by Smith, T. W.
He left the body in the backyard, secured the gate, grabbed the guns, and returned to the house. The dogs were fascinated by the smells he brought with him. They followed him up the stairs, sniffing him all over until he put some food in their dishes to distract them.
He returned to the front door, removed one of the pieces of tape and looked out across the street. Both yards were filled to capacity, the overflow now in the streets on both sides of the corner. And they kept coming. He had considered letting the siren play until the battery died, but if the mass continued to swell, it would soon be in his own yard.
No. Not a good idea.
Will pressed the key fob again and the alarm stopped.
With the abrupt silence, the guttural rumblings lowered, fading as the crowd dispersed. Again, Will was reminded of a rock concert, when the final encore was over and the house lights came up, everyone heading for the exits. He watched for a long time, waiting for any stragglers to wander his way. Some did, but they never approached the house, lingering on his lawn before being drawn by other sights and sounds. He was worried about those that had been at his door earlier, especially the one that had looked in at him. But they never came back. He wouldn’t have recognized them if they had.
Over an hour later, when he was finally convinced that the danger had passed, and that the bulk of the crowd had disappeared back to wherever it was they came from, movement caught his eye. The big biker that had followed Katie into her house emerged, crawling from her open front door. He was injured and not moving fast. Will assumed the man to be another zombie when Katie emerged behind him, pulling at his leg. The biker jerked away, rolling backward down the steps and into the grass. Katie followed him down and fell on him, gnawing into his shoulder and neck. His screams were loud, but short. Soon, all was quiet again.
As Will watched Katie feed on the man, kneeling beside him as if on a picnic, he could hear the raspy boasts of the Lonnie-thing…
See, pretty-boy. I told you. She’s ours.
He replaced the tape on the door.
Hank and Betsy
Three weeks earlier.
Will watched Hank and Betsy’s house for several days. He would pick random times for observation, looking out his office window with binoculars, beyond the fence and across the side street, searching for any sign of life. The ground where Ruth and Nate’s house had stood next door was still smoldering, probably would for weeks. In the daylight, through gaps in the foliage, he could see the occasional zombie stumble past, but no other movement. At night, he couldn’t see anything, just shadows in the street if the moon was bright. Hank and Betsy’s home remained dark all the while, nothing indicating life within.
Five, four, and a door—that’s what Frank would have called it.
But Hank’s home had been modified and was technically five, three, and a door—the windows of the lower right combined into a protruding bay window.
Will wondered if Hank had painted his windowpanes black. He didn’t think so, but he could not remember whether they’d had blinds or shears. He could see neither now, except for short—maybe drawn—shears in that very bay window.
Seems strange to leave a window that low to the ground so vulnerable.
They had been invited over once, long ago, before they knew better. Four couples: Ruth and Nate, Hank and Betsy, Will and Frank, and someone else—a couple that had moved away shortly after, he couldn’t remember their names. They had gathered on a large deck, partially screened so Hank could smoke. Drinks were served, but not strong enough to dilute an atmosphere that went from prickly to unbearable in record time.
“You need to get Mexicans for your yard work, Will,” Hank had said. “They’re cheap and—”
“—reliable,” Betsy finished. “Not lazy, like the niggers we used to hire.”
Frank all but gasped, blurting, “We don’t use that word.”
“What word?” Hank asked. “Nigger? It’s OK. You’re safe here, boys. You’re in The South now.”
Will didn’t bother pointing out that Maryland was also in the south, or that he was originally from Georgia, Frank Mississippi. These statements would have been lost, passing signs on an accelerating joyride with Hank and Betsy at the wheel. Talk turned next to religion: Baptist vs. Muslim. Frank kept nudging Will under the table, desperate for an exit strategy. Both could see the other couples were equally uncomfortable, fellow prisoners of neighborly etiquette.
When the conversation turned political, Frank stood, claiming that he didn’t feel well: “We should be going. We need to let the dogs out.”
The departure was hasty and awkward. They had never gone back, nor had they been invited.
Will knew that entry of Hank’s house would have to be on the basement or deck level, both from the back. The only side-entrance was on the right—a garage, out of sight and presumed closed. The front door was too close to the street, risky if boarded and preventing quick access.
He wished he could observe the back of their house.
Wait. Maybe I can…
He decided to raise the stakeout a level higher by camping overnight in the woods behind Hank and Betsy’s house. Not camping really, but securing a spot where he could sit and observe from late afternoon until early morning, under cover of darkness.
It was summer, hot and humid, but he would have to keep his body covered regardless of the heat. He wore boots and gloves, dark, protective clothing, which he cinched at the cuffs to keep out unwanted intruders—mosquitoes, spiders, and snakes. In a backpack, he collected a large screwdriver, a knife, a pocket flashlight, two bottles of water, and some snacks.
Like going to the movies.
He confined the dogs to the basement and made sure they access to food, water, and the bathroom.
When he stepped into his backyard, his apprehension sky-rocketed . This was the first time he’d been outside since he’d seen them in the streets from his windows. He was terrified—so scared his muscles were clenching, making it painful to move, as if his very body was rebelling, fighting his every step. But Brian had convinced him that he had to do this. He had to get used to leaving his comfort zone. There was no other way to get food and protection.
