Back From The Dead

Chapter Nineteen

What the hell is that?

John Lombardo was sitting on the back deck of his home at three A.M. watching the fireflies when he saw the animal. He couldn’t sleep, so he’d wandered downstairs and watched infomercials for a little bit, then headed out to the deck to smoke a cigarette. Barbara couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke in the house, so he had to feed his nicotine habit outside. Can’t say he blamed her. Their three thousand five hundred square foot home was not only immaculate, it still had that new house smell despite their ten year residence. Barbara hated it when he smoked around the kids, too. Can’t say he blamed her for that, either. Their oldest son, Mike, had just turned twenty-one, and while he still lived at home, he had not picked up John’s nasty smoking habit. Their middle child, Mary was thirteen now, and Billy was three years younger, and both were at the age where their parent’s habits, including the bad ones, would influence the habits and traits they would carry for the rest of their lives.

John took a step forward, peering into the gloom of the yard. He’d initially been surprised, figuring it was a possum or something. Now he wasn’t so sure.

The thing was hobbling funny, like it was hurt. John was pretty sure it was a possum judging by its overall appearance. He took a step back. If it was hurt it might be aggressive.

As the animal came within the light of the porch John saw that it was a possum…

…or used to be a possum.

John gasped and backed up against the closed screen door. The possum looked up at him with a face that was devoid of much of its flesh. Maggots writhed in its eye sockets. Its fur was dull and appeared in rough patches on its brittle skin. John saw portions of its skeleton peek through the rotting tatters of its flesh.

“My God,” John muttered and that’s when the thing launched itself at him.

It covered the ten feet from the edge of the porch to the screen door quickly. John scrambled to get the screen door open and yelled as the thing landed on the back of his right leg. He felt its claws dig into the bare skin and he screamed as he felt its teeth sink into flesh.

John scrambled to get the thing off him, swinging his arms behind him, trying to knock it off, but it climbed his leg, seeking purchase with those sharp little claws. John was yelling now, hoping Barbara would hear him, but the thing was so goddamn fast, and his mind was still reeling at the unbelievability of it all that when it launched itself at his throat he was too slow in his reflexes to deflect its fatal bite.

The last thing John thought as he fell against the screen door, his jugular spurting blood as it ground its jaws into his throat, was that he hoped Barbara had been woken by his screams and would get herself and the kids out of the house.

Mary Lombardo was a light sleeper, so when her dad’s screams woke her up she looked out her bedroom window that overlooked the back yard.

The porch light was on, but she couldn’t see beyond the brief expanse of yard due to the canvas that covered the porch in the summer. There was a rustling noise down there, as if somebody was falling against the screen door, and then another sound, like a grunt, and then nothing.

Mary looked out the window, trying to see if there was movement below. Was Dad outside? Sometimes he liked to sit on the back deck and smoke, but it was pretty late — after three A.M., according to the digital numerals on her clock radio. Dad had to go to work in four hours. He worked some kind of office job in Lancaster. Surely he wouldn’t be outside that late.

Mary got out of bed and exited her bedroom. The hallway was silent and dark. Bill’s room was next to hers, the door closed. She didn’t hear anything from Bill’s room. What used to be Mike’s room had been converted to a guest bedroom — Mike had converted the living space in the basement as a bachelor pad where he lived and worked on those weird low budget horror movies he liked to produce. Mary padded down the hall toward her parent’s room. She pushed the door open softly and tip-toed inside.

Mom lay in deep sleep on the king-sized bed, her back facing the door. Dad was absent from his side of the bed.

Concerned that Dad was hurt, Mary exited her parent’s bedroom and entered the landing, which served as a kind of bridge across the entryway and great room of the house. She stood at the railing overlooking the great room, trying to look out the large floor to ceiling plate glass windows that looked out to the back deck. “Dad?” She called out. “You okay?”

There was a sound from the screen door. A rustling noise. She instantly became worried. “Dad?”

