Back From The Dead

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chelsea Brewer couldn’t help but be worried about Tim.

She was sitting in the middle of her bed in her room, not watching TV, not reading a book or magazine, not doing much of anything. What should have been a perfect summer day seemed tainted somehow. Chelsea couldn’t quite explain it. It just felt wrong.

The visit she had from the police shortly after her parents left for work was the main reason for the way things seemed out of whack. Another reason was the vibe she was getting.

Something was happening.

Her father had come home from work to be with her after getting a phone call from Spring Valley Police Officer Frank Clapton that a credible threat had been made against her. Dad had freaked out and came right home. He’d called at least twice on the drive, once to tell her he couldn’t reach her mother, the second to tell her he was going to get in touch with her grandmother so Chelsea could stay with her for the rest of the summer. That was something Chelsea didn’t want to hear. She didn’t want to be away from Tim. The thought of spending even a day apart from him was unbearable. Plus, her grandmother was a very religious woman who lived in rural Virginia. She was a nice enough lady, but she and Chelsea just didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. If she had to spend the rest of the summer with Granny Beth, Chelsea was going to freak. She liked to think she wouldn’t get as bad as she did that summer two years ago when she’d resorted to cutting herself, because the therapy she’d engaged in after all that helped. Still, it was Granny Beth’s influence that had helped contribute to the cutting. All the old woman did was pick at Chelsea, belittle her, make her feel guilty about being a young woman. It didn’t help that the social elite at Spring Valley High had done a good job of whittling away at her self-esteem prior to the last time Chelsea spent at her grandmother’s. Her father hadn’t been much help, either. Despite his outwardly macho he-man nature, he was a softie at heart and he truly did love her. Chelsea just wished he had more common sense. Dad was the type of person that would do anything to fit in with the status quo just to be accepted. Chelsea never gave a good goddamn about impressing people she didn’t care for. No wonder she’d taken out her frustrations on her own flesh. Dad was more hip to things now, was more accepting of her as a person, and surely he’d made the suggestion that she stay at Granny Beth’s out of desperation due to their current situation.

When Dad got home, he’d talked to the officer, who’d met him at the house. Chelsea had sat on the living room sofa. She still couldn’t believe what was going on.

According to the officer, the police had received a very credible threat against Chelsea by Gordon Smith. The officer didn’t admit this, but when he asked Chelsea if she knew Gordon and his friends, she’d put two and two together. She’d told the officer everything she knew about Gordon, which wasn’t much. And no, she had no idea why anybody would threaten her.

Dad had been worse, though. He’d grilled the officer relentlessly. He demanded complete protection from the police until he could make arrangements for Chelsea to be sent out of the state. The officer agreed that sending Chelsea away would be a good thing, at least until they had the person responsible for making the threats in custody. Until then, the officer suggested keeping Chelsea inside. “We’re stretched very thin right now,” the Officer said. “Otherwise, I’d have a car parked outside standing watch.” The Officer left with the understanding they call 911 if Gordon or any of his friends came by the house.

“Don’t worry,” Chelsea’s dad told the officer as he escorted him to the front door. “I can handle it.”

Shortly after the officer left, Dad had gone into his home office and extracted his handgun. Chelsea didn’t know what kind it was, just that it was black and looked dangerous. She didn’t like guns, felt uncomfortable around them, but Dad put her at ease by explaining he was simply going to have it on his person until they got the word that Gordon Smith and his friends were in custody.

Dad’s reasoning made sense.

Still, Chelsea felt nervous about it.

Chelsea looked out her bedroom window into the back yard. Dad was downstairs on the phone. Despite taking his laptop home, he wasn’t working. He was too wound up with worry. So was Chelsea, for that matter.

Chelsea had tried calling Tim five times this morning and had left messages. He’d said nothing about not being home today. She’d gone online to see if he was in IM. He was MIA in cyberspace, too.

When Tim’s mother finally called shortly after ten A.M., Chelsea’s momentary relief turned into further concern and fear as she learned the full details of what was happening. The threat Gordon Smith made against her to Tim last night and — worst of all — Gordon’s admitting to have taken part in murdering homeless people.

