Neighborhood Watch

Chapters

1. Mr. Clark

2. “A Zombie, eh?”

3. Zombiepedia

4. The
415

5. A Perfect Stronghold

6. A Plan of Attack

7. “Only One Thing to Do”

8. Soldiers of Sea

9. The Agent of Death

10. Nobody is Invincible

11. Final Stand

Neighborhood Watch

Evan Bollinger

Copyright © 2015

Evan Bollinger

All Rights Reserved

I slammed the brake and kicked the dirt. My final stop.

“Hi Billy!”

Miss. Lenner from down the block was walking her dogs, the small one and the really big black one. Well, they were walking
her
more like. Tugging this way and that, and all the while slobbering a long stream along the sidewalk.

“Did you—deliver my..
Dansbury—Times
?” Her squeaky, shaky voice was enough to hurt my ears.

“Of course I did!” I said.

She was a friendly woman, but strange. Her tight, toned body seemed odd—like it belonged to somebody much younger. Short, small and full of lean muscle, that was Miss. Lenner. When she wasn't running with dumbbells, she was walking her dogs for miles on end. Part of me thought she
liked
being
yanked
and
jerked
along...

She was always calling my mom about nothing too.

My mom said she was lonely.

Watching her disappear around the corner, I turned to the final house along Friday's paper route. My bag was more or less empty except for a small little bundle, no doubt a collection of weird stuff. Rumor had it this guy was some kind of ex-chemical expert—a real smart, silent type. He went by Mr. Clark and he should have been here, right now, in his usual spot with those squinting yellowish eyes.

But he wasn't—he wasn't anywhere.

The ride had been good today, a nice tailwind almost the whole way. Unfortunately, my luck was running out. The sky was closing in and I could already see the dark drifts in the West. The wind was really starting to pick up, the air practically crackling.

If I could get home in 15 minutes, I'd be lucky—but not fast enough.

I turned back to Mr. Clark's house. It was the older rancher in the neighborhood, with this giant oak door that didn't fit. The front looked like somebody had just slapped on a face, and some of the windows had different shutter colors, and the chimney seemed as if it would topple over at any moment.

And that's when I noticed the front door. The big oak entrance was open. This was nothing too strange, but then again, it kinda was. I mean, I had never seen the door left ajar like that. Mr. Clark was the kind of man who didn't want the outside world and his inside one coming together. He was like some of the older women along my route. They came out for their mail, and occasionally for sun; otherwise, they were hidden. Stealing glances through the blinds...

I parked my bike along the curb. This would be quick, I would just knock on the door. If he didn't come out, I would leave the mail right inside on the mat. If he did come I would just give it to him.

It's not a big deal

Once at the door I took a look inside. The T.V. was on in the living room. There was one couch and one empty table. The dull white walls had no shelves or markings. If I hadn't known any better I would have said that nobody lived here. In fact, it looked like Mr. Clark had just upped and left...

“Mr. Clark?” I said to nobody. “Sir, it's Bill, I have your mail sir.” I took a breath. “Mr. Clark?”

For a second I imagined walking in and finding him dead on the floor. It wouldn't be that crazy, would it? Guys like him should have been with people. Like a retirement home or a relative. If he had a heart attack, he had a heart attack. Who was going to save him?

Something told me Mr. Clark wouldn't even call 911 to save his own life.

“Mr. Clark?” I gently stepped into the living room. The T.V. was on but the stations were off. It was just that fizzy white noise stuff. “Mr. Clark, I'm just going to leave your mail at the door, okay?” I leaned my head around to peer into the kitchen. The kitchen was like the living room, bowls of fake fruit were the only thing in there. I didn't see any pots on the stove or plates or cups in the sink. There was no silverware and no place mats.

The only things I saw were a large framed photo and a tall glass on the table. The glass was about half-full, with a dark black liquid. The photo was of a woman, older, with shiny grey hair and the iciest blue eyes I had ever seen.

As I stepped closer, I could
feel
it. The odor hit me all of a sudden, like old egg salad in a locker at school. “
Aghh
—what is th...” My eyes were already burning.

You gotta get outta here

This was some nasty stuff, whatever it was. If the guy was a chemical expert, it made sense—but what was it? If it smelled this bad, it had to be something powerful. Swallowing, and practically gagging, I backed away. I couldn't stay here to find out. It was just too much.

