by Smith, T. W.
It wasn’t the first time this thought had crossed his mind. What if Brian was right? What if his whole quest for a gun had been subliminally about suicide?
There is no Brian, Will. Only you.
Somehow, that made it even less easy to swallow.
OK, let’s say you’re right. But what if I don’t want to go on? I’ve lost Frank—the most important part of my life is gone.
I’m sure victims of other tragedies felt the same. What about 9/11?
The victims of 9/11 weren’t living in a dead world.
There are other people out there, Will. Survivors.
Yeah? Well, I haven’t liked those I’ve encountered so far.
And by removing what’s precious to you—you’ll persevere?
Maybe.
Bullshit.
Lola rested her head upon her extended legs. Her soft, brown eyes looked to him, asking: Daddy, can’t we just turn the TV on? Maybe sit on the couch and chill? Later, we could go for a walk, like before?
Will centered her face in the sight again, tightening his grip on the trigger.
God… give me the strength.
“God?” He said the word aloud—surprised.
He was reminded of the choral melody of Madonna’s Like a Prayer. He hadn’t heard the song in a long time but had always associated the iconic, vocal introduction with the word.
Life’s a mystery, Will.
Shut up.
Everyone must stand alone.
He lowered the gun to the floor, got to his feet, and went into the kitchen. He submerged a hand towel in a bowl of water he kept in the sink, wringing out the excess and mopping his face.
Saved by Madonna. You dogs will never realize how lucky you were to have gay parents.
But that wasn’t it at all. Brian’s musings came and went and he was used to dismissing the frivolous ones. It was his use of the word God that had confused him. He had rarely uttered it in the last decade, unless he was swearing.
Will had not believed in God for a long time. He had never told Frank this, but suspected that he knew—the way that most couples intuit things within their relationships. He was a little embarrassed about it, having been an openly gay man for almost twenty years, but still a closeted atheist.
God has nothing to do with what’s going on—this is man’s folly. Idiots with their beliefs and agendas—political or religious—are to blame. Why should the human race suffer for their ideals? Why should I?
Good question.
Why should my dogs have to die to make my life—or lack thereof—easier?
They shouldn’t.
Fuck them.
Yeah, fuckers.
Fuck God.
That’s it, Will. Get angry.
The ones to blame are probably dead too. For what?!
He left the kitchen, moving through the breakfast nook and back into the den where the dogs—sensing change and newfound energy—followed him.
They went out on the screened deck, and through the exterior door to the landing overlooking the backyard. The trees were at the height of their summer growth, encroaching the yard and keeping visibility limited to his immediate surroundings. He descended the stairs to the backyard—the dogs following him. When he reached the lawn, he crouched and lay down in the overgrown grass. The dogs stayed near, venturing far enough away to relieve themselves, before nestling each side of him. Will put his hands behind his head and stared into the gray sky.
“Fuck the dead,” he mumbled to himself.
He had always been a fighter, but somewhere along the way that spirit had gone dormant. Not just with the ending of the world, but somewhere during his relationship with Frank. He’d gone soft, complacent.
“Fuck Brian.”
He had read the manifesto a dozen times but, even with its useful ideas and strategies, the outcome was always grim because there was no ending—just do X when Y inevitably happens.
He closed his eyes.
“I need an ending,” he whispered, and sleep took him.
When he opened his eyes again it was past twilight, near dark. The dogs were no longer with him.
Not smart. Fresh air was the plan, not sleep.
His eyes adjusted, and he saw them sitting over by the chain-link, searching the woods, toward the street. Any second and one would see movement, or hear a shuffle, and then both would bark regardless of the Quiet Collars.
“Guys,” he whispered. “Come here.”
Rocko trotted to him immediately, but Lola stood her ground.
“Lola.”
She glanced languidly over her shoulder at him. But Daddy, there’s something out there. I smell it, and I need to see it. Just a little longer?
Will used his finger to indicate where she needed to be and, reluctantly, she complied.
He took them inside and returned to the yard, where he stretched out again. The sky had cleared and the moon was bright—gorgeous.
Stars.
He listened really hard, deciphering their slow shuffles from the light air currents. They were there in the street, moving, nothing vocal—that only seemed to come with stimulation—just the lonesome sound of the dead wandering aimlessly in the night.
There was no doubt in his mind that the dogs must have heard them too. But they hadn’t barked. Peculiar. Maybe they’d learned. Maybe they were protecting him. Maybe he didn’t give them enough credit.
But I know them well enough not to risk a stunt like that again.
He found Orion’s Belt in the stars—the one constellation he could always find immediately. As an adolescent, Will and his childhood friend, Mark, had dubbed it the Saucerful of Secrets, after a song by Pink Floyd. One night, the boys had been camping out on his parent’s deck in Tennessee. They had smoked some weed and were convinced that the flying saucer-shaped stars were pulsing and actually getting closer.
Wonder where Mark is now—alive, dead, or one of those things?
Clouds drifted, thinly veiling the moon.
Things have got to change. I can’t keep going like this.