The screen door opened and she saw her dad shuffle in the house. He looked beat. Mary sighed in relief. “Dad! You okay?”

Dad looked up at Mary, who drew in a sudden intake of breath.

The entire right side of Dad’s body was drenched with blood. He looked up at her with wide eyes, his face pale. He mouthed her name.

“Mom!” Mary yelled. “Mom, Dad’s hurt!” Mary darted back down the hall to her mother’s room to get her up, so she wasn’t aware of her father as he made his way up the stairs, his dead eyes wide open and unblinking as he was guided to the warm, living flesh of his family.

Living at home had its disadvantages, but one of the perks was not having to get a career-minded job while he worked at trying to build his low budget film production company from the ground up.

Mike Lombardo was in his basement living room/office, sitting at his desk performing the final edits on his horror film Dr. Chud. He yawned. He and his partner, Milano, had been working non-stop since they shot the final scene earlier that evening in the back yard. They’d stuck their friend Bob in a gas mask for the final scene and all had gone well. Now it was the task of assembling three hours of raw footage and editing it down to an hour of good narrative.

Bob was sacked out on the sofa, snoring softly. Milano was sitting next to him, glassy-eyed. He shifted his stocky frame in the chair and Mike could tell he wanted nothing more than to crash. Bob just didn’t give a shit; he could sleep anywhere, at any time, and had done so accordingly.

“Just one more scene,” Mike said. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the Dr. Chud character on the front. Dr. Chud was going to be a recurring character for future films, and Bob was the perfect actor to portray him. He was a little guy, for one thing. The Dr. Chud character was written to be slight in stature, and Bob fit the bill perfectly. And despite the fact that Bob was a horrible actor, when he donned the gas mask it transformed him — he was actually a good actor when he was in costume. Maybe it was because his inhibitions were down and he could actually let loose and play the character. Whatever the case, Mike had been forced to rewrite his screenplay to remove Bob’s dialogue from much of the film, since he was such a horrible actor. Restructuring the screenplay had allowed him and Milano to build Dr. Chud’s backstory in a different way but the end result still worked. When you operated on a budget of less than a few thousand dollars, you had to work with what you had. That meant relying on your friends to play pivotal roles in your films, even if they couldn’t act.

Milano cocked his head toward the ceiling. “Sounds like the rest of your family is up now.”

“Huh?” Mike said. He had multiple files open in Adobe Premiere. Let me just finish this and we can catch some sleep. We can take a look again tomorrow and if it still works, we’re done. If it doesn’t work, we’ll just do a few more edits. No problem.

“Your family,” Milano said. He yawned again, took off his glasses and began polishing the lenses with his T-shirt. “Your dad was outside yelling about something, then he came in the house. Then Mary started yelling about something. I figured they were arguing.”

That stopped Mike cold. He looked at Milano. “Mary never argues with my parents.”

“I know. That’s why I thought it was weird.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“You’ve been too focused on trying to finish this.” Milano gestured at the PC. “Seriously man, it’s late, and we’ve been at this for over twelve hours. Let’s call it a night and — ”

The door to the basement opened and they turned toward the sound. Mike immediately moved to save the last edit. Milano scooted out of the way and Mike could hear the fumbling footsteps of several people trumping down the stairs. Probably both his parents wanting to talk to him about Mary. What the hell was going on?

Milano’s scream came just as Mike caught his first glimpse of what had entered his basement digs, and he screamed in surprise too.

His first thought was that his folks had been badly injured in some kind of fight. They were bloody, their clothing ripped, but then he saw the dead eyes in his father, saw the gaping wound in his mother’s throat, saw that his sister’s stomach had been ripped open and they weren’t complaining at all, they were heading straight for them like some kind of goddamn–

— zombies —

And before he and Milano could collect their wits and yell out a warning to a slumbering Bob, Mike Lombardo’s family swarmed in like attack dogs.

