by Smith, T. W.
For the moment, this little backyard battle was between the three of them.
Well, maybe two and a half.
He gripped the screwdriver and watched as the creature with the bloody face came toward him. It was taller than he, and wearing a sodden but familiar UPS uniform. Will’s aim was to be fast and efficient, but he lacked necessary experience. He ran toward the zombie, screwdriver high and stabbed down onto the blunt surface of its head. The flathead tool ricocheted off of the creature’s skull, flinging a bloody hunk of its hair.
“Christ,” Will whispered, and the zombie was on him again.
It had both of his hands, raising them high as it lunged in for his face. Will moved backward, instinctively, and it looked as if the two were dancing a macabre waltz through the Inman’s lawn.
He was trying to maneuver the screwdriver down between them. Maybe he could drive it up the thing’s nose and into its brain with less resistance. But as he neared this objective, the ground dipped behind him and he lost balance. They fell backward, the zombie on top, and Will thought of that psychological game, the one where you’re supposed to trust that someone will be there to catch you. He pulled both fists in to protect his face, as the world went up, blurring past in his periphery. The ground slapped his back hard, the air fleeing his lungs, and the screwdriver—still clenched tight and pointed up—pierced his assailant’s eye, gravity and the force of landing driving it in deep in the socket.
All movement ceased. Brownish fluid rolled down the tool, dripping onto Will’s cheek. He felt the full dead weight of the creature on top of him.
You know, there was a time when a UPS man on top of me would have been…
Before the thought was complete, before he could even relish his accidental triumph, something was tugging at the body, the weight being lifted from him in brief pulses. Sophia—she had escaped the confines of the basement window and was pulling at the corpse, his only barrier from her. She was at his head, attempting to drag the body over him by the collar. He could hear the fabric of its uniform tearing. He reached up, blindly groping for her legs, and his fingers brushed a bony ankle. He latched on with both hands and yanked the foot from beneath her. She fell backwards into the Bermuda grass, snarling. Will squirmed out from under the body.
On his feet, he was disoriented and hyperventilating, maybe even concussive. He had no idea where the gun was and Sophia was too close for him to retrieve the screwdriver.
She sat up and Will kicked her hard in the face, almost stumbling in the process. She went down again. He stepped toward her, raised his leg and began stomping on her face. She was relatively fresh, having been confined indoors and away from the sun’s harsh rays, her flesh and bone resistant. But fear, stress, and adrenaline were fueling Will’s efforts. First, her nose ruptured, then teeth broke, and soon her face caved with the blows, his heavy boot driving deeper until she was still.
It took sixteen stomps. To be fair, he was not certain which exact blow had incapacitated her permanently. But he was not surprised that he’d counted, or that he had ceased with an even number. He always did.
There’s safety in numbers.
When he looked up from his handiwork, the world was spinning around him, trees and houses whirling past. He was lightheaded, swaying, and ready to give in — simply lie down on the Inman’s lush lawn and succumb to unconsciousness.
No, Will. You’re close. The dogs…
He closed his eyes and put his face in his hands, using the balls of his palms for pressure against the lids. He took a deep breath, and then another. He counted two more before lifting his face and opening his eyes.
The world was still moving to his left, but much slower now, like a train easing into station.
You can do this.
He looked around, pleased to discover there were still no other zombies coming. Maybe they were farther down the street, past his house, having been attracted by the earlier gunfire at Hank’s. UPS man was probably headed that direction too, but just near enough to hear Rudy’s swan dive into the table. It made sense. Everything present had seemed so loud to him, but much of that had been in his head. Other than the initial glass breaks, there had been little sound at all. How funny it would have been to a distant observer, to see these events play out like a silent movie, speedy and violent with no sound.
No. Not funny.
He turned and saw that Broke-back Rudy was still trying to crawl in his direction.
You, my friend, win the lottery. No sense in wearing myself out.
In truth, he was already exhausted. He was burning up, his head aching, his muscles cramping, screaming for relief.
But I’m alive—whatever that’s worth. I’m still fucking here.
He went to the UPS guy and removed the screwdriver from his head, wiping it in the grass.
It took a few minutes, but he found the pistol in the neighboring side yard, thrown farther away than he’d thought. He made sure the safety was on and continued around the back of that house, keenly more aware of his surroundings, decks and widows in particular.
The following house was the Lang’s. Their garage had no windows, but he suspected their car would be gone.
I bet they’re OK. Their daughter’s family lived near.
He told himself that anyway.
He risked going around to their front yard for a peek and saw that there were several creatures down the street between his and Kate’s house, all flowing toward the intersection. Some had already turned the corner, heading in the direction of Hank and Betsy’s. No surprises there.
When he arrived at Judy and Howard’s fence, he found the gate and let himself in. Everything was normal inside. Their entire fence was a privacy fence because of the pool she’d often invited he and Frank to share.
You’re so close, right next-door. And Howard never gets in. I have to enjoy it with someone.
The water in the pool was now green with algae, having not been filtered in over a week, and there were leaves and debris floating in it. Will saw tiny ripples where insects skittered across its surface.
