Among the Living (18 page)

He goes through drawers filled with women’s undergarments, lingerie in neat piles, stockings and panties by the handful. Jesus Christ, she must have a discount card at Victoria’s Secret or own stock in the company. He holds one bra up to the flashlight and looks at the tag—34C? Not bad, Jan. He locates a drawer full of Kama Sutra oils, powders, edible things to rub on a lover’s body. A pair of handcuffs, and vibrators of impressive girth. He starts to pick one up, then jerks his hand away, realizing he doesn’t know whose ass it may have been up—although that might explain why John is so stiff. He locates a stash of porn, but it is old—on videotape. John’s probably had the stuff for years. He might take some back if he had electricity. Or an ancient VCR, for that matter.

He wades through every drawer he can find, but he doesn’t locate any guns or ammo. There is a closed door at one end of the room, and when he listens at it, there is no noise. He turns the knob with a shaking hand, and when it is open a foot, he steps back and raises the gun and light. He would like to stand to one side and sort of peek in, but the door isn’t cooperating. It keeps swinging open on a creaking hinge. That is great in the movies, but not in real life. He has a sudden urge to rush downstairs and go through the garage again until he locates a can of WD-40. That’s right, John, I came, I saw, and I oiled your fucking hinges.

The door continues to open, and he pokes the light in every exposed inch until he can see the back. There are more clothes hanging from every pole, boxes stuffed onto shelves. Shoes galore are stacked on a tall shelf—heels, pumps, sandals, and sneakers. He steps in, and his foot squishes in something on the floor. He shines the light down, and even with the deep blue carpet soaking up the light, he knows the unmistakable color of spilled blood.

Lester spins around quickly, gun eye level. His breath comes ragged and rapid. He shines the light all around the room, but nothing moves. Probably an accident and the neighbors went to the hospital when it first started. There is no one else in the house. No one in the house, no one in the fucking house! Please, let there be no one in the house, at least no one of the dead variety.

What about all the closed doors, old son? Still, gotta check them out.

Lester wants to hightail it back to the house. There is nothing else he needs here. He has food, the generator, and gas. Just go, bug out and call it a day. Angela is there, and she is far from scary. So is a huge bag of weed. They can hide in the bedroom and smoke until they both pass out. Is the house really worth investigating if it gives him a heart attack?

But he knows he has to check it out. He hasn’t become a successful drug dealer by being fucking stupid. They may need to switch houses if the deaders get over the fence, and he would rather have a surprise now than when he is running scared with Angela behind him.

He finishes his tour of the room by poking around the large attached bathroom. There is a full shower with a sliding glass door and a deep soaking tub. Looks like heaven. He wishes he could bring Angela over here and soak with her. She can wash his back, and he can soap up her tits.

He walks back into the hallway and contemplates the other doors. They are all closed, but he is determined to search each and every room. One is set against the back of the hallway, probably a bathroom. He listens at the door but doesn’t hear any noise.

He turns the knob and slides the door open on another set of squeaky hinges. No movement, so he pushes it open quickly, gun and light held high. Movement! Something billows, something black. It rustles loudly, and he nearly screams. He staggers back as visions of a deader wrapped in plastic invade his mind. The back of his neck goes ice prickly cold, and the rest of his body breaks out in goose pimples.

Just a shower curtain, stupid—pushing the door open made it fly up. He frowns and chuckles with nervous energy.

There is a room to his right, so he repeats the process. He listens for a minute, then pushes the door open and—ah hah—it is a door that doesn’t squeak. Note to John, nice work with these hinges. Love, Lester.

He is greeted with a room full of torture devices; they sit in corners, arms poking up in the air. Christ, an exercise room. There is a ski machine, a weight bench and a treadmill. Fucking hell, who even has time for that shit? He pokes around but doesn’t find anything useful. The small closet reveals nothing but free weights.