Killing the dogs would have been a temporary solution. Their absence would have perhaps made physical survival a little easier, but what long-term effects would have ensued mentally. Maybe Brian was right.
He didn’t answer. Sometimes, Brian knew when to keep quiet.
Am I going crazy?
This thought had crossed his mind often as well. What were the dangers of long-term isolation? He had rationalized that a routine—complete with a pseudo-systematic agenda—in conjunction with his OCD would help relieve stress and bring balance into this new existence. But had it? Maybe it was detrimental due to its lack of variety.
I’ve got to change things up.
But how? This world had chosen him and his place in it. It wasn’t like he could hop in a car and leave. This house was now his fortress. It was the one thing he could maintain as shelter for himself and the dogs. To leave it would mean—
Death.
—uncertainty, an alteration in his routine that he would have no control over.
No. Strike that. He would have less control over things, but he would still be in charge.
Orion’s Belt pulsed in the sky. He longed for Pink Floyd—any music—to drown the sounds of night in a lifeless world.
Frank was another reason he felt tied to the house. What if he did come back somehow and they were gone? This was so unlikely, impossible. In this environment diabetes was a death sentence. The notion of Frank’s return was a comforting fantasy—similar to those aspiring for a different life, but never initiating a change leading toward it.
Is that what I am doing?—deferring my fate as casually as one would start their diet tomorrow?
Comfort. Familiarity. These were his anchors. The house represented his life with Frank and the dogs—and unless forced away from that, he would cling to it like a raft in a swirling sea of doubt.
“Frank is never coming back,” he whispered. “I have to accept this.”
He rose, stretched, and went inside. The dogs were there, as always, to greet him.
“We’re going to make some changes here,” he told them, stooping to accept their kisses and squeezing them tight. “Tomorrow, we’re going to begin our own manifesto.”
Rocko went to get one of his toys, assuming that playtime would finally commence. Will gently tugged at it and Lola joined in. Will let go and allowed the two to play tug-of-war in the dark—a little more noisily than normal—leaving for the bedroom.
He wasn’t crazy after all. He was lonely. Frank had been his life, and he had been removed as swiftly and indifferently as an insect’s wings in the hands of an evil child.
He grabbed a votive, a pen, and a pad of paper from his desk drawer and returned to the windowless hall. The dogs were settling into their places on the couch in the neighboring room as he sat down in the narrow hallway, leaning back against the wall. He lit the candle and watched the shadow of the flame dance across the paper for a moment.
He began writing:
Frank,
I miss you so much and would do anything to see you again. Please know this: I love you and would wait for you forever… but I must go on. I believe deeply that this is what you would have wanted me to do for myself, and the dogs.
I have decided to live…
BEGINNINGS
The Plan
Will lit the Molotov cocktail and tossed the bottle into the open door of the Toyota Prius. There was an audible whoosh as the flames spread, engulfing the car’s interior. He ran to the side of the house and crouched down where he had left his satchel.
Several zombies were already moving his way from the street, toward the crackling flames of the car in the driveway.
So far, so good. He darted into the backyard—making sure everything was clear in the woods behind—then returned to his vantage point. The dead were amassing around the flaming vehicle, some approaching with their hands out, igniting and then turning away. Will watched for a moment, then inched back around the corner, out of sight.
He had no idea how long it would take the car to explode, nor if it would explode at all. Sometimes they didn’t. But he’d taken extra precautions to make sure the chances were good—filling the interior with flammable debris and leaving a wick of tattered cloth in the open gas tank. The goal was not for an immediate explosion. He wanted the car to simmer for a while, attract attention of the locals before the big bang brought them out in droves.
Always close with your biggest number, Brian reminded.
That’s what they say.
Freebird?
No—too long, too slow, and too straight.
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough?
That’s all right, but I prefer If I Could Turn Back Time. Seems more fitting.
Yeah—and way gay.
The supply runs were getting farther away and more complicated, taking days to set-up—but the yield was greater, making the effort worthwhile. Danger was ever-present, but with experience came confidence, and Will was careful not to tiptoe into the land of arrogance. The dead were basically animals, and animals could be managed, even used to his advantage if needed. He knew his neighborhood, and was becoming even more acquainted with shortcuts and navigation. Plans formulated quicker, sometimes entirely in his head before he could get them on paper. Of course, one day the well would run dry—at least in Lakeland. Then what?
He wasn’t certain but was working toward an answer.
This particular run had taken four days. On the first day, he located a house with a car in the driveway. He then dispatched any occupants of that particular house and the house next door.
On the next day, he did a traditional supply-run on the first house—the one he was now leaning against—and took it to the house next door. His day wasn’t complete until he had purged both houses, and had all of his take-home fully loaded into the Toyota Camry in the garage of the secondary house. It was a small car, but Will discovered that you can get a lot into a car that size when things are removed from packaging, particularly when you know that you must get everything—whether a necessity or luxury item—in one trip.
That was a long day.
On the third day he rested, drawing out the final plans and making sure he had the two most important components of this elaborate scheme primed and ready.