She’d been getting updates from Naomi as the morning dragged on. Dave and Steve were nowhere to be found, nor was Gordon. Scott Bradfield’s father had refused a search of his property — a search warrant was apparently being drawn up now. And something was happening in a neighborhood near Zuck’s Woods.

Chelsea had heard police sirens off and on all morning, which was strange considering the low crime rate of Spring Valley. It reminded her of the summer she’d spent visiting her cousins in Richmond, Virginia. She’d heard sirens there all the time, or so it seemed.

This morning, though, was especially troubling. It almost seemed like she heard more sirens coming from different directions.

Naomi called her one last time to tell her she and Jeff had to drive to Lancaster to retrieve something from their respective offices, but that they’d be home with Tim later in the afternoon. “I’ll have Tim call you when we get back,” Naomi said. Chelsea could hear the dim sound of a police siren in the background.

“Is everything okay over there?” Chelsea asked.

“Yeah.” Naomi paused for a moment and the siren grew louder, then cut off. When Naomi came back on the line she sounded concerned. “There’s a lot of police activity around here, though.”

“Tim’s okay where he is?”

“Tim is perfectly safe. We’re leaving in about five minutes to get him. Don’t worry, I’ll have him call you when we get back.”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. At least Tim was safe where he was. Naomi had assured her that Tim wasn’t with the general juvenile delinquent population at Brendan Hall. “I’ll be here.”

She was just thinking back on that conversation when her dad called her from downstairs. “Chelsea! Get down here, quickly!”

“What?” Chelsea got up off the bed and headed to the second floor landing. Dad’s voice had taken on a tinge of fear. “Are you okay?”

“Something on the news,” Dad said, and now she could hear it. Dad had the living room television turned to the local news.

Chelsea darted down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

And as she entered the living room, she saw what was happening, and what had made her father call up to her with that tone of fear in his voice.

A local female newscaster was broadcasting from what appeared to be downtown Lancaster. She looked distressed. “…have been reports of two dozen people missing and apparently the mass wave of disappearances is spreading beyond Spring Valley and into the neighboring town of Lititz. The Pennsylvania State Police have been called in and sources tell me that the National Guard is arriving to quell what is — ”

“Daddy, what’s happening?”

“Nobody is really saying, honey,” Dad said. He gestured for her to sit down beside him on the sofa. Chelsea sat down and Dad turned up the volume.

“ — only thing we can say with confidence is that several things are happening. One, people are turning up missing and authorities tell us they believe foul play is involved due to the signs of violence. Two, we have at least a dozen people confirmed dead and here’s where it gets strange.” The newscaster looked at the camera with an expression that suggested to Chelsea that she didn’t know how to proceed. “One source tells me that the victims are attacking other people, like something out of a horror movie.”

A horror movie, Chelsea thought. She immediately thought of movies like 28 Days Later, where infected people turned into ravenous zombies.

“Third and most disturbing…” the newscaster said, and here it was obvious from her eyes that the woman was running scared. Chelsea had no doubt that if she didn’t have to be at work, the newscaster would be getting the hell out of town. “…is what’s going on at a local churchyard cemetery. Grace Brethren Church in the small community of Spring Valley, which is located about a mile south of the initial site of the mass disappearance, has reported what can only be described as something out of a Stephen King novel. A church elder has reported — and I’m not making this up, folks, this is the real deal — that the corpses of those buried in his churchyard are clawing their way out of their graves and… attacking and biting people they come across.”

Chelsea and her father gasped at exactly the same time. Chelsea said, “Oh my God!”

“Police are advising residents of Spring Valley and Lititz to remain indoors. If you are out on the street, seek shelter in a secure location. In the meantime, citizens of surrounding communities are advised to — ”

From that point on it was really like watching a horror movie for Chelsea. She could do nothing else but watch the news with her father, entranced by what she was hearing and seeing. She became even more self-absorbed as various local and state law enforcement officials were interviewed, as live feed was played back showing exhumed graves at the Grace Brethren Churchyard, as a State Official was interviewed and claimed they were working to contain the “sudden and bizarre series of events that are taking place.”