He backs out of the room and considers the remaining doors. He tries to remember where the thump came from when he was downstairs. Was it to the left or the right? Oh what the hell, he sighs and listens at the door next to the exercise room. He doesn’t hear anything, so he pushes the door open.

Another bedroom, the bright light tells him. Bed, dresser, and pictures of kids everywhere. Must be one of their children’s rooms. John told him once that his son and daughter were both in college. He steps into the room and into another splash of blood. What happened here?

A noise draws his attention to the door that must be a closet. A quiet moan. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” he repeats under his breath over and over like a mantra that will save him.

Then there is a scraping sound, and Lester wants to turn and run.

Can’t, gotta make sure the house is clean, just in case. Must be a deader in there. I’ll just open the door and shoot it in the fucking head. Damn thing can’t even figure out how to get out, can’t be much of a threat.

He steps to the door and sets his hand on the knob. He feels pressure low in his gut and is sure he will piss his pants, he is so scared.

“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” he mutters as he turns the knob. “Fucker!” he yells as he jerks the door open.

Shape on the floor. Looks like a person. The flashlight shakes in his hand. He waves it back and forth as he tries to focus. Adrenaline has him so amped that he can barely keep it straight. Did it move? Did something brush his foot? It’s on the ground. What the hell is it?!

He jumps back, and another scream rips past his lips. He shudders so hard that the shot strikes the back of the closet, not the thing on the floor.

In the tiny space, the gun is like a cannon. It blasts away his hearing, leaving a buzz that reminds him of being stoned. He lets out a shout of revulsion, but it rings hollow in his ears. He pulls in some shaky breaths. Draws them deep, and his teeth chatter. Is it suddenly cold in here?

The shape doesn’t move. He shines the light into the cavernous closet. It’s John! He can tell by his glasses, shiny shirt, and long body. Oh fuck, did I just kill him? Why didn’t you say something, buddy? Oh fuck, why didn’t you say something?

Then he draws one more deep breath, closes his eye for half a second to clear his mind. He can do it. He has seen a couple of dead guys today, so why is this different? He doesn’t want to know anything else, he wants to run back to the house, to Angela and then hit the rum until he can’t see straight.

Hand shaking so badly he can’t control it, he shines the light down with a quick motion that brings John into view. John has his arm cocked at a weird angle under his body. Part of his skull is missing, and Les spots a pistol in his other hand, close to his head. John had the balls to kill himself?

Lester drags in one deep breath and then collapses to the floor. He draws his legs up and leans back against the opposite wall. He sighs his relief that he didn’t kill his neighbor. But he also feels a feels a sense of loss for the man. Poor guy has been dead for how long? Maybe a day, the blood is dry, but he is definitely dead as a fucking doornail. He is also a link to Lester’s world that is no longer there. He was a neighbor, sure, someone Les never really took the time to talk to, but he was a constant, and now that constant is dead.

Or so Lester believes … until the arm twitches.

He jumps to his feet. Moves back so quickly that his legs wrap around each other and he falls down for the second time that day. He jitters the flashlight around the room in a rapid, shaky manner that makes the light dance. He leans forward. Breath comes in explosive gasps between his lips. The light focuses on the body.

The arm moves again, then a leg. Poor John has lost part of his head but is somehow functional. Lester points the gun at his head and puts a little bit of pressure on the trigger. Not enough to fire, not yet. John’s head doesn’t move, but his blood-red eyes lock on Lester’s and it’s all Les can do not to scream.

John’s jaw works up and down as if chewing, and a little sound escapes his mouth, like air leaving a tire from a slow leak. Lester has never been so terrified in his life. He wants to jump out the fucking window and take his chances with the deaders that are at least on their feet.

He can’t do it. He has killed a couple of these things, but he doesn’t want to shoot John. He runs the light over the body. It moves back and forth, wiggling like a giant earthworm lying on the ground. There is blood everywhere, like he took handfuls of the stuff and splashed it all over the empty closet. There are also a bunch of potpourri petals piled on his body. So that’s where the smell came from, something to hide the stench of death. Good thinking, Jan. He shuts the door and backs away.

