Will To Live (Book 1): The Dead Next Door

by Smith, T. W.

His phone had been on the kitchen counter where he’d left it since attempting to call Katie weeks before. He had turned it off to conserve power but after checking for a message from her—from anyone—he had neglected to turn it back off and it had gone dead before that evening.

  The following day, when he’d discovered this, his initial inclination was to hurl the cursed thing across the room and shatter it to pieces on the fireplace. But instead, he’d left it on the kitchen counter to remind him of his foolishness—another monument to his vulnerability.

  The phone had remained there for weeks, mocking him. He had always hated telephones—privacy the perfect accoutrement to his diagnosis—and cell phones were the worst as they allowed people to find you anywhere.

  But now there were no people that he knew of, and the irony of a cell phone being a possible beacon was not lost on him.

  Frank had taken Will’s car charger with him on his latest trip to DC. He was always misplacing his own things and Will would never miss it, would he? Besides, he has a home charger. He could always use that.

  So, the phone had sat there on the counter of an electric-less house ever since.

  But now he had a charger and, after retrieving the freshly charged phone from the downstairs garage, he had discovered another message from James:

  “Hey, Will. I never heard from you so I can only assume the worst. I hope that’s not the case and I’m gonna leave this message just because it makes me feel good to think that you might get it. Maybe.

  “Things are the same here. Well, not really. I’m doing things I’m not proud of to protect Cody. I think I told you about the military being here… well, it’s a loose command at best. They’re really just a bunch of thugs in military garb, if you ask me.

  “There’s two scientists here as well. But they’re not making any progress that I can tell. I feel like I don’t have control over my own home anymore. I keep thinking maybe we could come down there, but I’ve heard terrible things about Atlanta. Without knowing you’re there, it’s too big a risk for the boy and me.

  “If you get this, please call.”

  Will opted to save the message and was surprised to find that there was another:

  “Hey, Will. It’s Katie. I’m so glad you called. Sorry I wasn’t any help when you saw me in the window. I was so shocked by the situation. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid if I did anything it would jeopardize both of us. You did great, believe me. I had a ringside seat.

  “I’ve been keeping my phone charged with the car. Turning it off after retrieving a message to save energy. Maddie, my daughter, was supposed to come here days ago, but I haven’t heard from her since Tuesday. I thought your message might be hers.

  “I do think it would be wise if we were together. I have plenty of supplies here. Went to Costco shortly before the Clairmont bombing. You and Frank could bring the dogs, Chaucer won’t mind. Just leave me a message and let me know what you think would be best. Bye.”

  The first message was bad—the sound of James’s voice had been so defeated that it broke Will’s heart.

  However, hearing Katie’s voice from beyond the grave, wanting to compile resources and stick together, knowing deep down that he was at least partially responsible for her demise was almost too much to take.

  He saved the message, walked to the front door, and removed the painter’s tape. There was Katie’s house across the street, front door still open, week’s after the bearded man and his gang had arrived in trucks and on motorcycles.

  The bearded man, Brad—a stranger, now buried in my yard.

  There was not much proof of a melee having transpired, other than the open door and vehicles and cycles still being there. All evidence had either been devoured, dragged off, or got up and walked away. Will had no idea where Katie was now, likely roaming the neighborhood with Ben and Hank. He had avoided looting her home for multiple reasons—too close in proximity to his own, memories of her death, the door being wide open (this last one being somewhat psychological as houses whether open or closed could contain all kinds of surprises). But looking at it now, and knowing what he did from her message about Costco was reason enough to consider forage.

  But first, there was James.

  Will looked at the phone; it felt foreign in his hand.

  Will it still work? Weren’t cell phone towers powered by electricity too? What if his tower was affected by the power outage?

  On September 11th 2001, a couple of years before meeting Frank, he was living in Northern Virginia. Mobile phones were not working on that day, but hadn’t he heard that it was due to the overwhelming attempts of people trying to use them, the influx of data creating an electronic traffic jam of sorts?

  If cell phone towers were powered by electricity, did they use some kind of emergency generators? If so, how long would they last?

  He was stalling, standing there, staring at the small, flat black screen. Terrified.

  He clicked the power button and the phone lit up. The voicemail screen was there and he played James’s message again. When it finished playing, he tapped the number on the virtual keyboard corresponding with the callback function.

  There was no sound, and then a phone was ringing. Everything was so surreal. Will wasn’t exactly sure what to say. James’s voicemail message answered all of his questions:

  Will. I turn my cell phone on for 15 minutes everyday at noon. Call me then.

  Will looked at the clock on his phone. It was ten forty-five.

  The next hour and fifteen minutes might have been the longest of his life. He tried to be productive, half-heartedly beginning The Routine, but by the time he was in the basement lifting weights he gave up. The possibility of talking to another person—James, someone he knew—was almost too much to take. His obsessive mind was working overtime, doubts intruding with dreaded realism.

