Anything But Zombies (21 page)

Normally, Toby invited these sort of criticisms. He felt it gave him a better understanding of the perspective of his fans, and he could in turn share what he was trying to accomplish. Durand getting talky was Toby's attempt to keep his main character from being just an assassin. He wanted him to have an actual backstory that fans would care about and provide a solid foundation for why he would eventually kill more than ninety people in the last thirty pages of the book.

“Well, I'm not too far into it. What can we do about this, though?”

“Oh, I imagine nothin'. I s'pose . . . I
could
go up the road a bit and knock on a few doors and see if somebody saw anyone carryin' a piece of aluminum sidin', but honestly, that'll prob'ly turn up in the river. It's one of those”—she began snapping her fingers—“y'know, one of those things you steal you don't really want. What's the word?”

Toby didn't know if there was a word for that. “Kleptomania?” he guessed.

“No. I think it's French. Like
je ne sais quoi
or sum'nlikeat.”

Toby nodded in understanding without having a clue what the woman was talking about. Sheriff Carey pinched the brim of her brown hat, climbed back into the cruiser, and pulled out the driveway.

“Come by the station later to file a report,” she said. “You could also ask your neighbor over yonder if y'ontoo,” she said out the cruiser window before pulling off.

Toby should've been frustrated, should've yelled or kicked something, but the muse had grabbed him just then and he charged back into his house and plopped down in front of his typewriter. He had written for hours before realizing he hadn't called his wife back. Instead of focusing on one story, he had found himself dancing between two, ideas that put flesh on the bones of his outlines coming almost faster than he could write.

When he reached for his cell phone, he realized it wasn't in his pocket. Toby had never gotten around to buying a holster for it. He ran downstairs, supposing he might have left it on the kitchen counter. When he didn't find it there he widened his search, checking places he knew he hadn't gone into, like the bathroom and the garage. He refused to check the crawlspace; that freaked him out just enough that he refused to go down there. If that were where his cell phone had wound up he would simply purchase another.

“The writer toiled fruitlessly in search of his cellular device,” Toby said. He only referred to himself as “the writer” when he was alone, utilizing expansive prose. When he was in Red Deer Rapids he spoke with a faux-British accent to balance out the odd southern twang that had somehow invaded northern Michigan.

He regretted not setting up the internet in this house and bringing along his laptop. He could have emailed his wife so she wouldn't have been worried. He could almost feel her anxiety ratcheting up by the moment the longer he went without contacting her. His wife could make rash decisions when she was frightened and he wanted to avoid her stressing out and doing something crazy like driving all the way up here.

Toby stepped outside, walking along the path from the front door to the driveway where he had met the sheriff. After pacing the lawn he was certain the phone was not out here, unless in an unremembered act of horrible decision making, he had thrown it into the road.

He was getting antsy about not speaking to his wife. She'd be beyond worried by now and it would be dark soon. He hated the notion of heading into town to buy another cell phone when the one he had had been perfectly good. He had to call just to reassure her that he was all right, though.

Maybe he could just borrow a neighbor's phone. He really didn't know the man who had the house down a ways from him beyond hello and good-bye when they both happened to meet up at the bank of mailboxes. Everyone else had been friendly enough; Toby could use a phone for a few minutes, couldn't he?

Toby had no reason for why he was nervous. Maybe because, semifamous writer or no, he was still black and this was a very rural area. The people he knew seemed to legitimately like him, but he needed to call upon a stranger now and adding in the oddity of what had happened at Sandy's, he was a little hesitant to reach out to people he wasn't on a first-name basis with. The movie
Deliverance
swimming into his mind didn't help, either.

Maybe he could just hop in his car and go back to Sandy's or to the little cell phone store. They always had those working display models people could use to make a call. Toby felt squeamish about going into town for some reason, though. What he really wanted to do was go back in his house and stay there. Today just wasn't right, not to mention yesterday he hadn't written a single word.