As I whipped around, mail clutched tightly in my hands, something else hit me. This time, it wasn't a strong smell, or even an odor at all. It was a noise, a low, agitated noise. The first thing I could think of was a dog. It had the same kind of growl, and was growing louder. Somewhere, closer;
nearby
.

And that's when I jerked. My body knew before my mind, and as I gazed into the feverish eyes of the man, my heart nearly stopped. There he stood, in the corner. He was shaking like he had a real bad flu and the liquid was all over him. An almost black-purple.

His clothes were ripped and his face like a skeleton's.

And then the growl ripped through the air, and the man or thing—whatever it was—sprung forward.

“No!” I screamed and my legs were already moving like lightning. I rammed through the front door, gasping, my bike still on the curb.

The noise shredded the air behind me. I sprinted, I jumped; I
leaped.
And before I could reach the handlebars, before I could kick the stand and mount the seat—I tripped. Face forward, fast-forward into the soggy earth.

***

“Something happened to Mr. Clark!”

These were the only words I could utter as I scaled the steps two at a time. My older brother Mitch and his acne-faced pal Sam were sitting in his room. They were two seniors, headed off to college in the fall. But for now it was summer, and as their fingers raced across the Super Nintendo controllers, the sounds of ghouls and monsters filled the air—a classic SNES game, “
Zombies Ate My Neighbors
.”

My nostrils flared as I detected  the familiar scent of burnt pine-cone. My brother's colorful bong was perched right on the window sill, fresh smoke still curling out. Out the window, a dark sky with a fast rain; somehow, I had dodged it.

“What are you talking about?” My brother said.

“Mr. Clark, the guy down the road, the chemical, ex-chemical engineer guy on my paper route. I was over there, and then I went in his hous—

“Good grief, calm down
goober
.” My brother turned back to the screen as Sam released a chuckle.

“You don't understand...” I struggled to get my breath. I had never pedaled faster in my life. “I was in his hou—”

“Mr. Clark, isn't he the rapist one?” asked Sam.

Mitch snorted. “What the hell you talking about dude, there's no rapists livin around here.”

“No, that's what my mom heard,” Sam said with a shrug. “He could be on the sex offender registry.”

Mitch shook his head as he threw his controller to the bed. “I'm pretty sure the guy had a wife. Maybe if you weren't thinking about rapists, you'd actually focus on the game, yeah?”

Sam threw his arms up in mock anger. “Dude, I'm serious! Remember a couple years back that football star from Montgomery High just disappeared? That they never found?”

“Yea, so what?” Mitch said. “That guy was a hothead. He probly got lit up by the wrong guys one night and they left him in a ditch somewhere.”

Sam frowned. “You don't even know him. We don't know
anybody
from Montgomery.”

“He was a jock and a douchebag. He probably got what was coming.”

“Yes,
or
he got raped by Mr. Clark.”

“He's not a rapist,” I said, breathing sharp. “Something happened to him, I swear, I walked int—

“What happened to your face,” my brother asked. He pursed his lips, that look he got when he was about to give me one of his life lectures. “Goober, you look like you fell in dog turd. Were you playing in dog turd, goober?”

Right then I wanted to throw a punch to his face, but I knew I couldn't. The image of that shivering, growling
thing
was still freshly burned in my mind. All I could remember was falling right before my bike and then jumping up. Somehow, I had managed to hop on and take off. I couldn't even remember how close it came to me.

I hadn't looked back.

Suddenly a prickle ran up my spine. It could have followed me all the way home... what if..

I rushed downstairs, making sure that the front door was closed and locked. I checked the windows, I tightened the blinds, I even checked the back-porch door to make sure it was locked. It was. A second later, I was back upstairs, standing back in front of my brother and his friend's bewildered expressions.

“Dude, what you are doing?” They focused back on the video-game, fingers flicking with trained precision. “Why would you go into his house?”

“Yea,” said Sam. “Are you, like,
trying
to get raped?”

God, my brother and his friends were stupid. No wonder Mitch barely got accepted to his safety school. If he wasn't working at the restaurant, he was playing video games and getting high. A quality guy and a quality role model. What a joke

“I walked in because the door was open,” I started, “but I saw him in there, but something.. it was, he was different.” I didn't know how to describe it, it all sounded too crazy.