By the time Naomi and Jim made it to Brendan Hall at five minutes till four it was already too late. Their drive to the Juvenile facility had been made in vain.

They weren’t going to release Tim to their custody after all.

The bastards were really going to press criminal charges against him.

A Lancaster city detective explained the charges as he led them into a small conference room. Despite being awaken from a sound sleep, Naomi and Jeff were wide awake upon hearing their son had been caught driving around with Gordon Smith after curfew (Naomi was more surprised by Tim sneaking out of the house than the curfew violation). He wasn’t being charged with curfew violation, however. As the Lancaster City detective explained, when Tim Gaines was picked up they ran a computer check (standard procedure) and got a hit.

There was a warrant out for Tim’s arrest.

The detective had explained that the decision had been made late last night to file charges of criminal mischief, vandalism, desecration of a cemetery and theft of a corpse due to the Reamstown incident. “The arrest warrant was signed by Judge Wilkes,” the detective said. “That’s why your son was brought directly to Brendan Hall instead of returned home.”

“Who was the arresting officer?” Naomi asked.

“Officer Frank Clapton.”

“Did he tell Tim why he was being taken here instead of being brought home?”

“Office Clapton didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was,” the detective said.

“So you can’t release him to us?” Naomi asked. Jeff was standing beside her, wide-eyed and shuffling to and fro with nervous agitation.

“I’m afraid not,” the detective said. The detective they were speaking to was in his late thirties, slim, with sandy hair and a slight mustache. “He has to be arraigned and the judge has to set bail.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jeff muttered. Naomi felt Jeff’s frustration and it took all her will power to avoid snapping at the detective.

“I’m sorry,” the detective said. He was calm, soothing. It was obvious he’d been through hundreds of similar conversations with worried parents. “Your son will be okay. He’s got his own holding cell, so he isn’t in any danger. We don’t put violent youth offenders in the same cells as other youth offenders.”

“You damn well better not,” Naomi muttered.

“When will they set his bail?” Jeff asked. “And how much do you think it will be?”

“I don’t know. It could be as early as nine this morning, could be as late as this afternoon.”

“Can we see him?”

“Yes, but not until visiting hours.”

“When the hell is that?” Naomi was seething.

The detective sighed. “I apologize. I realize you’re under a lot of strain and — ”

“You don’t know the least of it!” Naomi snapped.

“Honey,” Jeff said. He took her lightly by the elbow in an attempt to calm her down.

Naomi held up her hands to stop him. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She looked at the detective, trying her best to keep herself under control. “When are visiting hours?”

“Ten A.M.,” the detective said. “It’s possible he’ll be transported to the courthouse before then. If you’d like I can have you alerted to when he’s transported so you can arrange to be there.”

“That will be great.”

And as the detective explained the procedure of the Pennsylvania Juvenile Justice system to them, Naomi was stricken with such a sudden onslaught of helplessness that she almost broke down in tears.

Tim had been sitting on a sturdy wooden bench in the bare room of his cell for the past hour. The longer he sat there, the more worried he was getting.

They’d only allowed him to make the one phone call to his parents. Despite his sense of urgency in talking to them, he felt guilty when he told his mom where he was and what had happened. Mom had been surprised, yes; angry at sneaking out of the house, of course (he hadn’t detected anger during that phone call, but of course she had to be pissed off — if he were in her shoes he’d be mad). She’d also told him that she and Dad would come to pick him up immediately. Before they got off the phone she told him not to worry and that she and Dad loved him.

Officer Clapton had finished processing his paperwork, then turned him over to a detective named Warren Allen. Detective Allen had escorted Tim to what he supposed was his cell. It didn’t look like a traditional jail cell, but was rather more like a locked room with a long wooden bench that lined one wall and a toilet and sink on the other side. A thin mattress and pillow sat on the bench. The door to the room had no windows.

Thirty minutes after sitting down on the bench, Detective Warren came in. “Your parents are coming to pick you up but I’ve got some bad news. Turns out we have a warrant for your arrest.”