The sooner he could set things right with Phyllis, the sooner he could close the books on this day. It was starting to get late, maybe he could grab something quick to eat and turn in.

But the muse was still thrumming in his bones. Despite his mounting, unjustified fear, he had to write. To simply scurry into his room and shut off the rest of the world beneath bedsheets would be the opposite of what he wanted most right now and, superstitious writer as he was, offensive to the muse.

“Okay, one step at a time.” Toby took a deep breath, realizing he'd been rooted to one spot for the last five minutes. He had to break this up into mentally digestible pieces so he wasn't overwhelmed. Without giving it another thought he began walking down the road toward his neighbor's house.

The Laferle residence was just as small as his house, same style, with a slightly different elevation. Toby would have called the color of the house powder green with emerald trim, although it was difficult to tell in the lessening light. A tree that looked like it had begun life as a weed was much too close to the house, leaning over and scraping the roof with its naked branches. The landscaping looked to have been managed by a professional; otherwise, the lawn was kept at a trim two inches, edges sharp. Toby didn't know much about vegetation, spotting the golden spirea at either side of the house and the dark-leafed Japanese maple nearer the road amidst all the other bushes and vines.

The walkway was unpaved as he circuited to the porch. Again, without giving it significant thought, he knocked on the door. The impending night brought a strange silence. No animals called, no grasshoppers reeped, no wind stirred the air. One of the most relaxing things about this place was sitting on the porch at night with a beer and a couple citronella candles to keep mosquitoes at bay. The coming dark dragged across sky and earth, a giant eraser that would take away everything when the sun finally set.

Even him.

Toby knocked again and the door pulled open immediately. There hadn't been any sound from inside—no approaching footsteps, no one calling for him to hold on or a television being muted. It was almost like the empty-eyed man who was staring back at him had been waiting right behind the door all along.

“Mr. Laferle,” Toby said, putting on a smile and trying to swallow his heart back in his chest. The wan light coming from inside was a lifeline and it was all he could do to keep from cramming himself through the semi-open doorway. “I'm sorry, I'm your neighbor up the road in the corner house. We see each other when we pick up the mail at the same time sometimes. I hope this isn't a terrible imposition, but I could really use a phone right now. I seem to have lost mine and I have to call in with the missus.”

He was a little more verbose than he had intended; however, it couldn't be helped. When Toby was scared, he tended to get wordy. Any grade school bully who had thrashed him on the playground could have vouched for that.

Mr. Laferle stepped back and Toby took that as a sign to enter. Once more, not thinking, otherwise he might have caught the too-wideness of the man's eyes, like he was drinking Toby in.

He was grateful to be inside and resisted the urgent and clichéd need to put his back to the door and let loose a sigh of relief. The man was still walking backward, his eyes on Toby when Toby realized he had a more pronounced version of the same expression as Wanda earlier today. Hers had been budding confusion and . . .

. . . and adulation?

No, that couldn't have been it, could it? And Pete Erskine was probably one of the only people who hadn't read him. Could both men be fans?

They made their way to the kitchen, which was immaculately well-kept in comparison to the shambles that Toby had seen so far. The kitchen smelled of mothballs, pizza, and roach spray with an undertone of good old human sweat. An off-white phone was on the wall next to the fridge and he made a beeline past Mr. Laferle and snatched it up.

The dial tone had to have been the sweetest sound he could have asked for at that moment. He turned to his neighbor as he began thumbing in his wife's cell phone number while the man stood by the stove, a pot of boiling water over one of the gas eyes.

“You're going to have tea?” he asked, and regretted immediately. It came to him like he was asking without asking for his own cup and Toby wasn't interested in anything in here beyond the phone call. “I don't know how long-distance works but I'm more than happy to pay for the call,” he said, hoping to erase the tea request.

The line buzzed three times before Phyllis answered.

“Hello?” his wife said.

“Honey, it's me,” Toby said. “I lost my cell phone and I'm at the neighbor's—Mr. Laferle—using his phone.”

