J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

“Yeah,” Gordon said.

“How long do you think it’ll take before we can turn him into a zombie?”

Gordon shrugged. “I don’t know. I can ask Count to highlight those parts.”

Scott grinned. “I never thought Count Gaines would be good for anything but it looks like he’s going to be.”

The boys laughed at that. Who knew Count Gaines would be good for anything, indeed!

Tim wasn’t surprised to see Gordon at lunch the following Monday. His former nemesis paid him a visit at his usual hangout spot — a stone bench nestled in a nice little alcove well away from the quad where most of the student body hung out at during lunch. Due to extra-curricular activities, the kids he sometimes hung out with were scattered to the four winds: Chelsea was assisting her art teacher, Matt was in the computer lab, Al and George were over in Mr. Sharp’s Graphic Arts class preparing for fifth period; he’d had lunch with them only ten minutes ago in the cafeteria. It was during times like these that Tim buried himself in a book.

“Hey Tim,” Gordon said. Tim nodded at him. Not, hey Count , or hey freak . Being addressed by his first name meant some kind of progress was being made. “You finish that book?” Gordon’s expression was eager.

“Yep.” Tim pulled the battered paperback out of his backpack and handed it over to Gordon, who took it excitedly. “Leave the lights on at night when you read it,” he said with a grin.

“Oh yeah?” Gordon looked up from the back cover, which he’d begun to peruse.

“Yeah. Creepiest shit I’ve read in a long time.”

“So where’s the zombie stuff?”

“They make an appearance about a quarter of the way into the book, but the serious shit doesn’t happen until the last third.”

Gordon was ruffling through the pages, as if searching through a textbook. “No, I mean, where’s the formula? You know…the spells on how they make the zombies?”

“You’re still gonna read the whole thing, right?”

“Well, yeah!”

Tim took the book back and flipped through it, finding the pages in question. Gordon sat down next to him on the bench. Around them kids mingled, eating lunch together in groups or by themselves. A group of girls were sitting on the grass of the quad talking and laughing. “I guess I can show you where it is since I already told you about how they make the zombies. It’s not like I’ve given you spoilers.”

“Spoilers?” Gordon looked confused.

Tim ignored the confused look on Gordon’s face. “Here we are. Page thirty-six through forty-three.” He showed Gordon the pages in question. “Most of the background on zombies is here.” He flipped through another thirty pages. “And here’s the part where the main villain performs the ritual.”

Gordon all but snatched the book from Tim’s hands. “Cool!” He started reading through the passage in question. “This is some serious shit.”

“Don’t mess up on your zombie-making on the first try,” Tim quipped. He reached for his water bottle for a swig.

Gordon looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Tim grinned. “You’ll see.”

“Nah, really, what do you mean?” Gordon was getting that look Tim knew only too well; that menacing look that hinted at upcoming verbal or physical abuse.

Tim quickly back-peddled, his old habits falling into place whenever he was bullied by Gordon and his crew. “Nothing, nothing! It’s just that in the book the main villain performs the ritual the wrong way and…well, shit happens. You’ll see what I mean when you get to it.”

Gordon was looking at him, seemingly satisfied by the answer. “Okay,” he said. He rose to his feet. “I better get going. Thanks, Count!”

“Don’t mention it,” Tim said, feeling the little punch to his gut at the word Count and suddenly feeling embarrassed for letting himself be manipulated by Gordon that way. Why did you go out of your way to loan him a book? To be his friend? To get on his good side? You know Gordon and his friends are never going to be on your good side and there’s no use being friendly with him or trying to accommodate them. They’ll just use you and spit in your face. Just like Gordon did just now by calling you Count.

Tim watched Gordon walk away, feeling a burning distaste in the pit of his belly. Sometimes he wished he could lash out at those who tormented him like the villains did in the horror and SF novels he read. He wished that, for a brief time, magic really existed so he could turn them into frogs or slugs and then step on them, grinding them to paste beneath his feet. He wished he could humiliate them publicly in a way that it would never be traced back to him.

Tim sighed. No use getting bent around the axle now. What was done was done. He couldn’t undo it. And if Gordon never returned his copy of Back From the Dead he could pick up a used copy somewhere. No big deal.

Tim reached into his backpack and pulled out another book, a Robert E. Howard title, and settled back to read. Best case scenario was Gordon really got something out of Back From the Dead , which, in Tim’s opinion, was a solid horror novel. It didn’t matter if he returned it, just that he understood its underlying message: that if you pushed somebody hard enough they would push back.

And sometimes they would bite.

The following night, Gordon entered the woods five hundred yards off Briar Road near Zuck’s Farm and, with the help of a flashlight, wove his way between pine and birch trees until he found a spot he liked.

He set the burlap bag down on the ground and found an old log to sit on. Leaving the flashlight on, he dug inside the bag for the things he’d brought with him.

The first item was a paperback copy of Back From the Dead . He’d lost the copy Count Gaines loaned him at Mt. Joy Cemetery and had to make an emergency trip to Aaron’s Used Bookstore on Broad Street after school to find a replacement. He set the book down on the log and pulled out four silver saucers and four black candles. The book said the candles had to be made from sheep’s fat and he’d gone to a Pagan Book and Gift Shop in Lancaster ( might as well call themselves witches , Gordon had thought) to purchase these along with some other things, which he brought out: an ounce bag each of hemlock, belladonna, and witchgrass. He brought out the ceremonial dagger — seven inches of jagged steel — and a can of salt.

One of the bags contained an item he’d spent considerable time and energy last night obtaining, but he’d done it. Count Gaines never told him about this ingredient, and Gordon was of good mind to pound the little shit when he saw him at school next time. Gordon pulled the item out now and turned it over gingerly in his hands, his heart pounding.

It was a plastic baggie containing powdered human bones.

When Gordon read the passage that contained the preparation for the ritual yesterday during Study Hall, he’d been concerned. The spell specifically stated that one of the ingredients needed was the powdered bones of a human corpse. For several minutes he’d stewed in anger, almost prepared to leave study hall in a hunt for Count Gaines so he could kick the shit out of him, but then he started thinking about his predicament. The cemetery near Reamstown Road at that old Mennonite church was old, and several of the graves were interred above ground in large stone cairns. Gordon and Susan had walked through it one day on their way home from the Reamstown fair and Gordon thought it might be easy to push the lid of one of those cairns over, revealing the coffin inside.

With that in mind, he’d placed a call to David Bruce and explained his predicament and outlined his plan. David was willing to help. So late last night Gordon had snuck out his bedroom window and started his car, which was parked at the curb in front of the house, and drove to David’s. David had been waiting for him and they’d driven to the graveyard in silence. Once there they made their way onto the grounds, selected the first cairn they came across and went to work. Using a crowbar and brute strength, they managed to move the lid of the cairn enough so that Gordon could get to the coffin within. A couple of heavy strikes with the crowbar splintered the wood, but that wasn’t enough. “Shit, we need to break the fucking lock on this thing,” Gordon had muttered.