J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

The footage switched to a pre-recorded interview with a man in a smartly dressed shirt and tie. The caption on the screen identified him as Reverend Burns, of the Brethren Church of Spring Valley. Through a combination of the local newscaster and interviews with Reverend Burns, Tim learned that most of the occupants of the good Reverend’s churchyard had clawed their way up and skedaddled. “Some of them were little more than bones dressed in the clothes they were buried in,” Reverend Burns said. He looked like the survivor of a plane crash; his eyes were haunted, shocked.

Tim turned the volume low, listening in growing shock and fear as the newscaster related that there were reports of the dead attacking the living, killing them, only to have the victims immediately rise and shamble off to join the legions of the dead. One of the witnesses, a guy Tim recognized as the owner of the deli on Main Street, related rather calmly that he watched, from his apartment window, a gaggle of zombies pounce on the mailman and tear him to pieces. “He wasn’t dead for long,” the man said. “As soon as they killed him, they left. They didn’t eat him like you see in the movies. They just wandered off down the street, and a moment later the dead guy got up and sort of stumbled off in a different direction.”

“And you’re sure he was dead?” the reporter asked.

“Oh yeah. He was torn the hell up. His jugular was severed, you could tell when one of those things bit into his neck. I’ve never seen so much blood.”

There was a switch back to CNN headquarters in Atlanta. Soledad O’Brien looked grim. “I’m just getting word that the National Guard has been called in by the Governor. We will, of course, stay on top of this story — “

The door to the room opened and Officer Clapton stood there as two officers stormed in. They turned the television off, unplugged it, and began wheeling it out of the room. Tim’s protests to keep it fell on deaf ears.

And now he had no idea what was happening.

They’d removed the TV fifteen minutes ago. He could tell things were getting worse by the voices outside his holding cell. Twice Tim pounded on the locked door, demanding to know what was happening. Officer Clapton stopped by and told him it was best that he stay put. “What about my parents!” Tim yelled back.

“When they come back they won’t be allowed to leave until the situations in Spring Valley and Lititz are under control,” Officer Clapton said.

“But what about — “

“Your folks called and told me they were making a pit stop at the house for something, then they’re coming to get you. Don’t worry, Tim, you’re safe here.”

If he could only believe that.

The guesthouse smelled like an oven that had been cooking a spoiled dead pig, but Tom told Harry and Victor to shut the hell up about it and get to work painting. Victor muttered that he wasn’t the one that had killed that couple and Tom almost exploded. He’d said, “You raped that girl and you withheld and helped bury evidence. That makes you just as guilty. You’re an accessory. If I get pinned for anything, you guys are going down with me. Got it?”

That had shut Victor up, and the three of them worked at painting over the blood-stained floor. Tom had to drag the garden hose in from the yard and wash away the bulk of the blood and meat that littered the guesthouse. They didn’t even have time to let the floor dry; they just started painting over it. If the shit hit the fan, extracting a DNA sample would still be possible, but if he could contaminate the scene as much as possible…

“We can apply another coat after this one has dried,” Tom said. Harry and Victor nodded, working silently.

Tom made sure Harry and Victor were working at covering the obvious crime scene. He assisted by applying a coat of paint in the living room near the door so he could keep a watch toward the front of the house. Scott and his friends were in the basement dismembering the bodies and feeding the pieces to the fireplace. Scott had given the boys brief instructions, had shown them his basement workroom with all its tools (including a power saw), and then left them to their task while he went to tackle his own. He’d left Scott with one final admonition: “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.” Scott had nodded, and Tom had a feeling his son was handling this pretty well. He was a tough kid.

Tom was lost in his thoughts on what the next step should be when Harry broke the silence. “Like father, like son.”

Tom stopped and turned to Harry. “Excuse me?”

“Scott. He’s grown up to be just like you. He’s an arrogant, sadistic, bully.” Harry glared at Tom. He’d stopped his work and was standing in front of a freshly painted wall. “He’s a fucking asshole. I guess that saying is true — the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I don’t have time to get into this with you,” Tom said, forcing the words out of his mouth. What he wanted to do was leap across the room and pound Harry’s face in. “So please, shut the fuck up and get to painting.”

“I don’t care if the cops bust us for keeping what you did a secret,” Harry said. “I’ve been living with what we did — what you did — for too long. Do you know how that’s affected me, Tom? Do you have any idea what kind of nightmares you’ve put me through?”

“Harry, we don’t have time for — “

“ Shut up! ” Harry yelled. The intensity behind that command startled Tom. He stopped, the adrenalin spiking through his system now. Victor stopped what he was doing and listened. “You just shut the hell up and listen to me, Tom, because I’m only going to say it once. You understand me?”

Tom met Harry’s gaze, not backing down. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve hated you ever since the night you killed Billy Thompson and Candace Drombowsky,” Harry snarled, his eyes blazing pits of hate. “The only reason I cooperated was because I was a scared, confused kid who didn’t want to get caught.”

“None of us wanted to get caught, Harry,” Tom said.

“Let me finish !” Harry barked. “If you hadn’t killed them, we wouldn’t have had to go through what we went through. Aren’t you getting that through your thick skull?”

Tom set down his paintbrush. He couldn’t let this go on. “Harry, let’s just take a quick break and — “

“I used to hope the police would catch you,” Harry said. “I realized you would have dropped a dime on us, but I didn’t care. I always figured I’d get some kind of lesser sentence. But at the same time, part of me was afraid of getting caught, just like you, so I said nothing. And…I’ve never been able to live with myself since that night.” Harry cocked a questioning gaze at Tom. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

Tom didn’t know what to say. He’d re-lived that night multiple times, and through the passing of time had only just recently felt the faint twinges of regret over his actions. At the same time he was so far removed from the person he’d been so long ago that he felt disconnected with him. The Tom Bradfield that murdered Billy Thompson and Candace Drombowsky was not the Tom Bradfield he was now.

“I’ve thought about Billy and Candace every day since that night,” Harry said. “I know you haven’t cared and have gone on with your life, but I’ve never gotten over it. I was so afraid of what might happen, that I never lived up to my full potential. I dropped out of college and worked in jobs I hated. I’ve had trouble with women, drugs and alcohol. I’ve been a shitty father to my own kids, and I’ve been a shitty person because of my alcohol problems, all of which are a direct result of what you did that night and how I helped cover everything up for you.”