JF Gonzalez - Back From The Dead.wps

by phuc

  What adult in their right mind would believe Scott Bradfield and his friends were making zombies?

  Officer Clapton made another right hand turn down Cedar Street, which ran parallel to Broad Street. He was probably going to make a right on Mill Town Road and then a left on Broad Street, which would then take them straight to Lancaster. He was finally getting some semblence of control of his thoughts and emotions when Officer Clapton spoke to him. “So can you tell me what you were doing riding around with Gordon?”

  Tim shrugged. “We were just…talking. It was no big deal.”

  “Two weeks ago you accused Gordon of the crime you’re under investigation for.

  You so much as implicated him by telling us you’d loaned him the book that was found at the cemetery. Why would you hang out with the guy you tried to throw under the bus, Tim?”

  “I don’t know,” Tim said, not knowing what else to say.

  “You can tell me the truth,” Officer Clapton said. Tim caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Gordon’s not around to intimidate you. I know what these guys have done to you throughout the years, and I know Gordon is tight with Scott Bradfield and his crew. The dean of your school is adamant you had something to do with not only that cemetery desecration, but the vandalism at the school, and he’s the main cheerleader for the investigation. I’ve always been on your side, though.”

  “Have you?” Tim asked.

  “Of course.” Officer Clapton made eye contact with Tim from the rearview mirror. “I always have been. I know what you’re going through is the result of religious persecution. Scott and his friends have managed to convince the entire student body of Spring Valley High that you’re some kind of devil-worshiper, and in doing so they’ve managed to paint not only a horrible picture of you, but an untrue one. I have to admit I was disappointed when that book was found at the Reamstown Cemetery. A book which not only had your name on it, but which you readily admitted owning. I really thought you were involved in the cemetery vandalism. Evidence pointed right to you despite your denial. Gordon has an alibi for that night and I know your folks claimed you were at home, but we were required to follow up. Do you understand me, Tim?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a good kid, Tim. The principal at Spring Valley High reports no trouble from you despite the accusations against you. You get good grades. Your parents are good people. You aren’t the first kid whose been picked on and harassed by the social elite of a small community. I’ve been in touch with other law enforcement officials in other cities where similar events have happened. We’re consulting with one right now in Colorado where a high school girl suffered what you’re going through. Her parents sued the school district and the city. Received a tidy sum, too. I’d be lying if I told you I’m trying to avoid a similar action from your parents, but I also want to see justice done. I’ve been working at protecting you and keeping you out of trouble as much as the law allows me, but I can’t do my job unless you help me.” Officer Clapton made eye contact with him again.

  “Please, Tim. Be honest with me. What were you and Gordon really doing driving around so late for?”

  Tim sighed, the urge to tell the truth so strong that he almost told Officer Clapton everything. Once again Chelsea came into his mind. The memory of her caress, her kiss, and then something worse. Chelsea lying dead on the floor of that guesthouse, those dead things crowding around her, their rotting teeth buried in the smooth flesh of her throat—

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Tim blurted.

  “How will you know if you don’t come clean with me?”

  Tim said nothing as Officer Clapton drove down 501 toward Lancaster. When they approached the train station, Officer Clapton said, “I think Gordon broke into that cemetery and desecrated that grave to pin it on you. I think he’s blackmailing you. Why, I haven’t quite figured out yet, but—”

  “You think I can trust you now?” Tim said, the words tumbling out suddenly as his frustration bubbled to the surface. “Nobody believes me anyway, not the dean of the school, not most of the police force, not the majority of the whole goddamn township!”

  “I believe you,” Officer Clapton said.

  “The whole town is out to get me!” Tim said, looking at Officer Clapton. “Don’t you get it? They’re not going to care if you believe me. Your boss probably thinks I’m guilty.”

  “That’s not true. Chief Landon and I have talked quite extensively about you and your situation.”

  “What good is talk if you don’t do anything about it?”

  “Certain procedures have to be kept. We can’t just rush in and arrest Gordon on suspicion of—”

  “But it’s okay to arrest me because some nitwit thinks I might be casting spells in the woods? Are you kidding me?”

  “We have to follow procedure, Tim. When a criminal accusation is levied against a citizen we’re required to investigate. We’re compelled to be impartial and—”

  “Bullshit,” Tim muttered, his anger coursing through him. He flopped back in the seat, frustrated this was happening and unable to control his emotions. “The history speaks for itself. Scott and his friends have ruined my life and have convinced damn near everybody in Spring Valley that if a goddamn cat so much as gets mauled by a coyote, they blame me for sacrificing it to the devil. You know how many times I’ve been investigated on such bullshit claims?”

