounds several times—observing the street from peepholes in painted windows—before he felt comfortable enough to relax. The windows in this room had blinds, allowing him control of the light emitted which, at times—late in the afternoon specifically—was too direct. From his desk he sat high on the second floor with a broad view of the fenced side yard, extending through the bordering trees and all the way to the street and the homes of Ruth and Nate, and Hank and Betsy. He wrote in his journal for the next hour and then found a book to immerse himself in—Matheson’s What Dreams May Come. In this changed world, Will’s list of essentials had withered to few things, but those taken for granted would fill a tome as large as the one he was now holding. The one luxury he had continued to indulge was books. For a few hours a day, he would remove himself from an existence gone gray and join
those in pages of lavish color…until he was interrupted by a creak, a shot, or a scream.
At twilight, Will selected a can of Alpo for the dogs and Heinz Sloppy Joe sauce for himself. Frank and he had always kept the kitchen well stocked with ridiculous quantities from the wholesale clubs, but—even with rationing—this supply had dwindled fast. He avoided the pantry until mealtimes, as it was an insistent and mocking reminder. He leaned on the jamb, staring at the near-empty shelves. Two, maybe three days tops.
I’m going to have to go out again.
The concept was simple—the task, and committing to it, not so. He found himself repeating the phrase several times a day, a mantra to steel his nerves. When he woke, looking in the bathroom mirror, the lake walks, the pantry, in bed at night—the words were always present in his thoughts, jump-starting his obsessive brain into calculating new ways to improve the statistics of their survival. Soon, he would have to whittle the phrase down to I’m going out again and, eventually, I’m going out.
Weeks after D-Day, he had made his first attempt at scavenging and had almost died. He was a product of years of evolution and environment, both physical and philosophical. They owned no guns, deplored violence, and favored brains over brawn. His weapons of choice were not guns and knives, but a keyboard and search engine. What value were these skills in a world stopped abruptly, population jettisoned, and now spinning backwards toward reinvention of the wheel? Human nature had thrown a massive monkey wrench into Darwin’s evolutionary speculations or, perhaps, confirmed them.
But he had survived that initial excursion, using his brain and surrendering—albeit reluctantly—to the inner Cro-Magnon deep within in his genes. He had adapted to this world unplugged with one of only two options, the other being not so welcome. And he had returned with a gun. No food, but beggars can’t be…
