I went to the storage shed and dug out the rope I use to resurface after a deep dive. The rope has thick knots every eighteen inches to help me calculate the depth. That way I can surface slowly, decompress, and not get the bends.
Now I was going to slide down that rope into his yard. I tied one end to the chimney of my barbecue pit and unrolled the rope over the wall into my neighbor’s yard. It was freezing cold. A soft blanket of frost covered his lawn and the piles of posts. Except for those things’ constant pounding and their terrifying groans, it was absolutely still. Without a second thought, I climbed up the ladder to the top of my side of the wall, swung my legs over the ledge, and slid into my neighbor’s yard.
When I reached Miguel’s yard, it occurred to me I was only wearing a sweater and jeans. The only weapon I had was some cable cutters in my pants pocket. Yes, sir. You’re really prepared…now that takes balls. I was just about to go back and get the right equipment when I heard a rustling inside the house. I’d look really stupid if I showed up in my wetsuit, speargun in hand, only to find him lying on the couch, drinking a beer, listening to music with headphones on. No, I’d rather risk it. I had my pride, after all.
I crossed his yard, stepping carefully onto the unfinished deck. The smell of sawdust and varnish was really strong. Tools and empty paint cans were scattered everywhere. Inside, the house was dark and gloomy. I gently knocked on the back door and called to Miguel. Nothing. But when I reached for the handle, all hell broke loose.
The window on my left broke. Out came that thing’s arms and head. It wasn’t Miguel, but it had been. Poor fool. He’d just wanted to “surprise me.” Then one of those things had bitten him.
Now he was screwed. To make matters worse, he was trying to fuck me up. I ran like hell for the wall. I must have banged my ankle on some posts, because it’s now the size of a tennis ball. When I got to the wall, I turned and saw Miguel trying to wriggle through the window frame. He must’ve cut himself. Dark, infected blood streamed down his left arm, soaking his clothes. I stood there like a dick, mesmerized. I snapped out of it only when he got all the way out of his house and started toward me. They might look slow, but they’re really fast!
I started scrambling up the rope. It’s not easy, especially when you know if you slip, you’re dead. Or worse. He was right behind me. I think he touched one of my boots. When I reached the top of the wall, I looked down at him. He was angry, mean, covered in his own blood. He was one of them.
I went inside and grabbed my camera, an HP 735 digital camera. It was old, but it had a fantastic Pentax lens. I took a couple pictures of that howling thing down there so I could study it later and not be in any more danger.
Now I’m in the kitchen, looking at the pictures on my laptop. I can hear him scratching and banging on the wall. I need to do something about him, but I haven’t come up with anything. I have to decide. Tomorrow.
ENTRY 42
February 2, 7:54 p.m.
I spent the whole day thinking about what to do about that thing scraping my wall. The decision got harder and harder to make. Most people would end his suffering. If he was suffering.
Did he know what he was? Did he perceive reality the way I did? Do those things think or feel emotions? Is anything left of their old self? Or is their spirit completely obliterated when they die and are reborn? Do they remember anything from their former life? Do they sleep or dream? Hell, all I know about those predators is that they want to hunt me down. Like all the other humans, I’m their prey.
Even knowing that, I had a hard time deciding what to do about Miguel. This guy was someone I knew. He was my neighbor, for the love of God. Although he was a complete moron, I couldn’t imagine stabbing him in the head with a steel spear. I’m no murderer.
It took me three hours and half a bottle of gin to muster up the courage to end Miguel’s life. His shouting was driving me crazy, and that tipped the balance. I could hear him all over the house. His voice, tirelessly demanding my blood, was getting to me. I was becoming hysterical.
Drunk, worked up into a frenzy, I grabbed the speargun. It took three tries to load a spear on the tightest setting. Stumbling, I climbed the ladder to the top of the wall and stuck my head over. As soon as he saw me, he shouted even louder, stretching his arms toward me, trying to grab me. He was just two yards away. Even a guy drunk on his ass could make that shot. I pulled the trigger, and the spear flew out with a sharp hiss. It entered his head with a crack right above his right eyebrow. He grimaced in surprise (or relief?) and collapsed like a sack.
Then the dam burst. I started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t stop. Fat tears ran down my cheeks. A minute later, I was crying my eyes out, leaning against the wall, the speargun still in my hand. I’d murdered my neighbor from the top of the garden wall. I’d driven a piece of steel into his head. Just the day before, we were making plans and I was laughing at his lame jokes. Now I’d killed him. This is bullshit. I feel very alone. I’ll go crazy if this keeps up.
I climbed down the rope into his yard, landing next to the body. When I put weight on the ankle I injured yesterday, pain shot through me. God, it hurts! I hope it’s only a sprain and not a broken bone. I limped over to a pile of wood and grabbed a thick rubber tarp. I dragged the body to a corner of the yard and wrapped it in the tarp. I should bury him. I should pray for him. Fuck, I don’t know if I’m still a believer.
I studied his house for a moment. The back door was still closed. The window Miguel had come through was shattered. Broken glass and clotted blood covered the ground. A bloodstained curtain was sticking out. The house was dark and silent. And empty.
I had to go in. I knew I should go in. I had to make sure there weren’t any more of those things inside, and that the wood door was still braced closed. The last thing I needed was a couple dozen of those monsters in his backyard. Then I remembered that Miguel was a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He must have a ton of samples somewhere. I could use some painkillers. Most importantly, his house faces the other street. Maybe there was a way out there.
It was nighttime, and darkness obscured everything, so I couldn’t go in. Miguel’s house had no electricity. I wasn’t about to go into the lion’s den in the dark, drunk and without my wetsuit. No way. I’ll leave that for tomorrow.
I climbed back up the rope and went home. I’m sober now, lying on the sofa in the dark, listening to the steady blows against my gate. I feel a dull, pulsating hangover coming on. I’ll try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll go in that house and come up with some kind of a plan. I’ve got to get out of here.
ENTRY 43
February 3, 5:07 p.m.
I’m sitting in the hammock in my backyard. The last rays of the cold winter sun are falling on this small rectangle of grass, warming my bones a little. Lucullus is napping contentedly in my lap, dreaming whatever cats dream about. It’s the most peaceful time I’ve spent in weeks. That’s the truth. If it weren’t for those things howling and pounding on the gate, I’d think it was a quiet Sunday afternoon. I almost feel like fixing hot chocolate and watching a movie. Unfortunately, it isn’t Sunday afternoon, and my neighbors are among the undead out there, eager to kill me. Plus I’ve been out of milk for two weeks. Life sucks.