Accept it, and be brave.
Easy for you to say.
The sun was low in the sky. Instead of routing from the lake up as he had envisioned, he opted to leave through the side gate, down the secondary driveway where the RV had been. From there, he had coverage from the woods almost until he reached the street.
Much quicker.
There was no activity, so he walked the final feet of the driveway and into complete exposure. He felt vulnerable, as if being watched, but there was nothing there to see him. He crossed the street and soon found himself at the head of Hank and Betsy’s driveway, outside their closed garage door. He peeked around the corner, and into the woods behind the house.
The Connelly’s yard sloped thirty feet down into dense forest where he could hear the soft trickling of a creek. Next door, in the woods belonging to Ruth and Nate, there was a decorative little bridge built over the same water. Will wished he could just plant himself on that bridge, but it was too easy a place to be spotted—whether by the dead or Hank looking out his rear windows. No, that wouldn’t do. He skirted the edge of the property and found a trail at the rear of Hank’s yard. He followed it in, veered off it a ways, and nestled himself at the base of a large tree. It wasn’t as clean or critter-free as the bridge but it would do. He made himself as comfortable as possible, knowing he would be there for the next ten to twelve hours.
As the sky darkened and twilight commenced, Will familiarized himself with his surroundings and the back of Hank’s house. The woods were thick, and he had on earth tones to blend in with them. His entire body was covered except for his face and, had he thought of it, he would have found some shoe polish for that as well. Regardless, he felt much safer than he probably should with the large tree at his back. All was still and—other than the occasional
bird-call—silent.
He deduced that he would have to enter the house from the deck level because the basement door and windows were boarded up from the outside. Odd. The boards made sense, as there was no fence preventing the creatures from reaching it—but why board it on the outside? Was something obstructing access from within—built-in shelves, a workbench?
Maybe it’s unfinished cinder block.
Whatever. He could not enter that way fast enough and ruled it out.
The deck level door was difficult to see through the screened porch, but it was there and Will knew it entered into the kitchen and den. He wouldn’t know if it was boarded though, until he got there. The windows on either side were dark, as were the windows on the second level. He guessed at which ones were the master bedroom and bath.
There’s a gun in there, and I bet it’s behind that window to the far right.
Crickets sang as darkness fell. Will relaxed into the comfortable nook of the tree, shifting his hips until snug between exposed roots. He reclined further, letting his head rest against the tree’s smooth bark.
Yes, sir. There’s a gun in there.
Splashing.
He awoke startled. Something was near, behind and to his right, crossing from the west, over near the bridge—aimless and loud.
Not human.
He was burning up. Mosquitoes had done a job on his face. He was sweaty, itchy, his legs were asleep and he needed to pee. And now he had to worry about one of those things stumbling over him.
Don’t panic. Be still.
The moon had risen, bright in the sky. He let his eyes adjust. His watch read 1:17 am.
Fuck.
He wanted to stand, get the blood-flow back into his legs, but was afraid he would reveal himself. He wasn’t sure if they could sense human presence—other than by sight or sound—and he wasn’t looking forward to his first up-close encounter.
The splashing stopped, and now Will could hear it lurching through the woods, tearing through the fauna toward him.
Oh, God. It knows I’m here.
He reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants and removed the screwdriver.
There was a brief flash of light from Hank’s screened porch, then darkness. Will wasn’t certain he’d seen it at all.
Was that a flashlight?
The creature’s footsteps—long drags through the detritus of the forest floor—sounded as if right behind him, but he was too scared to peek around the tree at his back for fear of revealing himself. He gripped the screwdriver tightly and waited for it to stumble over him. His legs were numb, too untrustworthy to stand and he felt that he might have a better chance of killing the thing if it had to bend down toward him.
Surely, I could just ram the screwdriver up into its eye.
As it got closer, he braced for impact.
And then it emerged, in his periphery about five feet to his right. It continued a few more steps towards Hank’s yard and stopped. Will held his breath, remaining so still that the irritants with his body amplified. He wanted to scratch his itchy, bug-bitten face, but forced his arms to remain in place, feeling the sweat trickle from his armpits down his ribcage. His legs were on fire, the pressure in his bladder on the brink of rupture. Something tiny was crawling on his neck.
The creature was so close. It was male, tall and gaunt, wearing tattered clothing. The pale skin of its face glowed in the moonlight streaming through the branches. Will saw only its profile, but that was enough to confirm he had awakened to a nightmare. Its forehead was high, nose pinched, nostrils flared, mouth hanging open with no sound, teeth protruding from receding gums. The silhouette was as striking as it was disturbing, like a Goya painting—an insane horror emerged from the forest and gazing at the moon—so still, just a slight sway, almost imperceptible.
It can smell me, Will thought. Any second and it will turn around and the party will begin.
But then the light from the Connelly house flashed again. It bobbed left and went out. Will saw something dart down the stairs of Hank’s porch—a dark wraith, descending and then scurrying across the backyard toward the smoldering remnants of Ruth and Nate’s.