“What happened?” The panic in his wife's voice was thick. “Why didn't you call me back? The girls and I were so worried about you!”

He didn't say that he'd just told her he'd lost his cell phone. She was understandably worried. He figured it was also not the best time to tell her he'd finally gotten something significant down on paper. “I tore the house up looking for my cell. I looked inside and out before calling it quits twenty minutes ago and coming down here to call. I'm sorry I worried you.”

“You had me worried. Are you okay?” Phyllis took a deep breath and blew it out into the phone. “Should I come up there?”

“No!” he said a little too loudly. “I'm fine now that I finally got to talk to you. Everything's fine.”

“What did the sheriff say?”

“Not too much in the help department.” There was a little anteroom off the back of the kitchen and Toby was half-mindedly examining the junk inside through a window when he spotted what looked to be a wavy strip of white aluminum siding sitting atop a pile of junk. “Uh, honey, I gotta go, there's a call coming on the other line. Love you. 'Bye.”

He hung up the phone and put his back to the fridge. Mr. Laferle was still standing there. Maybe that particular siding hadn't come off his house but Toby noticed the man's half-bandaged hands. One was pretty well wrapped even though blood had soaked through until it looked like he was wearing a red mitten. The other hand had a deep gash through the palm and Toby would have guessed he'd severed some tendons. The bandage on that hand was haphazard, wrapped securely at the wrist and looser as it went up the hand like he'd lost interest in what he'd been doing. The man didn't seem to notice his still oozing wounds as he stood silent as a mummy, his wide eyes on Toby.

“Mr. Laferle, are you okay?” His layer of panic stripped away, Toby was able to process his surroundings more effectively. The man was in shock. There was still an air about him, however, making Toby nervous. More than his own issues, though, he was worried about the man. Was it possible for someone to bleed to death from the cuts on his hands? At the very least, he could have permanent damage if his wounds weren't tended to promptly, Toby guessed.

He spotted a stack of books on the kitchen table. He recognized the cover of the one on top and realized it was one of his. Mr. Laferle was a fan! Maybe the man was in shock and a little bit in awe of an author he'd been reading now standing in his kitchen.

He smiled and pointed at the books. “Hey, why don't we get you to the hospital and I'll sign some of those for you.” His neighbor lunged at him, wrapping oozing hands around his neck. Toby batted at his arms, breaking his weak grip and stepping aside. Mr. Laferle crashed into the refrigerator and Toby circled around him. The shorter man turned, his eyes locking onto Toby. He had that same expression, but the sudden violence changed the tenor of his eyes. He almost looked mindless.

They stood in front of each other, the air between them like ice. Toby wanted to run, but he didn't think he could get the door open and out before the man was on him.

“Now wait a minute,” Toby said. “I don't know what's going on, but we can just forget I was even here.” He held out a placating hand. “Just let me walk out the door and we're good. Okay?”

By way of reply, his neighbor's mouth fell open. Toby thought he saw a blue light from behind his teeth and a millisecond before the man charged again, Toby snatched up the boiling pot and swung it in an arch at his head. It connected with a ping, but redirected him rather than stopping him. Mr. Laferle whirled, his bloody hands up like a 10 percent–wrapped mummy, and Toby hit him again. The man didn't go down, didn't seem to understand his face had just been smashed open, didn't appear to hear the pot clanging off his skull, his eyes never wavering from his target. Toby didn't stop swinging, each time the pot pinging off Mr. Laferle's head until his forward momentum stopped and he was driven back. There was a dent at the corner of the man's hairline before he fell and Toby stood over him, panting heavily.

His neighbor's eyes were still pointed at him, but they were glazed. Toby sidestepped to make sure they didn't follow like a creepy wall painting. Mr. Laferle was dead.

Toby dropped the equally misshapen pot, his hands going to his mouth as if to stop it from speaking some secret against his will.

He had to call the police.

He had to get out of here.