“What?” Tim’s stomach curled in on itself at the news. And as Detective Warren read off the list of charges he felt a sense of dismay and despair come over him. That bastard lied to me, he thought. Gordon thinks he has connections, thinks he can make it all better if I cooperate. Well fuck him. The gloves come off. I’m telling the police everything I know.

But first he had to ensure the safety of his loved ones.

Detective Warren finished reading him the list of charges, told him he was now formally arrested and that he would be arraigned later in the morning and that he would explain the situation to his parents when they arrived. Tim nodded, feeling strangely calm now that he knew where things stood. He asked Detective Warren if he could see his parents when they arrived. Detective Warren told him he could see them during visiting hours at ten, but it was possible that he would be transported to the courthouse by then. If that were the case, he’d see them in court. They’d probably have an attorney for him by then. Tim had nodded, his mind on auto-drive now.

That had been two hours ago. He’d stayed awake, feeding off the adrenaline that was still running through his system.

And he’d considered his options.

Mom and Dad were probably going to retain the services of Doug Fenner, the attorney George’s dad had gotten. It would make sense if they did since Fenner was already familiar with their case. This latest incident was going to push Mom right over the edge regardless of Tim sneaking out of the house and getting picked up by the police. He was pretty sure he could count on Mom (and Dad) to be angry enough to not only go to their lawyer, but press him to sue the city.

Fenner would probably advise him to plead not guilty for his arraignment. After the arraignment, Tim was going to request a closed-door meeting with him and his parents.

And then he was going to tell them everything.

It would sound crazy, but Tim was confident he could at least get the police out to the Bradfield estate to question Scott’s parents. Mr. Bradfield probably had no idea what his son was up to, not to mention having any knowledge of the zombies in his guesthouse. If he could get the police out there as quickly as possible, they’d have the element of surprise. Mr. Bradfield would probably sic his own lawyer on the city, probably even on his folks and if that was the case let him have at it. Either way, Tim was going to expose Scott and his friends for the monsters they were. That guesthouse was going to be investigated even if Scott and his friends got rid of the zombies and cleaned the place up before a proper search could be conducted. There was still DNA, forensics…surely a proper search warrant would ensure a search of that magnitude would be undertaken. He also had Gordon’s own confession, which the bastard would deny, but Tim would insist the police follow through with the allegations that Scott and his friends murdered John Elfman. Scott couldn’t buy the silence of every kid that was at Susan Zimmerman’s party the night John had gone missing. Somebody would have seen something.

And as for Chelsea, he would make it clear that she was in danger, that Gordon had threatened her specifically. Surely they had to take threats like that seriously.

Of course the police, and possibly his attorney and parents, were less likely to believe that Gordon and his friends had killed those homeless people for the purpose of raising them from the dead, but he didn’t need to tell them that. All he had to reveal was that they’d kidnapped and imprisoned them in the guesthouse and tortured them until they died. He could say that Gordon was trying to extract himself from Scott, that he knew what was happening was wrong and wanted to avoid legal trouble and that’s why he’d sought Tim’s help. He’d dug up the grave at the Reamstown Cemetery to blackmail Tim into helping him come up with a scheme to get out of everything without going to the police. Tim had been appalled by the allegations of murder and wasn’t sure if he was going to help Gordon, was still thinking of what to do, in fact, when Officer Clapton pulled them over.

And that was pretty much the truth.

Tim sat down on the cot, fatigue suddenly coming over him. They’d taken his watch along with the rest of his possessions when he was processed, and last time he’d checked it was 2:30 A.M. It was hard to keep track of time in this room, but he guessed he’d been locked up for the past two hours. That sounded about right because now he was dead tired. He needed to lie down and get a few hours sleep, recharge his batteries for the day ahead of him.

