J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

“Okay,” Chelsea said. At least Tim was safe where he was. Naomi had assured her that Tim wasn’t with the general juvenile delinquent population at Brendan Hall. “I’ll be here.”

She was just thinking back on that conversation when her dad called her from downstairs. “Chelsea! Get down here, quickly!”

“What?” Chelsea got up off the bed and headed to the second floor landing. Dad’s voice had taken on a tinge of fear. “Are you okay?”

“Something on the news,” Dad said, and now she could hear it. Dad had the living room television turned to the local news.

Chelsea darted down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

And as she entered the living room, she saw what was happening, and what had made her father call up to her with that tone of fear in his voice.

A local female newscaster was broadcasting from what appeared to be downtown Lancaster. She looked distressed. “…have been reports of two dozen people missing and apparently the mass wave of disappearances is spreading beyond Spring Valley and into the neighboring town of Lititz. The Pennsylvania State Police have been called in and sources tell me that the National Guard is arriving to quell what is — ”

“Daddy, what’s happening?”

“Nobody is really saying, honey,” Dad said. He gestured for her to sit down beside him on the sofa. Chelsea sat down and Dad turned up the volume.

“ — only thing we can say with confidence is that several things are happening. One, people are turning up missing and authorities tell us they believe foul play is involved due to the signs of violence. Two, we have at least a dozen people confirmed dead and here’s where it gets strange.” The newscaster looked at the camera with an expression that suggested to Chelsea that she didn’t know how to proceed. “One source tells me that the victims are attacking other people, like something out of a horror movie.”

A horror movie , Chelsea thought. She immediately thought of movies like 28 Days Later , where infected people turned into ravenous zombies.

“Third and most disturbing…” the newscaster said, and here it was obvious from her eyes that the woman was running scared. Chelsea had no doubt that if she didn’t have to be at work, the newscaster would be getting the hell out of town. “…is what’s going on at a local churchyard cemetery. Grace Brethren Church in the small community of Spring Valley, which is located about a mile south of the initial site of the mass disappearance, has reported what can only be described as something out of a Stephen King novel. A church elder has reported — and I’m not making this up, folks, this is the real deal — that the corpses of those buried in his churchyard are clawing their way out of their graves and… attacking and biting people they come across.”

Chelsea and her father gasped at exactly the same time. Chelsea said, “Oh my God!”

“Police are advising residents of Spring Valley and Lititz to remain indoors. If you are out on the street, seek shelter in a secure location. In the meantime, citizens of surrounding communities are advised to — ”

From that point on it was really like watching a horror movie for Chelsea. She could do nothing else but watch the news with her father, entranced by what she was hearing and seeing. She became even more self-absorbed as various local and state law enforcement officials were interviewed, as live feed was played back showing exhumed graves at the Grace Brethren Churchyard, as a State Official was interviewed and claimed they were working to contain the “sudden and bizarre series of events that are taking place.”

She was so absorbed in what was happening that she didn’t even notice the sound of a muffled thump coming from the basement.

Gordon Smith almost let loose with a curse when he tripped over the coffee table in the darkened basement and tumbled to the carpeted floor.

He bit back a scream and clutched his right shin, fighting back the pain. Fuck, shit, piss, motherfucker cocksucking piece of shit motherfuck that hurt ! Gordon sat on the floor and rubbed his shin, trying to control his breathing. He had to make his way back to the closet he’d been holed up in for the past few hours before Chelsea’s dad turned on the basement lights and came downstairs.

Gordon began inching his way back toward the spare room. His eyes were pretty much adjusted to the dark, but when he’d exited the spare room, the basement living room or den or whatever it was, had been pitch black. He’d inched forward, feeling his way like a blind man, and that’s when he’d smacked his shin against the coffee table and taken a tumble.

He made it back to the room and paused briefly to try to control his breathing. The tumble had scared him; he was sure somebody heard him upstairs and would head down to see what the sound was.

But nobody did.

Gordon waited just inside the spare room, rubbing his shin, trying to discern what was going on upstairs. The dim sound of the television warbled from above. The news. Gordon couldn’t tell what was going on, but nobody was getting up to investigate what had happened down here. He thought he’d caught Chelsea and her father talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

When it became apparent that his tumble would go uninvestigated, Gordon let out a little sigh of relief and relaxed.

Gordon had left his house before his parents got up. His little brother was still asleep down the hall, and he’d made his way over to Chelsea’s place on foot, sneaking around and between other houses, threading his way through back yards and parks. A couple of dogs barked as he made his way to his destination, but they stopped as he receded from view. He had to stay off the streets to avoid being seen by the police.

When he reached Chelsea’s he snuck onto the driveway and, very quietly, very stealthily, crept around the property. When he reached the back yard, he’d tried the rear doors and windows. They were locked.

He’d sat behind some shrubbery at the side of the house and waited. In time, the garage door opened. Gordon peeked around a bush and got a good view. Chelsea’s mother was getting into a tan sedan. He’d remained hidden, being careful to hide further between the bush and the wall of the house, and waited until she backed out of the driveway and drove away. She did not close the garage door, probably because Chelsea’s dad, who most likely drove the white Acura that remained, hadn’t left yet.

Gordon quickly got to his feet and darted into the garage. He’d placed his ear to the door that presumably led to the laundry room and, hearing nothing, opened it gently. There’d been nobody downstairs, and he could hear movement upstairs, so he opened a door to what he thought was the closet and discovered it was actually the entrance to the basement.

He’d made his way quietly downstairs to the finished basement, found the spare room, and secreted himself in the closet.

And at some point he’d fallen asleep.

He’d woken up suddenly, cursing himself for falling asleep. He had no way of knowing what time it was, so he’d sat in the closet for a little bit, straining to hear what was going on upstairs. That’s when he’d tried venturing out of the closet and the room, into the main area of the basement.

He sat on the floor listening, his back against an interior wall. Chelsea and her father were home, that much was certain. But he had no idea what time it was or what was going on. He pulled out his cell phone and debated turning it on to see if he had any messages.

Gordon flipped the phone open and got the device powered up. Once it was on, he quickly navigated through the user menu and disabled the ring feature, setting it to vibrate. He checked the time — it was almost eleven A.M. — and then he checked his messages. There were two voice mails. He retrieved them and listened, frowning.