by Smith, T. W.
What could be in here?
He moved toward the back, passing several examination rooms with large pedestal chairs, eye charts, and bizarre, multi-eyed phoropters, suspended in the shadows. Each room had a sink, and a desk complete with plastic models of the eye, but nothing of use that he could see. After sticking his head in the first of these examinations rooms, he continued past the others until he reached two final doors in the very back. It was dark this far away from the front glass, and his flashlight was the only source of light. He put it in his mouth and drew his gun.
When he opened the first door he found a bathroom—pristine, but with very little water in the toilet. He left the door open and moved to the door beside it, reaching for the knob.
I’ll just fling it open and step back. If something’s in there, I’ll have plenty of time to shoot it.
He turned the knob and shoved the door open. It was a break-room and kitchenette. There was a counter, cabinets, and a microwave. On the table was a basket, filled with foil packets of condiments, many of which were punctured and deflated, a sticky mess. His light-beam continued across the table where it landed on a red-eyed, furry black blur that darted toward him, off the table surface to the floor, through his legs and out the door.
Fuck! Goddamn rat!
His heart was racing, as he stood frozen. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain calm.
It scared you, Will. It’s gone. Everything’s fine.
He crossed to the cabinets and found paper plates, plastic utensils, and coffee filters along with some dry food items—boxes of crackers, granola bars and such—all shredded by rodents, what little contents left just crumbs and tatters on the shelves. Upon closer inspection, he saw droppings everywhere, in the cabinets, on the countertops, and the floor.
Gross.
He ignored the refrigerator, leaving the room and closing the door.
He made a pit stop in the bathroom. As he was urinating in the dry toilet, he heard tapping on the glass.
Outside, the sun was fast approaching the horizon. The two zombies she had been watching had reached and passed the designations Will had targeted. Behind them, others had appeared. It was hard to count how many, but Will would guess upwards of twenty from each direction—too far away to distinguish features, creeping black death.
“There’s a clean bathroom in there, with toilet paper. You still have time if you need to.”
Lisa looked at the dark glass, contemplating.
“It’s clear. I saw a rat but it ran. We have to stop soon, but I wasn’t sure if you might need to go now.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I need to.” She tucked the gun into the back of her jeans. Will handed her the flashlight.
“It’s in the very back, on the right.”
The door eased shut behind her and he maintained watch on the approaching dead—two small armies now, moving toward the camper from both entrances of the shopping center. They would continue to inch in slowly like shade from the setting sun, merging into one mass before consuming what lie in their path—a nameless, faceless mob spreading through this world with the tenacity of cancer.
So this is how it is now.
Will wondered how long he could hold on. In a world spinning headlong into annihilation, chance of survival would surely be low. He was grateful the talking heads on television were not there to cite percentages. All he had was what he could carry, his memories of a world gone by the only incentive for continuing. Was it futile, living for the past? He had a feeling Brian would say it was.
Best to concentrate on the immediate. Long-term options may materialize, but continuous movement was the only way to get there. In that respect, he was not entirely different from his enemy.
Devour what is in your path until you find peace.
Lisa returned through the door with the remains of the toilet paper roll
My little soldier.
You could hear them now, various tempos of growls and groans, blending into one constant drone. There were easily more than a hundred, steadily paced, inching beyond the halfway point between the camper and Buford Highway, a terminal tide rolling in.
“Let’s go,” Will said.
Rocko and Lola were happy to see them return, both already weary of being held captive inside the camper. Lisa snapped her seatbelt on. Will started the engine.
“We’re going to have to find somewhere to stop before dark,” he said. There are bound to be some open fields, or parks, in the direction we’re going. I figure the dogs can sleep inside and me and you can sleep on the roof. You OK with that?”
Lisa nodded.
“Good. Now, how about you find us some tunes?”
Lisa unzipped the padded box and examined the CD jewel cases with the scrutiny of an archaeologist, unearthing rare, lost relics. And they were, Will realized. Everything was.
Ourselves included.
He put the camper in gear and made a sweeping arc just thirty feet shy of the encroaching crowd, then brought her around parallel with the shop fronts and accelerated. He steered up the hill past the abandoned K-mart, toward another exit hidden by the Pizza Hut building.
Lisa settled on a bright yellow CD.
“Trade you,” Will said holding out a closed fist.
She gave him the CD and was surprised to find her returning hand held three miniature candy bars in it.
He winked and she grinned—the first substantial happiness he’d witnessed from her since meeting the dogs.
“Petula Clark,” he said sliding the disc into the player. “I think you’re going to like her.”
He turned right on to Georgia Highway 20, and the soft piano cords of Downtown, came through the speakers.
Downtown may be the solution to Petula’s troubles and cares, but I’m hoping it’s Tennessee for us.
And as they sped down the deserted highway, the first chorus came and Will turned it up loud—bringing the dogs to attention and forcing giggles from Lisa’s chocolate-smeared lips. The camper was filled with the roar of a lavishly embellished orchestra—drums, strings and horns blasting—and they sang along, the only word they knew.
“Downtown! La-la-la-la… la, la. Downtown! La-la-la-la… la-la.”
They drove west into the setting sun.
Tomorrow, they would go north.
Afterword
The adventures of Will in the zombie apocalypse will continue…
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Acknowledgements
Though novels are usually written by one person, there are often folks behind the scenes that help bring a work to fruition. In regards to this, I would like to express my gratitude to these people…
Dennis Asken, Brenda Asken, Jason Smith, Jennifer Smith, David Horton, Haley Sulich, Baileigh Higgins, Will Overby, Mary Key Ferrell, David Muschell, Richard Matheson, and George A. Romero.
Author’s Note
Some of you may have noticed that The Dead Next Door is similar to the classic novel—I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson. This is no accident. Matheson’s novel is one of my all-time favorites. I have read it more than any other book. I just happened to like zombies more than vampires and wanted to see what it would be like for the last man on earth in that particular scenario.
Of course Will is not the last man… but he is alone for a large part of this novel and the theme was of similar intention. I have never liked any of the movie adaptions of I Am Legend… so, I set out to write the movie that I wanted to see.
On the other hand, I am a huge George Romero fan, hence the homages
to him in this story. I’m long-obsessed with many types of film and literary zombies but, when it came to what I wanted to write, I saw no reason to deviate from the master.
I hope you had as much fun reading this book as I did writing it.
T.W.S.
Bio
T.W. Smith is fascinated with what scares people. His love affair with things that go bump in the night has spanned five decades, evolving into what he equates as comfort food:
Some people crave potato chips. Others seek solace in a bowl of ice cream. Give me a comfortable couch and a classic movie like John Carpenter’s Halloween, or a well-worn Stephen King paperback, and I am in heaven. It’s my Chicken Soup for the Soul.
After the publication of his short story Not Far From Here (in Peter Straub’s Ghosts anthology, 1995), Smith was sidelined into the workforce by familial and financial obligations—resulting in various jobs including a five-year tenure with (the sorely missed) Borders bookstore chain. He has worked in management for a handful of retailers and for 8 years was the co-owner of Smith’s, a kitchen and home store in the metro Atlanta area.
T.W. Smith resides in northern Georgia, with his husband, his mother-in-law, and their pets.
Gratitude
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