Tim rested his head on the small pillow on the far side of the cot and turned over on his left side. He closed his eyes. He had it all planned out. He was going to remain silent until he could see his lawyer and his parents. Only then was he going to confess to what was happening, leaving out the part about the zombies. But first, he was going to reveal Gordon’s threat against Chelsea and ask that she be protected.

Then he was going to tell them that Scott, David, Steve, and Gordon had been up to no good.

With that decision firmly in place, Tim Gaines fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

Gordon Smith waited a good thirty minutes before he called Steve Downing.

He waited with bated breath as the phone rang, sitting in his darkened bedroom. Down the hall, his parents slept, their anger at him having diminished as quickly as it had arisen. They’d been furious when Gordon was escorted home by the cop, and had made a good show of displaying that anger by yelling at him in front of the officer, threatening to ground him for the rest of the summer, but the moment the officer left Mom had muttered, “I’m tired and going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.” Gordon had experienced many of these proclamations in the past. What this meant was she was going to forget about it come morning. Dad might bring it up in passing, and it was possible the idea of grounding him would be floated between them, but it would never happen. It never happened before.

Steve picked up on the fifth ring. “Yeah?” His voice was groggy.

“It’s me,” Gordon said. “We need to talk.”

“Gord?”

“Yeah.” Gordon spoke in as low a tone as possible. “I’m sorry for waking you up. Your folks didn’t hear, did they?”

“Fuck no, they’re on the other end of the house. What’s up?”

“We might have trouble,” Gordon began. “It’s about Count.” Gordon told an abbreviated version of what happened that evening, leaving out any notion that he’d gone to Count for help in the first place, as well as leaving out the part where he’d showed the zombies to him. He might have been dumb enough to get mixed up with Steve, Dave, and Scott, but he wasn’t dumb enough to admit that he was planning on ending everything.

“So you were driving around with Count Gaines because the little shit tried to blackmail you?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Gordon said, repeating the story to Steve again. “Like I said, he called me earlier in the day. Said if I didn’t go to the police and confess I robbed that grave that he would furnish them with proof. He said he’d snuck over to my place and planted evidence, but wouldn’t tell me where. He said he wanted to make a deal with me. For us to leave him alone, so I told him I’d talk to him.”

“That little fucker.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. That’s when we got picked up by the cops for violating curfew.”

“Violating curfew? There’s a curfew?”

“Yeah. If you’re under eighteen you’re not supposed to be out after eleven P.M., or some shit.”

“You aren’t? When’d that law go into effect?”

“I don’t know,” Gordon said, changing the subject quickly. “The point is, we lucked out. Count Gaines got taken to Brendan Hall and — “

“Brendan Hall? Oh man, is he in deep shit!”

“Yeah. I don’t know what for, but maybe they got a hard-on to really bust him now.”

Steve laughed. “That’s great! Bet he’s finally going to take the fall for all that shit we blamed him for!”

“Maybe,” Gordon said. “But it’s not gonna be so great if Tim and his parents fight the allegations, get a lawyer and raise a big enough stink that the cops are forced to do a thorough investigation. They might not only come poking around my place, but Scott’s. What do you think they’re gonna find there?”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Steve said adamantly. He sounded more awake now.

“The cops asked me if I’d heard about John going missing,” Gordon said. “I’m positive Count was asked the same thing.”

Steve went silent.

“I played dumb,” Gordon continued. “Count didn’t know shit, of course, but I played dumb. Suppose somebody at the party saw John leave with us?”

“Nobody saw us.”

“Suppose they did?”

“Even if somebody saw John leave with us, it means nothing.”

“It will if Count Gaines raises a stink and the cops decide to search Scott’s place and find those zombies in the guesthouse.”

“Shit!” Steve sounded frustrated now. Gordon held his breath, hoping he’d conveyed his point. Of the four of them, Gordon had been the most reluctant to go along with the crimes they’d been committing. Scott had obviously noticed this, and Gordon wondered if Steve and Dave were aware of it and what Scott might have confided in them when Gordon wasn’t around. He had to tread carefully.

