J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

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.