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.
Both messages were from Scott. The shit was hitting the fan at his house. He’d had to tell his father about the zombies but his old man was helping him cover everything up. Dave and Steve were at the house helping to clean up. The cops had already been there, trying to question Scott about John Elfman. Scott closed the message by warning Gordon to keep his mouth shut.
Scott’s second message was much clearer. Lie low. Stay away from Spring Valley — hell, stay out of the county if possible. If the police pick you up, tell them you just had to get away because of everything. But lay low.
Gordon was lying low for the most part. Nobody knew where he was.
And that was a good thing for what he intended to do.
It was time to teach Tim Gaines a lesson.
Gordon thought he was pretty explicit with Tim when he told him he would hurt Chelsea. He’d seen Tim’s reaction and knew he’d gotten through with that simple message.
Apparently that hadn’t been enough to keep Tim’s mouth shut. Judging by Scott’s phone call this morning, it was obvious Tim had tipped the police off to what was in Scott’s guesthouse. If the zombies were discovered by the police, and Scott was brought in for questioning, everything was going to come down. He, Steve, and Dave would be busted and his future would be automatically erased thanks to that squealing shithead. Gordon was only somewhat relieved that Scott and the other guys were working their tails off at getting rid of the evidence and he could only assume Mr. Bradfield would step up to the plate and use his financial clout to put pressure on the police, probably even Tim’s parents, to stop whatever investigation was currently being launched.
Gordon replaced the cell phone in his pocket and caressed the other object he’d placed there before slipping out of his house. He rubbed the smooth oak handle, marveling at the dexterity of its construction, the simplicity of its architecture. He brought the object out now and turned it right side up. After assuring himself he was holding it the proper way, he pressed a button and six inches of stainless steel sprang from the sheath. Gordon felt a momentary burst of adrenalin and grinned in the dark.
He had to wait for the right moment. He was positive that if Tim told the cops, they knew about his threat against Chelsea. He just had to wait for the right opportunity to slip upstairs and use the blade to send another warning. Despite all evidence to the contrary, if he could do this and slip back out again, he was confident he could twist things around again, make all evidence point away from him. He’d been thinking about this since earlier this morning when he left his house. Thanks to Chelsea’s reputation for cutting herself back in Junior High School, it wasn’t going to take much to convince the police that what was to happen later today would be self-inflicted.
Gordon retracted the blade and, feeling a sudden burst of confidence, stood up. He listened.
There was the faint sound of the television from the first floor living room. He hadn’t heard Chelsea get up and head back upstairs yet. She’d come down earlier after being called to the living room by her father. He could probably sneak up to the second floor. Judging from the way the house was laid out, he could sneak upstairs, do his thing and be out before Chelsea and her father knew what was going on.
Simple. If he heard her coming up the stairs, he would dart into a hiding space. A closet. Behind a door to another room. She’d see what was done and rush to her father, probably yell at him to come upstairs, and once he saw Gordon’s handiwork they’d most likely both go downstairs to call the police. Gordon could then slip back downstairs and out the front door quickly (if they were in the kitchen), or out the back (if they were in the living room), and be out of the neighborhood by the time the police showed up.
It would be risky but he could do it. No sweat.
He’d have an alibi. Heather Watkins would vouch for him, no problem. Her folks left for work early and she was the only one home. Besides, when it came to Chelsea Brewer and Tim Gaines, Heather would do anything for Gordon. She hated Tim and Chelsea.
Heather just lived one block over from Chelsea. He could make it over to Heather’s place in less than five minutes.
Gordon Smith moved through the darkness of the basement and placed his right foot on the bottom stair. He pulled out the switchblade and paused. Took a deep breath.
Time to get going.
Stepping silently, Gordon made his way up the basement stairs.
They’d taken the TV out of the holding cell an hour after the Brendan Hall employee wheeled it in. Tim had asked them repeatedly to keep the set in the room but it was no use. Whatever was going on outside, they didn’t want him to know anything more about it.
It was shortly after eleven A.M. Despite eating a light breakfast of cereal and milk, Tim was ravenous again. When the TV was first brought in, the first thing Tim turned on was the local news. So far nothing bearing any relationship to dead people rising out of the ground was being reported but that had quickly changed when WLAN, the local CNN affiliate, broke in on the breaking story.
Tim had watched spellbound. Part of him still couldn’t believe what was happening, while another part of him was growing increasingly worried about Chelsea and his parents. Mom and Dad had left Brendan Hall shortly before ten o’clock, telling him they were going home to gather some paperwork, then they were going to the courthouse to secure the dismissal of the charges and his release. They were due back any minute. Officer Clapton was supposed to give him an update on Chelsea and he hadn’t heard anything since then. In the meantime, corpses were pulling themselves out of their graves, attacking people, biting them (
Every time an officer came near the holding cell, Tim changed the channel to something innocuous. The Cooking Channel, the History Channel, Cartoon Network. He asked to use a phone. He wanted to call his mom on her cell phone, find out what was going on. Each time he asked this, his request was denied. When he asked why, no response was given.
Officer Clapton paid one final visit that morning. He’d told Tim that he’d spoken to his mother on the phone and they’d been heading home to pick up a few things, then they were heading back to Lancaster for their meeting with the DA, who would formally file the paperwork to have the charges dismissed. Once again, Tim asked to use a phone so he could call them. And once again, his request was denied. It was then that Officer Clapton noticed the television (at this point turned off), in the holding cell.
“How’d that get in here?” Officer Clapton asked.
“I asked for it,” Tim said.
Officer Clapton didn’t say anything. He left and Tim turned the TV back on. When he was sure Clapton wasn’t in the near vicinity, he switched over to CNN.
What he saw stunned him. The rising dead of Spring Valley was now national news.