She was so absorbed in what was happening that she didn’t even notice the sound of a muffled thump coming from the basement.

Gordon Smith almost let loose with a curse when he tripped over the coffee table in the darkened basement and tumbled to the carpeted floor.

He bit back a scream and clutched his right shin, fighting back the pain. Fuck, shit, piss, motherfucker cocksucking piece of shit motherfuck that hurt! Gordon sat on the floor and rubbed his shin, trying to control his breathing. He had to make his way back to the closet he’d been holed up in for the past few hours before Chelsea’s dad turned on the basement lights and came downstairs.

Gordon began inching his way back toward the spare room. His eyes were pretty much adjusted to the dark, but when he’d exited the spare room, the basement living room or den or whatever it was, had been pitch black. He’d inched forward, feeling his way like a blind man, and that’s when he’d smacked his shin against the coffee table and taken a tumble.

He made it back to the room and paused briefly to try to control his breathing. The tumble had scared him; he was sure somebody heard him upstairs and would head down to see what the sound was.

But nobody did.

Gordon waited just inside the spare room, rubbing his shin, trying to discern what was going on upstairs. The dim sound of the television warbled from above. The news. Gordon couldn’t tell what was going on, but nobody was getting up to investigate what had happened down here. He thought he’d caught Chelsea and her father talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

When it became apparent that his tumble would go uninvestigated, Gordon let out a little sigh of relief and relaxed.

Gordon had left his house before his parents got up. His little brother was still asleep down the hall, and he’d made his way over to Chelsea’s place on foot, sneaking around and between other houses, threading his way through back yards and parks. A couple of dogs barked as he made his way to his destination, but they stopped as he receded from view. He had to stay off the streets to avoid being seen by the police.

When he reached Chelsea’s he snuck onto the driveway and, very quietly, very stealthily, crept around the property. When he reached the back yard, he’d tried the rear doors and windows. They were locked.

He’d sat behind some shrubbery at the side of the house and waited. In time, the garage door opened. Gordon peeked around a bush and got a good view. Chelsea’s mother was getting into a tan sedan. He’d remained hidden, being careful to hide further between the bush and the wall of the house, and waited until she backed out of the driveway and drove away. She did not close the garage door, probably because Chelsea’s dad, who most likely drove the white Acura that remained, hadn’t left yet.

Gordon quickly got to his feet and darted into the garage. He’d placed his ear to the door that presumably led to the laundry room and, hearing nothing, opened it gently. There’d been nobody downstairs, and he could hear movement upstairs, so he opened a door to what he thought was the closet and discovered it was actually the entrance to the basement.

He’d made his way quietly downstairs to the finished basement, found the spare room, and secreted himself in the closet.

And at some point he’d fallen asleep.

He’d woken up suddenly, cursing himself for falling asleep. He had no way of knowing what time it was, so he’d sat in the closet for a little bit, straining to hear what was going on upstairs. That’s when he’d tried venturing out of the closet and the room, into the main area of the basement.

He sat on the floor listening, his back against an interior wall. Chelsea and her father were home, that much was certain. But he had no idea what time it was or what was going on. He pulled out his cell phone and debated turning it on to see if he had any messages.

Gordon flipped the phone open and got the device powered up. Once it was on, he quickly navigated through the user menu and disabled the ring feature, setting it to vibrate. He checked the time — it was almost eleven A.M. — and then he checked his messages. There were two voice mails. He retrieved them and listened, frowning.

Both messages were from Scott. The shit was hitting the fan at his house. He’d had to tell his father about the zombies but his old man was helping him cover everything up. Dave and Steve were at the house helping to clean up. The cops had already been there, trying to question Scott about John Elfman. Scott closed the message by warning Gordon to keep his mouth shut.

Scott’s second message was much clearer. Lie low. Stay away from Spring Valley — hell, stay out of the county if possible. If the police pick you up, tell them you just had to get away because of everything. But lay low.

Gordon was lying low for the most part. Nobody knew where he was.

And that was a good thing for what he intended to do.

It was time to teach Tim Gaines a lesson.