Hank.
The zombie saw him too. It uttered a slight, desperate whimper, and resumed its trek, veering right and following the shadow.
Good. Keep on moving. Get as far away from me as possible.
Its creeping strides silenced when it stepped from the woods onto Hank’s lawn. Will watched the glowing outline of its shirt diminish, fading into the dark as it crept up the incline toward the neighboring yard. When it was far enough away, Will stood and urinated, using the tree for support. Warm, tingling sensation spread back into his legs while he pissed what seemed an infinite stream. When finished, he zipped up, leaning back against the tree. Hank’s house remained before him, a towering black monolith in the moonlight.
So, he is still around, kiddo. Guess you’ll have to find a gun somewhere else. Maybe if…
No, Brian interrupted. You need to go in that house right now and get a gun. You need to get in and get out quickly—there’s no time to look for anything else. Just find a gun and go before he gets back.
Will was reluctant to say the least. He was sweaty and itchy, body and brain fatigued. He felt vulnerable outside in the dark and all he wanted was to get home safe and be with his dogs. He could rethink things in the morning when his head cleared.
Remember, Will— Brian persisted –offensive, not defensive. Seize this opportunity. Do it for Frank, who never in a million years would have thought you capable. Do it for the dogs, waiting at home for you to protect and feed them. But most of all do it for you—prove you’re worthy of survival. When the medications are gone, when choices become tougher, and you’re resigned to sit cowering in a corner, you’ll look back at this moment for reassurance. Do this, Will. Don’t hesitate.
He looked at his watch. 1:40 am.
The door Hank exited from was unlocked. Will turned the knob slowly and opened it. The smell inside was awful, assaulting his nostrils like a vile miasma, engulfing him.
Something’s rotten in here.
He turned on his flashlight and saw that the kitchen looked like a battlefield—cabinets open, drawers askew, broken dishes, silverware scattered, and garbage strewn everywhere, in and out of bags.
What the hell?
There was an object on the counter over by the sink. Will shined his light towards it and saw that it was a large hunk of meat on a cutting board, shiny and gelatinous, covered in squirming maggots. He gagged, remembering to breathe through his mouth instead of his nostrils, suppressing the stench. There was a meat cleaver on the counter as well as knives, odd tools, a blowtorch, and other unidentifiable viscera. He swept the light through the room, seeing dark stains everywhere, knowing that at any minute it would illuminate Hank’s wide-eyed face… or something worse.
How could he live in such filth? What kind of person…
Time is of the essence, Brian reminded.
Will walked through the kitchen into the hall, toward the boarded front door. To his right, he found the staircase leading upstairs. He scaled the steps quickly and went to the end of the hall.
The master bedroom was in similar disarray; Will crossed it, passing the unmade bed and opened the nightstand drawer. Nothing—just a Bible, Kleenex, and some papers, pens. No gun.
OK. Now what?
He crossed to the window facing Nate and Ruth’s to see if he could see anything outside. In the moonlight, he saw the creature from the woods, wandering around the smoking ruins. No Hank.
He inspected the guest rooms, baths, and closets—no sign of a gun anywhere.
When he returned downstairs, he gave the living room and dining room a brief glance before heading back down the hall to the kitchen. He’d had a reprieve upstairs, but the stench down here was heavy, suffocating. He crossed the kitchen toward the den of his original entry, slipping in a wet spot on the tiled floor. His light revealed red smears at
his feet, some dried and sticky, some fresh… chunky.
Ugh.
He kept moving into the den. He passed the sofa and the easy chair—almost tripping over an ottoman—and found a large cabinet to the left of the entertainment center.
Jackpot.
It was a gun cabinet—tall, upper glass doors displaying shotguns and rifles lined up and spring-clipped to a felt mahogany backing.
Of course it’s here, right out in the open. Hank’s not the type to hide a gun or two in a nightstand or closet. He’s a proud republican and would want his guns on display for all to see.
He cursed himself for wasting time upstairs. The cabinet was locked but the key was in it. He turned it and opened the display doors, finding a latch for the lower section. He squatted and opened those doors to reveal a pistol with a sizable sight attached, ammunition, maintenance supplies, scopes, and an odd, horn-shaped device.
A silencer?
Grab what you can and go, Brian urged.
He lifted the pistol. The weight felt comfortable in his hands. He’d thought he’d be terrified holding a weapon of its caliber, but it actually felt… good—even more gratifying in his current situation. He stood, raising the gun and pointed it toward the television in the entertainment center, extending his arm to get a better feel.
“It’s a Smith and Wesson, model 57. It belonged to my father,” Hank said.
Will froze. The voice was coming from the darkness to his right.
A match struck, exploding in the silence, punctuation following Hank’s words. He had been sitting there all along, watching him from an easy chair. There was a pistol in his other hand and odd, bulky goggles were hanging from his neck. “This is a Diamondback, law enforcement issue,” he said, using the match to light his cigarette and a fat pillar candle on the table beside him.