He reached into the leather travel satchel and the felt the hard edge of his Hyundai Santa Fe’s battery nestled within a towel. Other than the bulky battery, he was traveling light, carrying only a machete, a pistol, a screwdriver, a crescent wrench, and a decoy. He wouldn’t need anything else. After all—he was driving home.
The dead were more vocal now, their numbers increasing from the activity, drawn like moths to, well… a flame.
He stood and looped the bag strap over his head and shoulder. He took one last peak around the corner to see that the car was burning well now. Time to move. He scurried behind the first house, traveling a few steps into the woods to mask his crossover to the neighboring backyard.
He’d thought of simply setting the first house on fire, but the neighborhood was heavily wooded and it would be foolish to risk a fire that could eventually travel to his own home. Since the beginning, he’d been planning for last-minute escapes; now, when the time came to exit this place permanently—he wanted to do it on his own terms.
As he crossed into the trees, the car exploded—a little sooner than he had planned—a thundering boom in the silence. Thick, black clouds of smoke rose up into sky above the rooftops. Will utilized the noise to reach the other house faster, taking larger steps and running for cover behind a tin tool shed. From here he had a view of the burning car between the two houses.
There were twenty or more zombies now, wondering about the flames. Several were on fire themselves. Portable torches, he thought, a little worried they would wander into the woods and set larger fires. But they burned fast, crumbling to the ground and writhing for a short time before being entirely consumed by flame.
He continued around the shed and made a quick dash to the patio door, letting himself in with a key.
Everything was as he had left it a couple of days before. He drew his machete (just in case) and walked briskly to the front foyer and then upstairs. He entered the first bedroom on the left—a child’s bedroom—and went to the window overlooking the front yard. He parted the blinds.
The scene below looked war-like from up high, a large crackling fire to the right, dark smoke pluming, twisted bodies burning, and legions of tattered soldiers, lurching in. Will’s eyes traveled up to the other houses across the street and beyond. He was pleased—and a little uneasy—to see that many more were on the way from all directions. He released the blinds.
As he left the room, he noticed a small brass picture frame on the nightstand by the door. In it, a happy couple posed with a smiling little girl. She was in full princess regalia and the three of them were in front of Cinderella’s castle at Disneyworld. Will had never known this particular family and he wondered if any of them were in the crowd outside. He tossed the frame on the bed and left the room.
The garage was dark—there were no windows in the garage door—but the flashlight was on the shelf where he had left it. He turned it on and popped the hood on the Camry. Outside, he could hear the muffled roar of activity next door but he didn’t let it distract him as he concentrated on the task at hand.
He removed the car’s battery, using the wrench to loosen the cables from slightly corroded posts. Before replacing it, Will opened the car door and—amongst all the meticulously packed loot—slipped the old battery onto the floor behind the driver’s seat in the small space he had reserved for it. He was collecting batteries now, unless certain they were dead. Man-made energy was too scarce.
Once the replacement battery was installed and the hood closed, Will tossed his satchel on the pile in the passenger seat, got in and cranked the car. The engine turned over at once.
OK. No turning ba
ck now.
He got out of the car. The garage door had been disengaged from its electric opener on the prior trip. All he had to do was lift it. This part troubled him. Zombies would be approaching the decoy from all directions and he had no idea of knowing how many would be coming from the left, across the driveway he was exiting. There could easily be several—some may have even heard the engine start—ready to pounce. But the garage was growing thick with exhaust fumes, a failsafe that was intentional on his part.
No turning back.
Will opened the door.
Everything felt like slow motion. There was no horde of zombies waiting for him, however many did see the garage go up—their expressions animated with exaggeration and surprise. Several altered their course from the burning car, toward him. Two were closer than expected, more than halfway down the driveway. Will drew his pistol and shot the closest one in the head. It fell. He did not use the silencer and the retort was loud. The more noise he made now, the better; the goal was to draw every creature in the entire subdivision this way. He fired at the second one and missed, hitting it in the shoulder and spinning it away, down to the grass. Many more were taking notice and heading his way.
Will holstered the pistol and got in the car. He engaged the stick shift and released the clutch. The car choked and died.
Don’t panic.
The driveway began filling with the dead. A few faces he recognized, but most he did not—all in similar stages of decomposition, weathered from long-term exposure to the elements. Will thought he saw the familiar face of a recent HOA board member, but a youngish girl sideswiped him in her pursuit of the open garage. She had no lower jaw, tongue exposed and dangling, wearing a Concrete Blonde t-shirt. There were also two children, both boys—one with large eyes, slack mouth, and clawing fingers, as if pretending to be a monster; the other hobbling on a broken ankle, in a spastic, almost seizure-like state. There was a woman in a bikini, and a man in sweats and Nike athletic shoes—ages being harder to decipher, as horrific details grew more apparent with proximity. Grayish scalps exposed in thinning hair, bony joints protruding from thin, sun-bleached fabrics, gaunt and hollow facial features, dark webbing between fingers. And there were the battle scars—missing appendages, broken bones, torn ears, removed eyes, absent noses, burnt skin, mauled flesh, smoldering tissue, hollow cavities, tenuous viscera—some too awful to comprehend—but all hypnotic to behold.