Gordon thought he was pretty explicit with Tim when he told him he would hurt Chelsea. He’d seen Tim’s reaction and knew he’d gotten through with that simple message.

Apparently that hadn’t been enough to keep Tim’s mouth shut. Judging by Scott’s phone call this morning, it was obvious Tim had tipped the police off to what was in Scott’s guesthouse. If the zombies were discovered by the police, and Scott was brought in for questioning, everything was going to come down. He, Steve, and Dave would be busted and his future would be automatically erased thanks to that squealing shithead. Gordon was only somewhat relieved that Scott and the other guys were working their tails off at getting rid of the evidence and he could only assume Mr. Bradfield would step up to the plate and use his financial clout to put pressure on the police, probably even Tim’s parents, to stop whatever investigation was currently being launched.

Gordon replaced the cell phone in his pocket and caressed the other object he’d placed there before slipping out of his house. He rubbed the smooth oak handle, marveling at the dexterity of its construction, the simplicity of its architecture. He brought the object out now and turned it right side up. After assuring himself he was holding it the proper way, he pressed a button and six inches of stainless steel sprang from the sheath. Gordon felt a momentary burst of adrenalin and grinned in the dark.

He had to wait for the right moment. He was positive that if Tim told the cops, they knew about his threat against Chelsea. He just had to wait for the right opportunity to slip upstairs and use the blade to send another warning. Despite all evidence to the contrary, if he could do this and slip back out again, he was confident he could twist things around again, make all evidence point away from him. He’d been thinking about this since earlier this morning when he left his house. Thanks to Chelsea’s reputation for cutting herself back in Junior High School, it wasn’t going to take much to convince the police that what was to happen later today would be self-inflicted.

Gordon retracted the blade and, feeling a sudden burst of confidence, stood up. He listened.

There was the faint sound of the television from the first floor living room. He hadn’t heard Chelsea get up and head back upstairs yet. She’d come down earlier after being called to the living room by her father. He could probably sneak up to the second floor. Judging from the way the house was laid out, he could sneak upstairs, do his thing and be out before Chelsea and her father knew what was going on.

What if I get caught? He thought. What if she comes upstairs while I’m there and —

Simple. If he heard her coming up the stairs, he would dart into a hiding space. A closet. Behind a door to another room. She’d see what was done and rush to her father, probably yell at him to come upstairs, and once he saw Gordon’s handiwork they’d most likely both go downstairs to call the police. Gordon could then slip back downstairs and out the front door quickly (if they were in the kitchen), or out the back (if they were in the living room), and be out of the neighborhood by the time the police showed up.

It would be risky but he could do it. No sweat.

He’d have an alibi. Heather Watkins would vouch for him, no problem. Her folks left for work early and she was the only one home. Besides, when it came to Chelsea Brewer and Tim Gaines, Heather would do anything for Gordon. She hated Tim and Chelsea.

Heather just lived one block over from Chelsea. He could make it over to Heather’s place in less than five minutes.

Gordon Smith moved through the darkness of the basement and placed his right foot on the bottom stair. He pulled out the switchblade and paused. Took a deep breath.

Time to get going.

Stepping silently, Gordon made his way up the basement stairs.

They’d taken the TV out of the holding cell an hour after the Brendan Hall employee wheeled it in. Tim had asked them repeatedly to keep the set in the room but it was no use. Whatever was going on outside, they didn’t want him to know anything more about it.

It was shortly after eleven A.M. Despite eating a light breakfast of cereal and milk, Tim was ravenous again. When the TV was first brought in, the first thing Tim turned on was the local news. So far nothing bearing any relationship to dead people rising out of the ground was being reported but that had quickly changed when WLAN, the local CNN affiliate, broke in on the breaking story.

Tim had watched spellbound. Part of him still couldn’t believe what was happening, while another part of him was growing increasingly worried about Chelsea and his parents. Mom and Dad had left Brendan Hall shortly before ten o’clock, telling him they were going home to gather some paperwork, then they were going to the courthouse to secure the dismissal of the charges and his release. They were due back any minute. Officer Clapton was supposed to give him an update on Chelsea and he hadn’t heard anything since then. In the meantime, corpses were pulling themselves out of their graves, attacking people, biting them (but not eating them, Tim observed…they’re not eating people, just attacking them), and, as a result, there were over two dozen people missing. It wouldn’t be long before the national press picked up on the story. Tim had flipped around to CNN and Fox but so far they weren’t reporting on the phenomenon. Yet.

