J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

Tim nodded. True enough. Still…

Officer Clapton made a right turn down his street. The last police vehicle they’d passed was at the entrance of their development. Almost home.

As they drew up to the house, they passed a car that had been parked on the wrong side of the street, but Tim didn’t think anything of it. The people that lived across the street had friends that sometimes pulled into their side of the street the wrong way. He was surprised he didn’t see more haphazardly parked vehicles this morning. At least his folks were still home.

As they pulled up behind his parent’s vehicles, Officer Clapton’s cell phone rang. Officer Clapton stopped the car and reached for his phone. “Go on up, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” Tim said. He stepped out of the car and took a step toward the front door.

From behind him, Officer Clapton: “Mr. Sawyer! Good to talk to you!” Pause. “Well, things seem to be getting — “

Tim tuned Officer Clapton out as he drew closer to the front door, which was wide open.

Something was wrong.

It was an instinctual feeling, the way you know a trip to the dentist to have a wisdom tooth pulled is going to be painful even though you’ve never had one done before. It was just a given. Tim felt something bad had happened and that something even worse was lying in wait for him beyond the front door to his home.

The smart thing to do would be to call out to Officer Clapton.

Tim rushed to the front porch, opened the screen door and burst through the entrance. As he did, the front door banged back and closed shut on its backward momentum. His mom’s voice came through, her voice clear, concise, and commanding. “Lock the door, Timmy, don’t let them in!”

Tim reached behind him and automatically locked the front door. He was deathly afraid now.

He smelled blood.

Sweat.

Death.

Tim took a step into the darkened living room and almost tripped over the prone figure that lay before him. He prodded it with the toe of his sneaker. At first Tim didn’t think it could be a body. The way it was positioned, lying headfirst against the wall…it seemed out of joint. It was moving, that much was evident by the way whoever it was kept trying to raise itself up, but it wasn’t until Tim got a closer look that he realized two things. One, the person lying before him was headless, and two, it was Scott Bradfield.

“Oh shit,” Tim moaned. He took a step into the kitchen…

…into a charnel house.

The first thing he noticed was the chainsaw. It’s stark contrast against the rest of the kitchen leaped out at him, prominent in painting an accurate picture of what had occurred here. The chainsaw’s still blade was deep red. Great splashes of blood stained the walls, the cabinets, the refrigerator and stove, the floor, even the ceiling.

Sitting in the center of the kitchen was Scott Bradfield’s head. It was lying perfectly positioned on its neck stump, facing the living room. His eyes were open. They rolled up, zeroed in on Tim and his face turned into a grimace of hate. Scott opened his mouth and if Tim were in his right mind he would think Scott was trying to communicate with him.

But Tim Gaines wasn’t in his right mind.

His parents were lying on the floor near Scott’s head. His father leaning against the stove, his breath coming in rasping gasps, his mother on her back, legs splayed up against the dishwasher. Dad still clutched the large butcher knife he’d used to decapitate Scott. His chest and face bore large wounds that wept copious amounts of blood.

His mother looked at him, her eyes showing a faraway type of look. Her left arm was severed at the elbow. Her face was white. “Lock the door, Timmy. They’re on the loose. They’re on the loose and your father…your father…”

“Shhh, it’s okay, Mom,” Tim knelt down beside his mother. He felt the first biting sting of tears spring to his eyes.

A large chunk of flesh had been torn out of Mom’s throat. She was lying in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. It was a wonder she wasn’t dead already. She fixed Tim with her gaze. Tim could tell she was fighting a losing battle at staying conscious. “Tim, I feel…I feel…”

“I’m gonna get help, Mom.” Tim forced himself to his feet.

“Tim, he’s here…he’s right over there and your father…your father…he saved me…he…he was so brave, Timmy, he — ”

“I know Mom, I know.” Tim kissed his mother’s forehead. He didn’t even want to think about how the battle with Scott had gone down, didn’t even want to know what it had taken to fight him off the way they obviously had. Tim forced himself to walk away from his mother. He headed to the front door, intending to open it up and call to Officer Clapton. He had to get help and he had to do it fast before —

There was a rap on the back door.

Tim stopped, turned around. Standing on the back deck, almost splayed against the sliding glass door, was Chelsea. She was looking in the house, her expression stoned, vacant. She raised her right hand and brought it against the glass door again, making a slipping, sliding sound…

…streaking the glass with brownish-red blood.

“Oh my God, Chelsea,” Tim whispered.

The front of her white T-shirt was stained a dark maroon. Tim could clearly see the massive wound on the side of her neck, as well as the teeth on the left side of her face from the flesh that had been stripped away from her cheek.

For a minute Tim was transported back to the night he’d fallen in love with Chelsea on their first date a week ago. The scent of the sweet summer night, the soft brush of her lips against his, the warmth of her body as they held each other in the front seat of her car.

The way she’d snuck back to his house that night, after his parents had gone to bed, and he was sitting up in the living room with the laptop and she’d tapped on the sliding glass door to get his attention.

Much like she was doing now.

Tim stood rooted to the spot. He was confused. He had to help his parents, had to help Chelsea, had to —

It was too late.

And as soon as he realized that simple fact, he accepted it. He couldn’t change it. Couldn’t make things better by summoning Officer Clapton. What could he do? Give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Stem the bleeding? They’d already pretty much bled out. They were dying, would be dead in minutes —

There was only one thing he could do.

Tim went to the living room and threw the deadbolt closed on the front door.

Then he stepped back into the kitchen to open the sliding glass door and let Chelsea in.

Tim Gaines had lost all sense of time since barricading himself inside the house.

It seemed like only yesterday when Officer Clapton had driven him home from Brendan Hall.

From outside, an amplified voice: “Tim? Tim, it’s Officer Clapton. If you can hear me, please pick up the phone when it rings. I’m calling right now.”

A moment later the phone rang. Tim let it ring. What was the point in talking to Clapton now?

He didn’t have to hear what was going on outside to know there was a shitload of police vehicles in front of the house. Likewise, there were a lot of officers in position in the back of the house too, most of them far enough away that they wouldn’t pose a threat. When they’d tried to storm the house yesterday by trying to break in through the back door, Tim had held them back by placing a knife to his throat and drawing enough blood that they’d backed off — he’d seen a reenactment of similar scene where a suicidal person had done the same thing and it kept the police away, for awhile at least. It worked for him, too. As a result, he’d had to spend most of his time in the kitchen, near the sliding glass door, so they’d have a good view of him and know he still meant business.