J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

Two doors down, John Lombardo entered the back door of the Cyrus family home and managed to get halfway up the stairs before being confronted by Henry Cyrus. Henry stood at the top of the stairs, bearing a black handgun. Henry pointed the gun at John. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

John ignored the warning. Henry fired three shots, striking him in the shoulder and chest. John kept coming and was on Henry quickly in a flash of gunfire and blood.

The gunfire woke up Henry’s common-law wife, Maggie, and her two kids. The transfer was handled so quickly, though, that Henry was able to quickly subdue Maggie and make the transfer to her by his ownself. John took care of the two kids.

The gunshots woke up Nancy Armstrong, who lived in the home behind the Cyrus family. Nancy sat up in bed, the residue of her lover’s touch still on her skin and inside her. Her lover, Carl Boyd, had left the house a few hours ago and she’d been dozing, reliving their lovemaking in her dreams when the gunshots shattered them. Nancy sat up in bed, startled as three more gunshots rang out in quick succession, then reached for the phone on her nightstand. She picked it up, called 911, waited.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My name is Nancy Armstrong and I live at 3587 Oak Street in Spring Valley. I just heard gunshots coming from the house behind me.”

“How many gunshots did you hear Ms. Armstrong?”

“Six.”

“Are you sure they were gunshots?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Nancy knew the sound of a gunshot. She’d accompanied her husband to firing ranges enough times to distinguish between a gunshot and a firecracker. Her husband, Paul, was out of town on business. He was out of town on business a lot. Every week, in fact. The thought that Paul suspected she’d taken on a lover was in the back of her mind constantly, and the first thing she’d thought of when she heard the shots was that, somehow, it was Paul gunning down Carl in cold blood outside the house. The gunshots had come from the house behind them, though, not from out front.

She was looking out the curtained window, trying to see if there was movement in the house behind her, when she heard what sounded like a faint scream that quickly cut off. “I just heard a scream!”

“Who lives in the house behind you, ma’am?”

“The Cyrus family.”

“We’re sending a car to your house and to 4321 Cedar Drive, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to — ” But Nancy never heard the rest of the dispatcher’s question. She’d hung up the phone.

She’d been so engrossed by what was happening at the house behind hers that she never noticed the presence of somebody in her bedroom.

She never got to see the face of the person who killed her. Never got to see the ravaged face of Mary Lombardo as the teenager’s teeth sank into her soft throat and transferred the presence to her body.

In time, shortly before the sound of police sirens could be heard in the quiet, rural cul-de-sac, the reanimated bodies left their homes and darted quickly into the woods while the dark force continued to reach ever onward and outward, awakening the dead and the living alike.

When Officer Frank Clapton arrived at 4321 Cedar Drive, he had a feeling something wasn’t quite right.

He got out of his patrol car, mentally checking that he had his baton and side-arm, and walked to the front door. A second squad car had been dispatched to the home of Henry and Ellen Cyrus, one street over. Clapton knocked on the front door of 4321 Cedar Drive and waited.

He heard no sound from within. Something was not quite right…

Clapton knocked on the door again, harder. “Spring Valley Police, Ms. Armstrong. You called?”

There was no answer. Only a slight breeze in the air, the chirruping of the crickets in the woods.

Clapton tried the door. It was locked.

Speaking into his shoulder-mounted radio, he said, “I’m getting no answer from Ms. Armstrong. I’m going around the back to check things out.”

A squawk of static, and then Officer Walsh, who’d been dispatched to the call from the next block, responded. “That’s affirmative. We’re not getting an answer at the Cyrus residence either.”

Clapton stepped off the porch and began making his way to the side of the Armstrong residence when there was another sound over the radio. Walsh came back on, his voice high and excited. “Dispatch, this is Officer Walsh reporting from the Cyrus residence. Request additional backup. I repeat, request additional backup units now!”

Clapton’s pulse spiked at the sound of Walsh’s voice. The worst thing for any officer was to hear the sound of a fellow officer in fear of his or her life. Officer Walsh sounded not just afraid, he sounded panicked.

He sprinted around the corner of the house, gun drawn, and activated his shoulder-mounted radio. “Officer Walsh, this is Clapton. I’m approaching the Cyrus residence from the direction of the Armstrong house on the north side.”

A female dispatcher called for more backup. “Officers request assistance at 4321 Cedar Drive and 3587 Oak Street. Code 412.”

And as Officer Clapton made his way around the side of the Cyrus house and saw what Officer Walsh was looking at, he felt another spike of panic. Officer Walsh was standing with his back against the wall of the house, his eyes wide with fright. Officer Clapton saw the large puddle of blood on the ground, the tattered flesh that lay in a pile near the wall, and then the panic began as things began to rapidly unravel.

Tim Gaines must have been in a very deep sleep because the next thing he remembered after lying on his cot in the cell, he was being shaken awake.

Tim blinked and sat up quickly, growing confused when he saw who it was that had woken him up.

Detective Andrews and Officer Frank Clapton stood before him. Both of them looked worried. Clapton looked almost fearful. He was still wearing his uniform from the night before. Tim rubbed his eyes and tried to straighten up. “What’s up?”

“We don’t have a lot of time, but you’ve got to come clean with us,” Officer Clapton said.

At the sound of his voice Tim was instantly awake and aware. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell me the truth,” Officer Clapton began. “What were you and Gordon really doing when I pulled you over last night?”

“I told you, we were talking.” The explanation came out so quickly that Tim realized the officer was probably looking for another answer. He looked at the cop and the detective as they stood in front of him and the expressions in their faces told him all he needed to know.

Something happened .

Tim felt all the blood drain from his face.

“Can the bullshit, Gaines,” Detective Andrews said. Gone was the calm, soothing voice and demeanor from last night when he was booked. Now Andrews sounded not only mad, but worried. “We know you have information regarding the disappearance of John Elfman.”

“And I know you’re not being truthful with me,” Officer Clapton said. “I can read it in your face. You just went dead pale.”

“No I didn’t,” Tim said, instantly feeling stupid for the denial.

“I can’t go into details,” Officer Clapton said. “But I have at least one dead man and over a dozen people missing from a neighborhood near Zuck’s Woods. They’re believed to be seriously injured or dead. The Pennsylvania State Police have been here since five o’clock assisting us and by nine we’re going to have a hell of a mess on our hands if you don’t tell us everything you know.”

“What’s happening?” Tim asked, his voice shaky.

Clapton and Detective Andrews glanced at each other. When Clapton spoke he did it with careful reserve. “We’ve found John.”