He walked to the very back of the fence and listened. There were indecipherable sounds: leaves rustling, birds tweeting, the occasional snap or crack. It was too soon to go and retrieve his bounty. But as long as it didn’t rain, he could let it go for a while, a day or more, until he was certain that the coast was clear.
He let himself out of the gate nearest his house, crossed ten steps over into his driveway and opened his own gate. He retained stealth through his backyard, just in case any had compromised the fence or were near enough to the chain-link to see him. Once convinced that things were safe, he let himself in the basement door.
The dogs were thrilled to see him. He collapsed to the floor and let them paw and smell and lick him.
Jesus. What time is it?
He looked at his watch. The face was cracked, the second-hand still.
When did that happen?
He had no idea.
It’s probably around 7:30.
That meant that he had been outside of his domain for over twelve hours, probably closer to fourteen.
Unreal.
When the dogs calmed, he went upstairs to feed them. He gave himself a sponge bath and crawled into bed. The dogs joined him, Rocko to his left, splayed across half of the mattress with his large head on his chest, sighing relief. Lola to his right, sitting upright and at attention, as if saying: You rest. I’ll keep watch. He had his arms around both, their warm bodies comforting him as his mind began to drift, staring at the motionless ceiling fan.
I have a gun now. I have a gun and a backpack full of ammo.
Some of that ammo is not for the one pistol.
Don’t harsh my buzz, Brian.
Just keeping it real, Will.
I know.
Goodnight, Will.
Good—
He slept.
The Kids
Now.
He and Frank had decided to move to Georgia
once their relationship had cemented. Will was an Atlanta native and welcomed the return home. Frank was originally from Mississippi, but had lived there the previous decade. They both missed the mild winters of the deeper south.
The circumstance that got the ball rolling was a booming housing market. Will had recently relocated from Virginia into Frank’s 1960’s ranch home in Ellicott City, Maryland. Frank had felt that their commitment would be further enhanced by owning a home together. Atlanta was the perfect choice, allowing them to profit from a small house in an expensive area, to a larger one in the southern suburbs.
The ink was barely dry on the contract when they realized the house was a little too big for just the two of them—so, two days following the closing, Frank surprised Will with Rocko.
The adoption took place at a local animal shelter, where Frank was told the hound was an eight-week old Beagle. Rocko had beautiful black, white, and brown markings, and bright, newborn blue eyes. The dog was so tiny he would fit in the cup of Will’s palms. His teeth were needle sharp and he was prone to biting, but far too irresistible for such a minor annoyance to deter either of them. Frank had insisted that he be kennel-trained, so they bought a small cage and bedding, beginning the venture into late night potty excursions.
The change that followed was swift, and a little disturbing: Rocko was growing exceedingly fast. So much so, that he outgrew his new kennel in less than a month. Concerned, they consulted a local vet only to find that Rocko had not been an eight-week old Beagle puppy, but a four-week old Treeing Walker—or what Will soon began referring to as a Beagle on stilts. The puppy had never been properly weaned and given up for adoption way too early.
“Honestly,” the vet offered. “Rocko is a unique breed, very high-energy. You’re going to have a rough couple of years with this one, but after, he’ll be the best dog you’ve ever had.”
This had explained a lot—not only Rocko’s separation anxiety and his excessive nipping—but also how a puppy who had weighed less than five pounds upon arrival was, one month later, fast approaching the twenty-pound mark. He was high maintenance, always needing to be with someone, and filled with so much energy that daily walks and playing fetch had become absolute necessities for tiring him out.
But the boys couldn’t give the dog attention all of the time, as work and other activities took precedence. So, Rocko—acutely intelligent and expressive—began developing ways of drawing their focus. Work nights, while Frank and Will were winding down in front of the flat-screen, he would wander off and rummage for things to get the boys up and off of the furniture. They could hear him—often in the adjacent kitchen—and became more than familiar with the routine. Rocko would re-enter sometimes with a dishtowel, or a roll of paper towels removed from the counter top… underwear from hampers, bread loaves from the pantry, or God knows what from the trash. Not because he sought these particular items for ulterior motives—say sustenance—but simply because he knew it would in turn force someone to engage, thus play.
After a while, the boys learned to ignore these acts and collected the discarded items later—often undamaged. But there was soon discovered a compliance on their part that helped resolve a large piece of this aberrant, yet intuitive, behavior. One night, after an endless parade of items brought to them—a toilet plunger, a shoe, an electric toothbrush—Will looked from the couch to Frank in his overstuffed chair and said, “I wonder what would happen if I let him get on the couch with me.”
Frank had been opposed to this, but he gave in when Will agreed to cover the Ethan Allen piece with an old comforter for protection. Rocko needed no coaxing and was soon curled up into a large ball next to Will on the couch. The games and bad behavior stopped for the most part. The dog had successfully trained them.
But this only lowered Rocko’s hyper-needy canine scale to above-average. He still had boatloads of energy and the boys simply did not have the time or reserve to manage the dog’s drive.
“I think we need to get another dog,” Will said one night at dinner.
