Among the Living (17 page)

Angela should already be moving to the back of the house. She will check the door and call out if she sees anything. He slides along the fence, picking up a couple of splinters in the process. There is a loud thump from the back, making him go still as his heart beats faster. Then Angela utters “shit,” and he breathes a sigh of relief. Wonder what she ran into?

He grips the gun tighter, slides the chamber down and double checks that there is a round in the chamber. He can tell the gun is full by the weight in the palm of his hand.

He goes into commando mode, at least his version of it. Gun held high, he creeps along to the fence. The wood slats rise at least six feet into the air, and it will be a bitch to climb if he can’t get the old wooden gate open. He can’t remember ever using the door, so he prays it will work. Over here, it smells like fresh bark. It’s an earthy scent from the stuff John had hauled in a week ago.

He locates the door and feels around until he finds the string hanging out of a hole. Lester takes hold and pulls. There is resistance from the other side, and nothing happens. He pushes on the door, gently, but it barely moves. There is a click of metal on metal that sounds as loud as two trashcans banging together to his hyped-up brain. He looks toward the front of the house, which is obscured by low shrubs. There is still movement there, but nothing he can make out with certainty.

He yanks the string harder, and there is a loud click from the other side. The door loosens, so he pulls it open. He can’t help but wonder what they are going to do if they are still stuck here in a week. They have been content to sit around, smoke, drink and fuck. And while it is fun, Lester is concerned about the food supply. Maybe John has a pantry full of goodies and is willing to share. Maybe he left and it is up for grabs. Maybe the world has gone to shit and he will have to kill his neighbor.

He closes the door until the metal parts of the lock barely touch, but he doesn’t let it lock just in case he needs to haul ass. John’s yard is as hard to make out in the pale light as Lester’s was. The difference is that John gives a shit about his yard. There are flowerbeds, large roses that rise along the wall. He pushes one aside gently, doing his best to avoid the thorns, but like the wood wall earlier, they bite into his skin.

He and the neighbor have been on speaking terms and outwardly friendly, but Lester knows the man doesn’t trust him and in fact looks down on him. John is aware of people coming at all hours of the night, but he and his wife are older, kids gone, they probably don’t have much of a life. They seem content to let the next-door drug dealer do his thing as long as it doesn’t affect them. They probably have date night and screw once a month. If Les gets that old and boring, he hopes someone will put a fucking bullet in his skull.

He slides around the back of the house to the screen door. It is dark in the living room, and he can pick out indistinct shapes that are probably a chair and a couch. He tugs the sliding screen door aside and tries the door. Not surprising—it is locked. He doesn’t want to go around to the front, he can’t be sure the things aren’t surrounding the place from all the rustling around on that side of the house.

He finds a side window and tries it. Thing doesn’t budge. He moves to each of the remaining two windows and tries them. All are locked shut. He’s going to have to break one.

He is nervous because, although he assumed that John and his wife left, he never saw them depart. The garage has been shut, and there is no way to see if the big SUV is in it. He goes back to the sliding glass door and tries to peer inside.

Nothing but shadows. He taps on the glass lightly with the butt of the gun and whispers as loud as he dares, “John?” His voice is loud in his head, and he hopes it doesn’t carry to the front. He also hopes John isn’t sitting in the living room with a gun aimed at the window so he can blow away any threats at his back door.

A cloud passes across the sky, obscuring the pale moon. This in turn casts the back of the house into complete darkness. He sighs and slides to the ground, sitting on the little concrete patio. He doesn’t want to break a window; they may have to move here, and he wants the place intact.

He snaps his fingers when he thinks of an alarm company rep who showed them an inexpensive deterrent a few years ago. Lester had gone with the competition, since they offered a better in-home service, but he remembers the guy walking around, showing him where intruders could get in. The man stood by Lester’s door and told him why the older houses needed some TLC.

He takes hold of the big door’s handle and with a gentle motion, lifts straight up and then jiggles it a bit. The door slides up into the track at the top, and the latch slips off the hook. He slides it to the left and then lowers the door. It worked! Fucking sweet! Now Lester is a drug dealer and a thief who can be charged with breaking and entering. If his dad were still around, wouldn’t he be proud?

He slips inside and stops until he can get used to the dark. The house has an odd smell, like potpourri with an undercurrent of rot, sort of like food left out too long.

He nearly stumbles over a low glass table on his third step. His shin cracks into the edge, and he mutters a half-dozen ‘fucks’ under his breath as the pain races up his leg. That’s going to leave a lump.

I should have brought a flashlight, not that I have one. One thing Lester has learned from this is that he was unprepared for a power outage, and when things are back to normal, he is going to stock up on supplies. He is going to become a fucking survival nut with tons of food stores, and jugs of water to go with the bags of pot and boxes of bullets.

“John,” he hisses. “It’s Lester. Anyone home?” Then he says it louder.

He jumps. Was that a thump upstairs?

“John?” he calls again.

Nothing.

He moves around the living room, careful this time so his shins don’t meet any more sharp edges. The kitchen is backed into a corner of the house. It is darker in here, but he feels along the edge of the counter until he finds drawers. He pulls them out one at a time, looking for a flashlight. He shifts utensils around in one drawer and then junk in another. There are shapes that may be cookie cutters in one and a drawer full of knives. He slides his hand out of this one very slowly.

He locates a box of candles in one drawer. They are the long, skinny ones that are used for dinner. They are better than nothing. He slips his lighter out and hisses the thing to life with a click. Then the candle is lit, and he can see around the little kitchen. He lights another candle and holds the two together to get a better view.

