Once he got to the basement door, he looked back at us and said, “I’ll be right back to help clean this hallway.”
He carried Christina down the stairs.
“Shit, Kelly’s gonna miss all the fun,” Lawrence said as he stepped forward next to the shell in the jogging suit. The cop quickly had his gun in hand and up near the shell’s ear. He looked toward me and grinned as pulled the trigger.
The roar of the gun filled the hallway, and the bullet travelled through the shell’s head and went into the wall a few inches from the ceiling.
After a pause of a few seconds, Lawrence walked up to the older woman in the bathrobe and put his gun in the middle of her forehead. Brains and blood splattered onto the wall behind her.
I stood there stunned by the glee with which the big cop executed the shells. My shock was immediately replaced by horror as I glanced over at Taylor to see him repeatedly kicking the head of the shell on the floor.
“Taylor!” I yelled. “There’s no need for that!”
The young man continued kicking as if he had not heard me.
“Taylor!” I yelled again.
This time, he turned and stared blankly at me.
“What the hell, dude?” Kelly asked from behind me. “You put a hole in the wall.”
Lawrence and I both looked at him with disbelief. Here we were standing in a hallway full of corpses, and the guy was worried about a hole in the wall. Our amazement was pushed aside by the sound of liquid hitting the floor.
Taylor was no longer attacking the shell. He was now standing with his hands against the wall as he vomited onto the floor. Lawrence walked over and put his hand on his back.
“It’s okay,” Lawrence said in a surprisingly comforting voice, which pushed aside the images of violence from moments previous. “Just get it out, son.”
“Look what I did!” Taylor cried through sobs and shudders. He looked down at the body a few feet from him with its crushed skull exposing gray brain matter and then vomited again.
“It’s okay,” Lawrence repeated, unsure of what else to say.
“C’mon,” Kelly said. “Let’s go downstairs, and we can clean this up later.”
We all retreated back to the basement.
Kelly was careful to bolt the door behind us, but as he did so I noticed his gaze was focused upon Lawrence. Something in his expression sent chills down my spine.
The events of the coming days proved my sense of foreboding was justified.
Thanks for reading The Most Uncommon Cold III: Surviving When the Dead have Risen. Please take a moment to leave a review at http://www.amazon.com/Jeffrey-Littorno/e/B004UMNNVW
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Don’t miss the other exciting books from Jeffrey Littorno:
Bloom’s Desk http://www.amazon.com/Blooms-Desk-Killer-Jeffrey-Littorno-ebook/dp/B004U6DTVM
Soul Hostage
http://www.amazon.com/Soul-Hostage-Supernatural-Suspense-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00BLAE7N4
The Most Uncommon Cold I: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse
http://www.amazon.com/Most-Uncommon-Cold-Surviving-Apocalypse-ebook/dp/B00DIPVBHU
Please enjoy this excerpt from Bloom’s Desk:
With the news footage, Glen’s mind flashed back on similar pictures, and he felt the nausea beginning to make a comeback. Finally, in an effort to clear his mind, he switched off the television and simply stared at its black screen. The reflection on the screen played a rather dull program featuring a man sitting on a couch rubbing his temples and gazing straight ahead and then tightly clinching his eyes closed. This show lasted for about 15 minutes. After this time, Glen stood and headed upstairs to the computer in the extra bedroom.
As he opened the door, he was met with the smell of dust and cardboard. This room had become a storage area. Boxes were piled along the walls. Inside were the various mementoes of Glen’s travels and Christine’s life in Korea. Against one wall, an area had been cleared for a small computer desk.
He sat in the chair in front of the desk and stared blankly at the screen for a few moments. Suddenly, his hand shot forward to rest atop the mouse. The desktop computer sprang to life when he moved the mouse on the plain black pad. The screensaver, which jumped out at him, was a photo of Christine’s and his own smiling face taken at their wedding reception. As the device was moved slowly around the pad, it resembled less a modern electronic input tool than a planchette on a Ouija board.
As the small white arrow moved around the computer screen, the only image in Glen’s mind was that of a headstone. The arrow settled on a small rectangle at the top of the screen. Inside of the space, fingers typed the words “Robert Bloom”. The arrow moved to a box labeled “Search”, and the mouse button was pressed. In a matter of seconds, links and text filled the screen.
The common element in all of these links and bits of text was Robert Bloom.
Glen clicked on the first link. The monitor was filled with the columns and photographs of a badly copied newspaper page. The masthead displayed “Santa Rosa Press Sentinel” in ornate script, and the date on the line below was December 21, 1976. He did not have to go far down the page to find the target of his search. The headline in thick black block letters declared:
BLOOM ARRESTED FOR THE MURDERS OF 9 PEOPLE
The story below reverted to typical newspaper font, but the content of the article still carried the community’s sense of shock at the vicious nature of the killings.
In related acts of deadly violence that shook the faith of this community over the last 3 months, 9 people were brutally murdered in a series of attacks. After an exhaustive investigation and cries from the public, the person believed to be responsible for these deaths has been arrested. The alleged perpetrator of the crimes, Robert Bloom, was arrested yesterday at Theodore Roosevelt High School. Bloom has been an English teacher at the school for the past 23 years. Colleagues of the teacher expressed profound surprise at the arrest.
