Gordon frowned at the thought.
It bothered him and it was hard for him to fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty
Not far away from where Gordon Smith had performed his impromptu spell, something stirred beneath the ground.
The dark forces that had been summoned had been growing steadily stronger all night. They’d harnessed the energy that had been bestowed on them, drawing more from the tear in the veil that had been opened. Seeking living organisms, the dark force had possessed all the available life forms in the surrounding area and duplicated itself by infecting more.
And it was working.
From the dead mole, to the squirrel, to the possum, it had moved up along the chain until it duplicated itself on to a human being. The human had been lounging at the very edge of Zuck’s Woods, looking up at the night sky when the force had driven the possum to transfer itself. The force no longer needed the dead to occupy. It was now strong enough to transfer itself on to living beings. First, though, the living being had to be killed.
An insatiable need to duplicate itself as rapidly as possible was what had driven the force to take down the human. Relying on the remnants of the possum’s instincts had driven it through the forest where it infected other animals. Once it infected the human, it had then ventured into the house, zeroing in on the warm body of a smaller human it sensed cowering behind a closed door. It didn’t take much for the now infected human to make a transfer on to one of its own.
And once the humans in the house were infected, they ventured out into the night. The possum, still powered by the force, did the same.
And the force continued to replicate itself. One life form at a time.
It also learned.
Once in possession of the humans, it realized it had to hold back a little. Retreat into the shadows of the woods, observe the other humans who remained in their homes. The element of surprise had to be used.
And with daylight, it came.
Jennifer Egan was already in her tights and tank-top and beginning the morning run on her treadmill when a shadow fell across the sliding door of her house.
She looked up and saw that it was Mike Lombardo, the kid from up the street.
Jennifer pressed the slow-down button on the treadmill. “Mike?”
Mike Lombardo slapped his hand on the glass sliding door. It wasn’t until Jennifer approached the door to see what was going on — she couldn’t really get a good look at him due to the lights in the exercise room — that she noticed he was injured badly. His chest was covered with blood, his left cheek bearing a horrible gash. “Oh God, Mike, get in here quick, I’ll call 911!” She opened the door and reached out to pull Mike inside, but he grabbed her. Jennifer barely had a chance to scream as he launched himself at her, ripping her throat out with two savage bites that brought her down in a rain of blood.
Two doors down, John Lombardo entered the back door of the Cyrus family home and managed to get halfway up the stairs before being confronted by Henry Cyrus. Henry stood at the top of the stairs, bearing a black handgun. Henry pointed the gun at John. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
John ignored the warning. Henry fired three shots, striking him in the shoulder and chest. John kept coming and was on Henry quickly in a flash of gunfire and blood.
The gunfire woke up Henry’s common-law wife, Maggie, and her two kids. The transfer was handled so quickly, though, that Henry was able to quickly subdue Maggie and make the transfer to her by his ownself. John took care of the two kids.
The gunshots woke up Nancy Armstrong, who lived in the home behind the Cyrus family. Nancy sat up in bed, the residue of her lover’s touch still on her skin and inside her. Her lover, Carl Boyd, had left the house a few hours ago and she’d been dozing, reliving their lovemaking in her dreams when the gunshots shattered them. Nancy sat up in bed, startled as three more gunshots rang out in quick succession, then reached for the phone on her nightstand. She picked it up, called 911, waited.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Nancy Armstrong and I live at 3587 Oak Street in Spring Valley. I just heard gunshots coming from the house behind me.”
“How many gunshots did you hear Ms. Armstrong?”
“Six.”
“Are you sure they were gunshots?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” Nancy knew the sound of a gunshot. She’d accompanied her husband to firing ranges enough times to distinguish between a gunshot and a firecracker. Her husband, Paul, was out of town on business. He was out of town on business a lot. Every week, in fact. The thought that Paul suspected she’d taken on a lover was in the back of her mind constantly, and the first thing she’d thought of when she heard the shots was that, somehow, it was Paul gunning down Carl in cold blood outside the house. The gunshots had come from the house behind them, though, not from out front.
She was looking out the curtained window, trying to see if there was movement in the house behind her, when she heard what sounded like a faint scream that quickly cut off. “I just heard a scream!”
“Who lives in the house behind you, ma’am?”
“The Cyrus family.”
“We’re sending a car to your house and to 4321 Cedar Drive, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to — ” But Nancy never heard the rest of the dispatcher’s question. She’d hung up the phone.
She’d been so engrossed by what was happening at the house behind hers that she never noticed the presence of somebody in her bedroom.
She never got to see the face of the person who killed her. Never got to see the ravaged face of Mary Lombardo as the teenager’s teeth sank into her soft throat and transferred the presence to her body.
In time, shortly before the sound of police sirens could be heard in the quiet, rural cul-de-sac, the reanimated bodies left their homes and darted quickly into the woods while the dark force continued to reach ever onward and outward, awakening the dead and the living alike.
When Officer Frank Clapton arrived at 4321 Cedar Drive, he had a feeling something wasn’t quite right.
He got out of his patrol car, mentally checking that he had his baton and side-arm, and walked to the front door. A second squad car had been dispatched to the home of Henry and Ellen Cyrus, one street over. Clapton knocked on the front door of 4321 Cedar Drive and waited.
He heard no sound from within. Something was not quite right…
Clapton knocked on the door again, harder. “Spring Valley Police, Ms. Armstrong. You called?”
There was no answer. Only a slight breeze in the air, the chirruping of the crickets in the woods.
Clapton tried the door. It was locked.
Speaking into his shoulder-mounted radio, he said, “I’m getting no answer from Ms. Armstrong. I’m going around the back to check things out.”
A squawk of static, and then Officer Walsh, who’d been dispatched to the call from the next block, responded. “That’s affirmative. We’re not getting an answer at the Cyrus residence either.”
Clapton stepped off the porch and began making his way to the side of the Armstrong residence when there was another sound over the radio. Walsh came back on, his voice high and excited. “Dispatch, this is Officer Walsh reporting from the Cyrus residence. Request additional backup. I repeat, request additional backup units now!”
Clapton’s pulse spiked at the sound of Walsh’s voice. The worst thing for any officer was to hear the sound of a fellow officer in fear of his or her life. Officer Walsh sounded not just afraid, he sounded panicked.