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.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
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.
The phone stopped ringing. A moment later Officer Clapton’s amplified voice came back on. “Tim? I know you’re in there and that you can hear me. Please…let’s talk again. We can take care of this.”
The problem was, they couldn’t. Nobody could take care of it. Not the police, not the city officials, who were still scrambling at damage control over the clusterfuck they’d helped breed at the Bradfield estate. CNN had been very receptive to Tim’s phone call last night when he told them everything, including the events that had led up to the crimes perpetrated by Scott Bradfield and his friends. In the hours that had passed, they were reporting on three different segments of the story; the zombie epidemic, which was finished now except for one final location (his house); Scott Bradfield and Gordon Smith’s involvement with black magic, which had caused the rising of the dead; and the wilding sprees that had precipitated the whole mess. The fourth thing they were now reporting, thanks to Tim’s phone call, was Spring Valley’s indifference to Tim’s plight in the years leading up to all this, and their continued protection of Scott and his friends.
That was causing a shit-storm now. And it was about time.
Tim sighed. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be around for the aftermath of whatever repercussions resulted from the general ineptitude of the Spring Valley school officials who continually turned a blind eye away from the harassment Tim endured throughout his academic career. That was too bad. At least shit was happening now. No doubt people would be fired for what happened. Lawsuits would be filed. People would go to jail. If anything good came of it, Tim hoped that lessons were learned so that nothing like this ever happened again to another kid.
Tim thought about George Ulrich and Al Romero. He missed them. It hurt to think he’d never experience their friendship in the years to come due to this unfortunate set of circumstances. With the exception of his parents and Chelsea, his friendship with George and Al had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. They would no doubt suffer emotionally in the months and years to follow, but Tim was certain they would benefit in the legal aftermath. Doug Fenner would help them reap huge financial benefits through his legal representation.
Tim looked out the back door. The officers were still maintaining vigilance, waiting for further orders, or for Tim to finally break down and come outside peacefully. No way was that happening.