Then he pauses and thinks about John lying up here unable to move. Maybe the self-inflicted gunshot wound cut off motor functions. Maybe they will find John like this in a few weeks, still struggling to move one arm.

AH FUCK, he wants to scream.

He puts his hand on the doorknob and shakes his head. He smiles a little smile at what he is about to do, at how fucking stupid it is. Then the smile drops, and he jerks the door open. He points the gun at John’s face and fires three times. His head is driven into the carpet with each shot, a smacking sound to echo the shots. His hearing was bad before; now he will have ringing for days.

But John isn’t moving anymore, and there is more brain matter all over the floor. There is a hole in John’s forehead right between his eyes, and Lester feels proud for that one. Sorry, John! The second new hole is in his left cheek and the third along his jaw line. The bullet furrowed a line of black along the skin and then punched into his throat.

Les needs a drink, bad. No, he needs a fucking bottle and a few grams of weed to wash away this madness.

He abandons John’s body without a prayer and tries to push the image out of his head. He doesn’t bother with the gun in his neighbor’s hand either. There is no way he is touching that thing. Not even if he had a bottle of Clorox and a chemical suit like the crazy guys were wearing on the street the other day.

He moves into the hallway and opens the door to the last room. It is another kid’s room, and he is about to abandon his search when a shape stumbles into view.

The thing moves faster than seems possible. Arms out in claws that grasp for his face. A scream rips past his lips. A ragged little squeal that sounds like a six-year-old girl who just saw the boogeyman. He fires the gun in reflex. Doesn’t have time to aim, just opens up. The blast once again tears at the remainder of his hearing, and muzzle flashes illuminate the shape attacking him like an old movie. Like camera flashes in a dark room.

He manages to lean out of the way so the thing’s hands pass over his head. Then he falls back as the gun continues to leap in his hand, hammering the deader with round after round.

The gun jams on one shot. I’m screwed!

He kicks out, a lashing move that has little real force behind it but stops the deader in its tracks, makes it fall down. The entire incident has taken seconds, but he feels like he is a few years older.

He spins around to find the stair rail, but he is too close to the first step and stumbles, goes down on his knee. He reaches the wall but doesn’t manage to find the railing and instead spills down the short flight of stairs.

Then the deader is there and filling the hallway with a horrid moaning sound that raises Lester’s hair on end. God, seriously, get me out of this hellhole and I’ll right my ways. I’ll only sell drugs to adults. I’ll stop watching porn! I’ll tell Angela I love her. Just in case he is listening. He comes up on one foot, but his leg is bruised from the fall, so he staggers to the next set of stairs.

The shape doesn’t wait; it dives after him. Fuck, how is it still moving with half a dozen bullets in it? He pulls the gun up, slides the chamber back and ejects the jammed shell. He flies down the stairs as the thing rushes behind him. Misjudging the last step, he comes down hard on the floor and staggers forward into the wall. The gun presses against his chest. Damn lucky it didn’t fire when he slammed into it. That would make a brilliant end to the day, shot by his own gun.

Out, he needs to get the fuck out! The deader stumbles down the last stair as well and slams into the wall where Les just stood. He slides away, raises the gun and fires blindly, backing up as he tries to find his target. One shot goes wide. In the dark, he is having trouble finding the thing’s head so he can put a bullet through it. He readjusts his aim and fires three more quick rounds before the gun strikes empty.

Jesus fucking wept!

Hands grab his shirt, and a mouth is suddenly near. A gaping maw that reeks like old meat or garbage left to rot. He punches quickly, hand a blur as adrenaline drives his blows. He strikes a small shape, catching the thing a good glancing blow. He shoves forward into its chest, his hand sinking into a pair of hard, unyielding breasts. From the thing’s height, he knows that this is John’s wife. His mind gets a flash of her face just a few weeks ago—reasonably attractive; he wouldn’t mind having a go at her.