“When the cops pulled us over,” Gordon continued, “I told Count that if he started shit with me, his girlfriend Chelsea was toast.”

“Count Gaines has a girlfriend?”

“He’s been going out with Chelsea Brewer. You know, that little art chick from Mrs. Farner’s class.”

“That little thing?”

“I told Count Gaines that if the cops came around and questioned any of us, that we’d hurt her. I didn’t tell him how. I didn’t really have to. He’s afraid of us already.”

“You think that’ll work?”

Gordon thought about that for a moment. A month ago if he was asked that question, he would have said yes. Now he wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” he said. “He seemed pretty freaked out at the thought of any of us hurting Chelsea in any way. I’d like to think that put the scare into him.”

“How’d you like to see that bitch’s skinny little ass getting’ chomped by the zombies,” Steve said, the hint of a smile in his voice. “It would be even better if we made Count Gaines watch!”

“Yeah, it would,” Gordon said. No need to tell Steve that Tim had already seen the zombies. He’d explode if he knew. Gordon was counting on Gaines to keep that to himself, to not stir any trouble, which was why he’d threatened to have Chelsea hurt if he squealed.

“So what should we do?” Steve asked.

“You know where Chelsea lives?”

“Yeah. She lives near Danielle Sawyer, over on Fourth Street, just west of Cedar Street. In fact, she lives two doors down from Danielle. Right in the corner house.”

“You have any way to keep tabs on her?”

“Not really. I can drive by her house.”

“What about Scott or Dave? Do they know Chelsea’s friends? Even casually?”

“I don’t think so. I can check.”

“Do that. Tell them what I just told you. We need to watch what happens with her and keep our ears open to the rumor mill.”

“Well shit, that means we just gotta hang out with my neighbor, Joyce. You know, the crazy cat lady that lives next door to me?”

Gordon grinned. Joyce was a middle-aged woman that lived by herself in a large ranch house next to Steve’s. She’d been single as long as Gordon knew her, and had adult children who often dumped their spawn at her place on the weekends. Joyce was a nice enough lady, but could talk the ears off a donkey and sometimes talked to herself when she was tending to the garden in the back yard. She also had a lot of cats, somewhere in the neighborhood of seven. Or maybe it was ten. It was hard to keep count. Despite those annoying qualities, Joyce had the uncanny ability to know what was going on in town before it made the local weekly newspaper. She was like the little old lady in movies who spied on her neighbors with a telescope and then got on the phone to gossip with her friends about who was sleeping with whom, who’d lost their job at the paper mill, who’d been arrested for DUI the previous evening, what family tragedy had befallen the Green family who lived on the other side of town. Only instead of gossiping about it on the phone with her friends, Joyce kept the information bottled inside her because she had no friends.

She was always eager to share the information if you so much as paid the slightest bit of attention to her, though.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Gordon said. “Joyce seems to know everybody in town.”

“That’s the plan, then.” Steve seemed agreeable. He also sounded more awake now.

“I still think we should do something to get rid of the zombies permanently,” Gordon said. “At least bring the idea up to Scott. If he feels the threat of discovery, he’ll agree.”

“You would think,” Steve said. He sounded more sympathetic to Gordon’s point of view now. “I can bring it up to him. Besides, we can always make more zombies, right?”

“Of course,” Gordon answered. Not if I can help it, he thought.

A police siren sounded in the distance, fading away in the early morning. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

“Later.” Gordon hung up the phone. Another siren rose in the distance, joining the first one as it headed to some unknown disaster. For a minute Gordon wondered what would happen if the zombies locked in Scott’s guesthouse broke out. What kind of havoc would they cause? How would the police respond? He felt a brief flare of panic at the thought those police sirens were heading to Scott’s place, but then he realized they were heading elsewhere, out toward the northeast part of town. Zuck’s Woods lay toward the northeast side of town.

Gordon frowned at the thought.

It bothered him and it was hard for him to fall asleep.