The article went on to detail the facts of the crimes. Nine people from a variety of areas around the city had been killed. Originally, the crimes seemed entirely random and unrelated. The victims had shared no knowledge of each other and were killed in different manners. One of the victims, a homeless man named Lawrence Parks, was beaten to death with a blunt object, most likely a baseball bat. Another, a janitor at a downtown office building, had died after apparently being forced to drink cleaning fluid. The police investigators had been stymied by the randomness of the crimes and a lack of physical evidence as well as the absence or unwillingness of witnesses to the crimes to step forward with assistance. Eventually, the case broke when Bloom’s increasingly erratic behavior was reported by the school’s principal. Upon searching Bloom’s house, the police found bloody clothes connecting the teacher to the crimes. When confronted by the police, Bloom appeared confused but otherwise showed no emotion as he was placed under arrest.
As the article had been written just after Bloom’s arrest, there was no mention of what eventually happened to the teacher. Glen continued his search. Glen clicked on several of the other underlined phrases on the page. These links took him to related stories. He skimmed through articles on the comparison of Bloom to other infamous murderers such as Jack the Ripper. There were also articles with interviews of physiologists and experts on the criminally insane discussing Bloom’s probable “mindset” and incidents, which likely shaped his condition. In addition to the professional views of the crime and perpetrator, there were numerous editorial commentaries. One article advocated for stricter guidelines and background checks on potential teachers. Another discussed the need for closer monitoring of the materials and practices of teachers in the classroom. A number of the letters to the editor promoted a return to corporal punish
ment and instruction in morality as a way of preventing future acts of violence. There were several comments on the irony of the murderer's name being a reference to a flower, a thing of beauty contrasted to the ugliness of violence. It appeared that there had been several nicknames assigned to the killer, but “Bloom & Gloom” was the clear winner. Glen skimmed through the entries with an occasional sigh or chuckle at the opinions and offered solutions.
He clicked on another link from the newspaper archives. This story dated December 27th was headlined,
ALLEGED MASS MURDERER FOUND DEAD IN JAIL CELL
Robert Bloom, the alleged murderer of 9 people, was pronounced dead at 8:45 this morning. Bloom was found unconscious on the floor of his jail cell in the Santa Rosa Police Station. Officer Jay Bernard was first to find Bloom and attempted unsuccessfully to revive him. The former high school teacher was arrested on December 22nd for the crimes. Since his arrest, Bloom had been held in the police station rather than the county detention facility for his own protection.
A photograph was positioned next to the article. Glen looked closely at the face in the picture. The smiling face of an older man with short dark hair and a well-trimmed mustache certainly didn’t seem to be that of the “heartless monster” as was depicted in various articles on Robert Bloom.
One of the final articles detailed how Bloom was killed by Officer Dan Kennedy who was later discovered to be related to one of Bloom’s victims.
When he finally felt full of the sources on the topic, Glen realized that it was nearly dark outside. According to his watch, it was now 6:35. He headed back downstairs to check the news for any updates on the murder. Instead of updates, the channels were filled with in-depth reports on the latest show business scandal, syndicated sitcoms with laugh tracks to make sure that audiences didn’t miss the wacky jokes and 24-hour news channels which focused on breaking international events rather than some barely consequential murder on the streets of Northern California.
It was time rather than any internal rumblings that reminded Glen he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He left the television on as he headed to the kitchen to begin foraging for dinner. The cupboard yielded a can of tuna, some bread, and a box of goldfish crackers. The drawer to the right of the sink held a silverware tray and an old metal can opener. He opened the can of tuna and held the lid on as the oil trickled into the slightly calcium-stained silver sink. As he was reaching for a bowl in the cupboard near the stove, Glen heard the name Robert Bloom spoken. It stopped his arm in midair. He turned quickly expecting to find the speaker standing behind him.
When he found no one behind him, he realized that the voice came from the television. Glen trotted quickly back into the living room to the television. He stood close to the set as he watched the news story.
An older black man was anchoring the news program and seated behind a desk with a dark blue backdrop that had a picture of a globe with “24-HOUR NEWS NETWORK” scrolling across the equator.
“…Police are completely baffled at this time as to how the description given of the killer could so closely match the appearance of Robert Bloom, the man known as Doom & Bloom, who killed 9 people in the seventies.” The screen filled with the drawing of a middle-aged man with dark hair. Glen was surprised to recognize the face he had seen in the photograph on the computer. Although this man looked slightly younger and had no mustache, there was something in the eyes that stood out. The eyes seemed to grab you with their absolute coldness. The newscaster’s voice continued, “The sketch done as a result of the description given by the sole witness of the deadly assault early this morning on the east side of the city has been shown throughout the area. As a result, several people have responded to police with the identity of the man as notorious killer Robert Bloom. Since Bloom died nearly forty years ago, police are understandably skeptical regarding the reliability of this information. We will have more details on this story as they become available.”