Well looky here, he smiles. There is an emergency light in the wall outlet, the kind that charges all the time while plugged in. He pops it loose and tests it. A bright light stabs out and brings the room to life.

Things are looking up!

There is another thump upstairs, louder this time. He doesn’t want to go up there; he wants to find the generator and go. He blows out the candles and sets them on the counter. Then, thinking that it would be a shame to burn down his neighbor’s house, he drops them in the sink and even runs water over the wicks.

He probes the house, wandering into an empty bathroom. Then into a family room complete with big screen TV and hundreds of DVDs. There is a leather couch and a lazy boy in the center of the room. He moves on to the entrance to the garage, presses his ear to the door and listens for a few seconds.

He grips the doorknob and turns it slowly. He cups the flashlight against his chest and peers into the darkness. His heart is beating faster again; it thumps against his chest and is so loud he bets Angela can hear it. What if John and his wife are deaders? What if they have the disease that is fucking up the other neighbors? What if they are in the garage, in the dark; will he be able to hold the light on them and the gun at the same time? Too many bad horror movie images dance through his head.

He takes a breath, slides the door open a fraction more and slips his head in. The smell hits him right away. It’s a horrid odor that reminds him of something he can’t put his finger on. God, he hopes there isn’t a body rotting in here! There is no movement. He lets out a breath that is loud to his ears and then calls out again.

“John?”

Movement to the right, something fast that shoots up. He fumbles back, and the flashlight smacks into his face as the door slams shut. “Fuck!” he yells louder than he intended. What the hell was that thing?

Then he hears a faint purr and chuckles to himself. That would explain the smell all right—cat shit. He slides the door open, and a small feline rubs its way through the crack and noses at his feet suspiciously. He leans over and holds his hand near the cat so it can smell him, then he rubs its head. Damn thing has a purr like a small engine.

“I’ll get you some food in a sec, cat,” he tries to reassure the little feline. He runs his hand along its arching back. How long has the poor thing been shut up? Well if the cat was cool in the garage, there must not be an infected John in there, so he enters and checks to make sure the door isn’t locked from the other side. He finds a shoe on the floor and uses it to prop the door open.

The garage is clean except for a cat box in one corner. There is sand splashed all around the plastic liner. The thing is indeed full of little lumps, but he’ll be damned if he is going to clean it out.

The big SUV takes up most of the free space. There are sets of shelves against one wall, big metal ones that look as if they could support tons of stuff. He wanders around the space feeling very voyeuristic. Sure this is a matter of survival, but he is getting a perverse thrill out of looking through his neighbor’s things. They never speak much, but they’re on friendly enough terms. The wife is older but kind of a cougar. Tall, thin, tending to dress in business suits but likes to go around in shorts and low-cut shirts in the summer.

He spots a generator on a lower shelf among some camping gear. Bingo! It isn’t quite what he had in mind, but at least it is portable. There are some extension cords near the thing as well as a propane stove and a folded-up tent. More poking around turns up a big plastic container of gas cylinders. He starts moving supplies to the hallway outside the garage.

Sadly, he doesn’t come across any guns, but he still has half a house to search.

He moves the pile over to the sliding glass door and then raids their pantry for canned goods. They have some corned beef hash, lots of veggies and canned fruit. There are Vienna sausages and even a few tins of chili. He moves stuff around until he comes a box of plastic trash bags. He doubles one up and piles the food into it.

There are boxes of noodles as well, which he puts in another bag with some health shit they call cereal. Beggars can’t be choosers, he reckons. Maybe some sugar will make it edible.

He slips out the back door and moves to the fence gate. He peeks around it and whispers loudly, “Angela.”

There is movement, then a shape appears around the side of his house. Having her dress in black wasn’t such a good idea, since he can barely see her. He raises the gun just in case, but she steps into the half-light and waves.

Lester moves some of the bags into his yard and goes back for more. He lugs the generator over and then the gas. When everything is close to the house, he waves at her one more time. A glance at the shambling figures near the front fence tells him that some are still milling around. For the thousandth time that day, he wishes they would fuck right the hell off his property.

He goes back to John’s glass door, slides it open and jumps again as the cat flashes by with a hiss. Stupid cat!

He points the light into closets and cabinets one last time, but he finds only the same shit you would find in anyone else’s closet. Sheets, blankets, towels, boxes of crap, tennis rackets, golf clubs. Hey deader, how about eighteen holes with your head as the golf ball? He moves to the stairwell and pokes the flashlight up. After six stairs, there is a landing and then a left turn to more steps.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his mouth.

Probably nothing, the little thumps earlier, might be an open window or the cat, which seems intent on scaring him to death. He takes one step and then another. When he reaches the landing, he darts the light up into the pitch-black hallway. There is the overpowering stench of flowers or incense that makes him want to gag. It’s like someone took a barrel of the stuff and dumped it in a pile, then left it to decay.

As his eyes crest the stairs, he is able to see that one door is open and two are shut.

“John?” he calls out.

The house remains silent.

He moves to the first closed door on his left and presses his ear to it. There is no movement, so he wanders past. The next door is open. He pokes the light in, but nothing leaps out. If something did, he would probably shit his pants. Lester can’t remember ever being this scared in his life.

He has the gun ready, but his hand is shaking so that the flashlight next to it rattles against the barrel. He moves into the large bedroom. Dressers have drawers hanging out of them, and there’s half-filled luggage on the unmade bed. He pokes around, but they only contain clothes in which he wouldn’t be caught dead. John tends to wear tropical print shirts, khakis and the occasional shiny golf shirt. On his tall, gaunt frame, it works, but Lester would never be mistaken for a golfer, what with his scraggly black beard and hair that hangs past his ears.