“You shouldn't just walk into people's homes, little man,” Sam said. He reached over, sparked the bong and took a deep inhale. A second later, the smoke rings curled before his bleary eyes. “It's not right, ya know,” he continued. “Especially for a little paperboy.”

My brother cracked a smile. “Yea, Bill, listen to the man. He knows best. Sam's dad works in secur—

“Mr. Clark is a zombie!” And there it was, blurted out for all to hear. As soon as I had said it, I wished I hadn't. I realized how silly it all was, how crazy to say something like that. Zombies were for movies and magazines and stories and comic strips. They were for video-games.

“A zombie, eh?” I could tell Mitch was just playing along, thinking it was funny. So I kept my face serious as my heart hammered. “Yea, he had the eyes and his skin was really tight and his clothes were ripped...”

Mitch frowned. “You really need to lay off the R-rated movies, goober. Do Mom and Dad know about your little habits?”

“I'm old enough.” And it was true, I was more mature than kids in their 20s, I swore it. “Where are mom and dad?”

“Out,” Mitch said, disinterested. “For the whole weekend. Don't you ever listen?”

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Adult things.”

Sam's stoned laughter filled the air. “Adult
thiiiiings.
”

“So tell us more about this zombie,” Mitch said. “Did it try to eat you? Did you aim for its head? You know you gotta aim for the head.”

“Always,” explained Sam.

“Right in the middle,” my brother said. He placed a finger on the center of his forehead. “Right in the sweet spot.”

Sam nodded. “Absolutely,
breh
. You gotta be smart, you want a clean kill. Can't risk spilling their fluids all on ya, ya know.”

“This guy had fluid all over him!” I shouted it out. I could still picture that dark weird smelly stuff covering his face, like an acid or something.

“Calm down little bro,” Mitch said. “Here, you want a hit?” He offered me the bong, knowing I didn't smoke.

Sam shot his friend a curious smirk. “Yea, relax man, if it's a zombie, it's not going to come here first. They're slow, they can't chase you on a bike.”

Mitch shook his head. “Bullshit, depends on the infection type. Some can move really fast.”

I felt my racing heart return.

“
Naaah
, that's bologna,” Sam said. He took a slurp from his soda. “That's the whole new age zombie thing,
real
zombies are slow.” He stepped up for a second and did an impression, swaying from side to side. “Is this what it did? Was it like this?” He continued the mindless growling, a dumb smirk plastered on his face.

“Sit down Samwise,” my brother chided.

I was tired of this, but how would it change? How would they believe me unless they saw? And why would I ever want them to see? Because then that would mean...

The music on the television screen changed as Sam released an audible groan. The words, “Game Over” were scrawled in bleeding, purple text. Cartoon gargoyles, chainsaw murderers and ghosts moved about the background. My brother frowned, tossing his controller again to the floor. It was a habit of his—I had even seen him break them, all because of a stupid game...

“That's it,” Mitch said, finally coming to his feet. “If there's a zombie loose in this neighborhood,
my
neighborhood, we're going to need some artillery.” He turned to Sam. “It's time to get armed.”

“Air-soft guns?” Sam said.

My brother nodded as the bong bubbled beneath his mouth. “And your weed.”

Putting a hand on my shoulder, Mitch motioned ahead. “You stay here and guard the fortress, young brother.”

“You can't go out,” I said. I knew it was no use, and I knew that deep down my brother and Sam were just two kids high and having a good time. To them, it was all a bunch of fun. To them,
I
was the joke.

“I'm not kidding,” I breathed. “It could be out there.”

Sam and Mitch shared one of their
cool-senior,-we-know-best
looks. “Don't worry goober,” Mitch responded. “Sam's got AEGs.”

“What are those?”

“Automatic electric guns,” Sam said with obvious pride. “Rifles.”

“And almost as good as the real thing,” Mitch winked.

And it was in that moment, as I stared out the window into that gray, growling storm, that I knew. I had seen something I couldn't explain. Whatever it was, whatever had happened to Mr. Clark or whoever that was, was real. It was real, and it was somewhere nearby. It could have been 5 miles or it could have been right down the street, behind hedges, in a backyard walkway, beneath a tree or even in somebody's shed.

For all I knew, it had already gotten to others.

And it was in that moment, as I pictured a zombie eating my neighbors, that the shots rung clear. Crackling, rippling shots. One after another, as my brother and his portly friend jumped. This gun fire—
real
gunfire—had come from nearby.

***