Every time an officer came near the holding cell, Tim changed the channel to something innocuous. The Cooking Channel, the History Channel, Cartoon Network. He asked to use a phone. He wanted to call his mom on her cell phone, find out what was going on. Each time he asked this, his request was denied. When he asked why, no response was given.

Officer Clapton paid one final visit that morning. He’d told Tim that he’d spoken to his mother on the phone and they’d been heading home to pick up a few things, then they were heading back to Lancaster for their meeting with the DA, who would formally file the paperwork to have the charges dismissed. Once again, Tim asked to use a phone so he could call them. And once again, his request was denied. It was then that Officer Clapton noticed the television (at this point turned off), in the holding cell.

“How’d that get in here?” Officer Clapton asked.

“I asked for it,” Tim said.

Officer Clapton didn’t say anything. He left and Tim turned the TV back on. When he was sure Clapton wasn’t in the near vicinity, he switched over to CNN.

What he saw stunned him. The rising dead of Spring Valley was now national news.

Soledad O’Brien was reporting on the local current events with something like disbelief. “…the locals are adamant in saying that the attackers are dead. We go to our local affiliate WLAN for more.”

Tim watched, stunned, heart racing, as one of the local talking heads reported from what appeared to be downtown Spring Valley. “Soledad, the events that are transpiring in this small Pennsylvania town in the heart of Amish Country can only be described as unbelievable. When Spring Valley police responded to a frantic 911 call earlier this morning, they found a deserted neighborhood with disturbing signs of foul play. It wasn’t until the State Police were called in that things took a turn for the macabre.”

The footage switched to a pre-recorded interview with a man in a smartly dressed shirt and tie. The caption on the screen identified him as Reverend Burns, of the Brethren Church of Spring Valley. Through a combination of the local newscaster and interviews with Reverend Burns, Tim learned that most of the occupants of the good Reverend’s churchyard had clawed their way up and skedaddled. “Some of them were little more than bones dressed in the clothes they were buried in,” Reverend Burns said. He looked like the survivor of a plane crash; his eyes were haunted, shocked.

Tim turned the volume low, listening in growing shock and fear as the newscaster related that there were reports of the dead attacking the living, killing them, only to have the victims immediately rise and shamble off to join the legions of the dead. One of the witnesses, a guy Tim recognized as the owner of the deli on Main Street, related rather calmly that he watched, from his apartment window, a gaggle of zombies pounce on the mailman and tear him to pieces. “He wasn’t dead for long,” the man said. “As soon as they killed him, they left. They didn’t eat him like you see in the movies. They just wandered off down the street, and a moment later the dead guy got up and sort of stumbled off in a different direction.”

“And you’re sure he was dead?” the reporter asked.

“Oh yeah. He was torn the hell up. His jugular was severed, you could tell when one of those things bit into his neck. I’ve never seen so much blood.”

There was a switch back to CNN headquarters in Atlanta. Soledad O’Brien looked grim. “I’m just getting word that the National Guard has been called in by the Governor. We will, of course, stay on top of this story — “

The door to the room opened and Officer Clapton stood there as two officers stormed in. They turned the television off, unplugged it, and began wheeling it out of the room. Tim’s protests to keep it fell on deaf ears.

And now he had no idea what was happening.

They’d removed the TV fifteen minutes ago. He could tell things were getting worse by the voices outside his holding cell. Twice Tim pounded on the locked door, demanding to know what was happening. Officer Clapton stopped by and told him it was best that he stay put. “What about my parents!” Tim yelled back.

“When they come back they won’t be allowed to leave until the situations in Spring Valley and Lititz are under control,” Officer Clapton said.

“But what about — “

“Your folks called and told me they were making a pit stop at the house for something, then they’re coming to get you. Don’t worry, Tim, you’re safe here.”

If he could only believe that.