So now Glen had fragments of memory that gave him the name of a dead murderer who seems to have returned to take up his hobby once again decades after his death. He felt the urge to laugh at the sheer insanity of what was happening. The question of how he fit into this madness prevented the teacher from enjoying the lunacy. The impulse to laugh quickly turned to frustration and the desire to hit something. Glen’s breath came heavy through his nose. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palm. Throughout his body, the muscles tightened like rubber bands stretched to their limit.
In the midst of Glen’s state of exasperation, the television screen suddenly bounced to life with the animated appearance of a talking white rabbit jumping around in a dizzying attempt to sell a breakfast cereal. Thanks to that rabbit, Glen felt his body start to loosen up a bit. His sneer relaxed into a smile. His breathing became more relaxed. This began the next stage of the process as the teacher moved on to denial.
He laughed aloud as he thought of the reaction to his scruffy appearance at the morning’s staff meeting. The mirth continued as he considered the fact that he was afraid of a desk. He remembered the carving of a nude Principal Wells on the bench in the office. The laughter grew louder and slightly more maniacal as the idea of his after-hours stroll to the cemetery came to mind. He recalled the seriousness of the police as they stopped him on the lawn of the school. The act of laughing gave the teacher a much-needed outlet for the tension that had been building within him over the last week. After a few minutes of such cathartic activity, the laughter stopped except for an occasional chuckle that came almost as a convulsion.
By the time that his laughter had ceased, Glen had convinced himself that any serious consideration of the last week and his connection to a long-dead murderer was unwarranted. He had simply had a few bad days. Nothing to worry about! In fact, a new school year was beginning and that was cause for celebration.
He headed to the kitchen and reached up to the seldom-used cupboard above the refrigerator. Inside was a dusty, unopened bottle of Scotch, which had been a wedding gift. He set the bottle down on the tile countertop and got a small water glass out of the cupboard and two ice cubes from the freezer. He hunched over slightly closer to the level of the counter to pour.. The brown liquid spread over the crackling ice cubes to fill the glass three- quarters to the top. Glen grabbed the bottle and returned to the couch. He set the bottle on the table in front of him. Not usually a drinker of anything stronger than beer or wine, the teacher was surprised to find that he truly enjoyed the feeling as the cool liquor warmed his throat and stomach and then spread the warmth through his entire body.
Taking a deep breath, he reached for the remote control and began to search for something of interest. There was a very popular “reality” show about a group of people dropped into a remote jungle location and filmed as they formed various alliances as a means of survival. Another program centered upon a young woman trying to choose a suitable candidate from a group of young men eager to impregnate her. Under normal circumstances, Glen found such shows insulting and uninteresting. However, something about the warmth of the Scotch made the programs entertaining. Another drink and he found himself actually interested in the type of a man for which the young woman said that she was looking.
After a view minutes, the search began again. When the screen was filled with the black & white image of a young man and woman walking through a graveyard, Glen knew that his quest was over. The young man was mocking the woman’s fear of their surroundings. “They’re coming to get you, Barbara.” He taunted the woman. Of course, the movie was George Romero’s The Night of the Living Dead. It was a movie that had been the most frightening of Glen’s life. He could remember seeing it as a boy and not being able to get the images of flesh-eating zombies out of his head. Something about the starkness of a black & white film made it seem more real. Now armed with a full bottle of Scotch, he was ready to watch the movie again. By now the ice cubes had melted, but Glen did not notice as he finished another glass. The movie was
not nearly as frightening as he remembered. Of course, the fact that the liquor had kicked in and blurred his vision slightly may have affected the experience. By the time the lone survivor of the ordeal rushed out to greet his rescuers, Glen had fallen asleep with a nearly empty glass dangling in his hand.
In his dream, he was wandering through a graveyard like in the movie. It was a gloomy afternoon. The sun was shining but somehow its rays failed to add light to the scene. The place was eerily silent. Glen thought he was alone when suddenly Vincent Marcone, the caretaker from West Hills Memorial Park, popped up from behind a headstone like one of those cardboard cutouts used for target practice.
“Hiya, Glen!” He said before disappearing again.
The teacher quickened his pace as he continued walking between the rows of headstones. Ahead and in the row to his right, Jim Fontaine popped up as if on a spring. His friend looked pale and lifeless. Then he smiled showing crooked yellow teeth, “Mr. Davis, you are certainly a dedicated, caring educator.” He dropped from sight as quickly as he had appeared.
Glen spun to his right and began jogging between the headstones. All of a sudden, the nude form of Principal Wells sprung up from behind a headstone off to his left.
“Mr. Davis, I am at a loss for words!” As she spoke, maggots fell from her mouth and slid down between her pale, sagging breasts. And then she was gone.
The teacher ran and now his run had become frantic with no other purpose than to move away from this place. He fled blindly through the maze of headstones until his knees simply buckled and threw him face first to the ground. The soil seemed unusually soft and comforting as he lay there catching his breath. There was no sound except for his heavy breathing. The sound seemed to echo around him. After a few moments, Glen raised his head to look around. What he saw made him throw his head back down to the dark protective comfort of the soil.
Surviving When the Dead Have Risen Page 10