Frank looked at him as if he had suggested adopting an elephant.
“You’re joking.”
“No. I’m completely serious. It will cost more in food and care, but be a hell of lot less stress on us. He’ll have another dog to play with, release some of that pent-up energy.”
Frank wasn’t convinced, but it turns out that was never an issue. One day in Atlanta, at a co-worker’s birthday party, Frank was showing a group of women pictures of Rocko on his phone (his and Will’s go-to retaliation for having to suffer baby pictures from boastful parents).
“Oh, my… he’s beautiful. But take a look at her,” a woman named Heather said, holding up her phone.
As the party dispersed, Will was closing the passenger side door when Frank announced they were making a detour through a neighboring suburb on the way home.
“Why?” Will asked.
“Because I think I have found Rocko’s sister.”
Will grinned, letting the declaration slide off the prickly slope of his ego and dissipate into the comforting bluntness of compromise. He and Frank complimented each other in many ways, but he felt the magic to their relationship was an age old one—Yin and Yang. The goal was to find Rocko a playmate. He didn’t care who took credit, or chose—results were all that mattered.
When they entered the apartment, they were greeted by a twenty-pound sack-of-bones, whitish in color, with random black spots—one completely encapsulating her left eye.
“Her name is Lola,” the foster mother said.
She was emaciated, starving to the point of every rib bone showing, but she was so happy to see Frank that she leapt into his arms, licking his face and nuzzling his neck.
“Oh!” was all that he could say.
“She’s a mutt,” the woman continued. “Mostly Pit, maybe some Jack Russell. We found her dumpster diving behind a Chinese restaurant in Chamblee, just days away from being dead—that was about a week ago. She’s got some abscesses, and her nipples are distended from either a bad or false pregnancy. But, as you can see, she’s coming along great now that she’s off the street.”
“We’re taking her,” Frank said, not even looking to Will.
“Oh, good. It’s a process, you know. You’ll have to be approved by Gwinnett County…”
“No,” Frank said. “She’s coming home with us. Tonight.”
The woman scrutinized Frank for a moment, and then nodded, clasping her hands.
“I’ll get her things.”
Rocko was thrilled with the new addition. Lola was happy to be alive and in a warm household with food. If that household came with a Rocko, well, so be it.
She put on weight fast and her skin cleared up. Whatever had happened to her with a lost pregnancy had heightened her maternal instincts. She began to teach Rocko things like not to nip, to recognize scents, and where to pee. But most important of all—and to the boys delight—she had the energy to play. Both dogs would chase each other for hours in the fenced backyard.
Lola was smart too—not as keenly intuitive as Rocko, but shrewd nonetheless. Rocko sometimes liked to confiscate her place on Frank’s oversized ottoman. Lola’s way of eradicating this was to simply go to the front door sidelight and issue a small “woof.” Rocko would then charge the front door, barking at phantoms while Lola would casually stride back and replace him on the ottoman.
Slick. Very slick.
They became essential additions, wedging their ways into both men’s hearts—so much so that Will and Frank actually became the obnoxious parents they so loathed, initiating cell phone exhibitions of their own kids. At gatherings, when people conversed about rearing babies, Will would always steer the conversation toward Rocko and Lola.
Frank would caution him: “They’re talking about children, Will. We have dogs. It’s insulting to compare the two.”
“Fuck them. Our dogs are smarter and better behaved than their kids any day.”
Will was sitting on th
e carpeted floor of his den as these memories came to him. The dogs were there too, stretched out in front of him—attentive, yet relaxed. All of their time was spent this way now. The days of running in the yard, and barking at neighbors were long gone.
He hadn’t anticipated this barrage of memories to intercept his intentions, but it had. In allowing himself to reflect on his love for these two creatures, another more powerful yearning had returned, slapping him in the face with his absence.
Frank.
There were four pieces to this perfect puzzle and one had been missing for close to three weeks now—at least according to his calculations. He couldn’t remember for sure the last day they had spoken, and he was growing to accept that he would never see Frank again.
He extended his arm and found Lola in the pistol’s sight, just above the silencer. His OCD kicked in, and he struggled through blurring tears to center her nose in the crosshairs, isolating the black-patched eye in the upper right quadrant, and so on.
Lola yawned, oblivious to her fate.
He had convinced himself the night before that it would be better this way. Scrounging for supplies was hard enough, and having fewer mouths to feed would lighten his load—both physically and mentally. It was a horrific solution to a difficult problem, but it was the decision he kept arriving at. He would kill them fast and painlessly, and then bury them in the backyard.
There were other factors to this conclusion—not just convenience, or alleviating stress—the largest being that their existence would eventually betray his own, compromising the safety of all. And what if either should succumb to a bite, or became a meal? The mere thought was unbearable. Would he be able to pull the trigger then and there, hitting the intended target under extreme, perhaps dire conditions?
Who are you kidding, Will?
Shut up, Brian. You don’t even mention pets in your stupid manifesto.
It’s not about the dogs, Will. It’s about you. You’re giving up. First you shoot them, and then you pull the trigger on yourself. You’re just practicing.