  “I understand your frustration,” Officer Clapton began.

  “I don’t think you do.”

  Officer Clapton sighed. They were in downtown Lancaster now, heading south on Prince Street. Tim had no idea where Brendan Hall was but he figured they had to be close. “I believe Gordon dug up that grave and stole the bones of that corpse. I think he did it to frame you. I don’t know why. Only you can answer that question, Tim.”

  Tim shook his head. Officer Clapton slowed down and pulled into a parking lot. A large building stood before them and Tim felt himself tense up again. They were at Brendan Hall.

  Tim felt on edge. Despite wanting to confide in Officer Clapton, despite knowing that the opportunity to do so was presenting itself to him at this very moment, he was still scared for Chelsea and his family. If past events were indications of how things would turn out, the truth would be met with skepticism by most of those in authority. Gordon and his friends would deny everything and the Bradfield’s family clout would delay the search of the guesthouse, giving Gordon and Scott plenty of time to dispose of the corpses. Even with such advance crime investigation techniques like blood spatter and DNA, by the time that was gathered and a case was built against them, they’d be free to strike back. They could snag Chelsea at any time, Scott’s dad could essentially crush Tim’s parents with a lawsuit and there was no way they could afford an attorney competent enough to go up against the kind of money the Bradfield’s had at their disposal. They’d be ruined.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” Tim finally said, the confession sounding false to him. “We were just talking. Trying to sort things out.”

  Officer Clapton parked near the entrance and turned off the engine. He regarded Tim from the front seat. “Okay,” he said. “If that’s what you say happened, fine.”

  Officer Clapton exited the vehicle and opened the passenger side door for Tim. As they walked toward the entrance to Brendan Hall, the dread that was coursing through Tim’s system solidified. “What’s going to happen now?” Tim asked, his voice cracking.

  “You’ll be fine,” Officer Clapton murmured. “You’ll be in a room by yourself so you don’t have to worry. I’ll process you at the front desk and make a call to your folks, then we can talk some more in private if you want.”

  “Will my parents be able to get me tonight?” Despite the trouble he felt he would be in with his folks, he wanted to see them as soon as possible.

  “Yes, they’ll be able to pick you up as soon as they can get here.”

  Tim heaved a sigh of relief as they entered the lobby of Brendan
Hall.

  As Officer Clapton led him to the administration desk, which was sealed off by bullet-proof glass, he casually asked, “By the way…do you know John Elfman? He was reported missing yesterday by his parents.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Tim said, trying not to let the surprise show in his voice.

  “Didn’t know him, or didn’t know he was missing?”

  “Both.”

  They stopped at the front desk and a civilian clerk dressed in dark slacks and a dark shirt looked up at them. Officer Clapton nodded at the clerk. “Hi, Phil. I need processing papers, please.”

  “Sure thing,” Phil said. He reached beneath his desk and retrieved two forms, which he slid through to him.

  Officer Clapton took the papers, retrieved a pen from his breast pocket and began filling them out. “I understand from several sources that John used to pick on you a bit.

  Not as much as Scott and his group, but enough to arouse interest with your guidance counselor. You’re sure you haven’t heard about his disappearance?”

  “I’m sure,” Tim said, looking at the paperwork Officer Clapton was filling out. “I tried to stay away from John as much as I could. Besides, I don’t think John hung out with Scott and his group.”

  “They were rivals, weren’t they?” Officer Clapton asked casually. He was filling out Tim’s name and address and began filling in the section about why he was being brought to Brendan Hall.

  “I guess you could say that,” Tim said.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Tim shook his head. “No.”

  “Okay. If you change your mind, I’ll be on duty until noon. You can always ask a warden to talk to a detective and I can come down. I can always come to the house and talk to you and your parents. Understand?”

  Tim nodded sullenly. “Yeah.”

  Officer Clapton paused in filling out the paperwork, as if waiting for some outpouring of confession. Tim remained stoic and sullen, not looking at him. He just wanted to get out of here, he wanted to see his parents, wanted to warn Chelsea. He had to find some way to stop this.

  “Okay,” Officer Clapton said, and he turned his attention back to the paperwork that would admit Tim to custody at Brendan Hall Juvenile Facility.

  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 s
cene 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.