  What if he doesn’t answer? What if someone else answers?

  When noon arrived, he was dressed in a semi-clean shirt, sitting on the bed with the phone in his hand. He hesitated—only briefly—before hitting the callback button. James answered on the second ring.

  “Will?”

  “James?” Will’s voice cracked from stagnancy. When was the last time he’d spoken out loud?

  “Holy shit. I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve been doing this for weeks.”

  “I know,” was all that Will could manage.

  “I can’t talk too long. I don’t want them to know I have this phone. This is when I shower, so they… never mind.”

  Shower?

  James continued. “What’s your situation there?”

  “It’s me.” The dogs entered the kitchen at the sound of his voice. “Me and the dogs. We… get… by.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Frank?”

  “No.”

  “Will, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it safe there? What if Cody and I come.”

  “No. Not safe.”

  “I was afraid of that. Before the cable went, the reports out of Atlanta weren’t good. The fires were driving everyone out fast, into the burbs. You’re north, right?”

  “Yeah. Lake Lanier.”

  “I’m worried about winter… if we lose power.”

  This had crossed Will’s mind as well. Georgia’s winters were not horrible, but they had ice storms, and it could get really cold.

  “No power here.”

  “Will, are you OK?”

  “Yeah. Haven’t talked much.”

  “We need to come up with a plan. Can you text?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “If we can, let’s text from now on. Saves charge, and we can do it whenever it’s convenient.”

  “OK.”

  “Will, are you sure you’re OK?”

  “No.” He was struggling with words. “But better than most.”

  This made James laugh a little. “That sounds more like you.”

  “I’ll text. Haven’t talked in a
long time. Your voice—it’s a lot.”

  “Yeah. I get it. It may not sound like it, but I’ve seen some awful shit too. Let me know everything in texts. We’ll come up with a plan.”

  “OK.”

  “Will?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hang in there. Cody and I are counting on you.”

  “Thanks, James.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  “Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Will pressed the End Call button, already missing the sound of James’s voice. He powered off. Hearing him live was so much more than a voicemail. He tried not to punish himself too much for his monosyllabic replies. It had not occurred to him that—even with all that he had accomplished—he could still be in shock. Of course, the call itself may have triggered it. He would feel better after he processed everything.

  There was so much to tell James, he wasn’t sure where to start. He couldn’t just text everything, wasting precious technology. Besides, weren’t texts limited to so many characters? He wasn’t sure. And who knew how long the phones would last?

  He decided to write everything down; this would help him draft a text. But first he would continue with The Routine. Wash up, go get water, write in his journal, etc. He craved the normalcy of it all, certain it would get him back on track.

  Later, while writing in his journal, Will filtered the important details of what had transpired over the last month and a half and began writing them down on a separate piece of paper. Once finished, he reviewed and withdrew unnecessary words and details, whittling the page-long document down to half a page. He looked long and hard at it, then wadded it up and decided to wing it:

  House safe for now. Killed eleven, one human. Pilfer nearby homes for supplies. Have two cars, one camper, and 21 gallons of gas. Scared to leave. Scared to stay.

  Later that evening, James replied:

  Can you get here? Better conditions. Have to get through or around Chattanooga and Knoxville. The rest is wide open.

  Will expected this—was actually hoping for the invitation—but had severe doubts about his capability to leave his haven.

  What haven? You live in a shell that gets colder by the day. The basement smells like shit, and the neighborhood flea market will inevitably close. Time is ticking, boy.

  His head hurt. He needed to lie down and think.

  In the bedroom, he stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling fan, analyzing the situation:

  Like most people, you’re resistant to change. It’s natural—and in this new environment dangerous. You’re attached to this house for two reasons: safety and nostalgia. It’s easier to stay here because you’ve maintained a shelter for you and the kids. But you also cling to it because of Frank and the life you had here. You know that if you leave you will never see it (him) again and that breaks your heart.

  Will wasn’t sure where this dialog was leading, but it was a relief to finally be having it.

  You still believe there’s a chance he might come back.

  There it was—no denying it. Without ever having seen Frank’s body, closure had never been attained. Deep down he knew this, but he had always kept warm from that one little spark of hope. Leaving would be the ultimate acceptance.

  You could take a few reminders of him, and you would be in the camper—his baby.

  He smiled at this, rolling over to his side and seeing a picture of himself and Frank at Rehobeth Beach beach campground, Frank’s arms around him. What he would give to feel that comfort right now.

  He rolled back. There was the ceiling fan again. Still. Lifeless.

  I can’t stay.

  What if you find yourself in a bad situation?

  I have guns. Maybe even more by the time I—

  Leave?

  There would be details to work out, but hadn’t he been doing that subconsciously all along? It may have been under the guise of In Case of an Emergency, but the focus could easily be shifted to When I Leave… When We Leave.

  Shifting focus.

  It was a small step, but a step toward—

  Commitment.

  —leaving a former life and its and securities for one of uncertainty—

  Preparation.

  —moving on as opposed to simply surviving.

  Departure.

  He sat up and grabbed the phone.

  Yes. I would like to try. Need preparation. Will keep you updated.

  He hit send feeling more optimistic than he had in weeks. The seeds of ideas were already germinating and he let his obsessive conscious begin the cultivation process.

  I can do this, Will told himself.

  Outside, the numbers of the restless dead continued to grow.

  Awake Again

  Will opened the blinds in his upstairs office window to a brightness he hadn’t seen in a very long time: snow.

  Sometime during the night a blanket of snow had fallen, coating everything in its frozen downiness. He could see Betsy and Hank’s house more clearly now, across the side street—the trees bare, summer foliage removed—its roof and shrubs completely dusted with a fair amount of the stuff, at least four inches.

  There was someone standing in their front yard—a lone, dark figure facing his direction. He thought it was a woman, but he wasn’t sure.

  Binoculars. Didn’t I snag a pair on one of my raids?

  It didn’t matter because it was time to walk the dogs. They would just walk over there and see who it was.

  As if they could read his mind, the dogs were outside in the hallway waiting on him, sensing as they always did that it was walk-time.

  “Yes, it is. It is that time.” He said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Rocko spun around, brimming with excitement and Lola danced as if she might squirt on the floor at any second.

  “You know the rules,” Will said, crossing to the foyer closet.

  Both dogs sat, anxiously awaiting the dressing of their harnesses and leashes. Will put on a coat and turned.

  “I think we can skip the leashes today. Let’s go.”

  The dogs sprung to their feet, following Will as he unbolted the front door and opened it.

  The air was brisk, much colder than he’d had expected—Will could see his breath emanating in cloudy puffs. The three of them went down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Rocko, leading, turned and growled. A UPS deliveryman was standing there on the walkway, frozen solid.

  “It’s OK,” Will said. “He can’t hurt you, buddy.”

  Rocko approached the figure timidly. He sniffed at the man’s shoe, raised his leg, and peed. Lola continued past. Will noticed that the man’s face was normal, no marring wounds or blood, just stiff and even smiling a little. There was accumulated snow on the plateaus of his shoulders and hat brim and a tiny icicle had begun on his nose.

  Will followed the dogs down the sidewalk toward the driveway, snow crunching beneath his feet as he strode.

  Wish I’d worn my boots.

  He looked down and found that he had.

  Lola was now at the foot of the driveway, circling another figure, her tail wagging. It was the paperboy, frozen also, arm up in mid-throw. Will felt no menace from the icy statue, though the dogs sniffed at them with curious trepidation.

  They continued down the street and Will realized that Rocko and Lola—sans leashes—were actually leading him.

  When they approached the intersection, he called them back. They went right, down the side street toward the figure in Hank and Betsy’s front yard. Will could tell—even before he passed Nate and Ruth’s tall Victorian and its snowy shrubs—that the figure was Betsy. Neither of the dogs would approach her, but Will stepped up for a closer look. She was frozen too, but something was different, causing the skin on his forearms prickle. Her expression seemed angry, imprisoned—her eyes glinting with the tiniest bit of outrage.

  Come down here with me queer-boy!

&n
bsp; He leaned in, studying her face.

  Forever in me!

  Her eye twitched, just the slightest bit.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

  The dogs were happy to oblige and Will followed them back the way they had diverted.

  As they walked, enjoying the brisk air, he saw more of the “statues” but felt no compulsion to investigate, regardless of their particular identities. Some he did recognize though. Sometimes, he even waved at them.

  They did not wave back.

  When they turned left at a second intersection, strolling into what Will considered the front half of the neighborhood, the statues became more prominent.

  It’s because of the car bomb, he thought.

  “OK, guys. Stay close.”

  The Prius was where he had left it in the driveway, charred black and still smoking—the only object within sight that was not covered in snow. Figures were gathered around the car, in the yard and street—immobile, posed like wax mannequins in a bizarre tableau at a museum—no blood, nor wounds, nor distinguishing marks of any kind. Other than the smoke rising, everything was perfectly still, and covered in a plush layer of downy white.

  Will stood with the dogs in the center of the street, studying both of the houses.

  Why am I here?

  Brian’s voice spoke: You’re here to find the Mother Lode, my friend.

  Great—you, again. I can’t even dream without you.

  Will, I’ve gotten you this far haven’t I?

  Whatever.

  And you never even read the last third of my manifesto. You of all people should know not to judge a work before it’s completed.

  Will said nothing.

  These raids are dangerous Will. One tiny thing goes wrong and you’re screwed. And there are more zombies now—more by the day.

  What’s your point?

  My point is you need to find the house that will yield the highest bounty, do the job fast, and get the hell out of Dodge before you become another headstone in this cemetery.

  Why should I listen to you? You said it yourself—I don’t like you.

  That’s just anxiety talking, diverting your attention to avoid commitment.