“Anyway, we’re still telling everybody to stay inside as a precaution,” Officer Clapton continued. He looked at Tim and managed a smile. “It looks like we’re getting things under control. I can take you home if you’d like.”
“Really?” At the mention of going home, Tim completely forgot about figuring out why Gordon’s spell was ending.
“Yeah.” Officer Clapton rose to his feet. “It’s the least I could do. I feel bad about the last few days. What happened to you shouldn’t have happened, and I’m sorry if I came across as…well…as a hard-ass — ”
“It’s okay,” Tim said.
“No, it’s not okay.” Officer Clapton shook his head. “I imagine things are going to be a lot different in the next few weeks, what with Tom Bradfield dead. He would have been a major thorn in your side. One of our detectives paid him a visit earlier this morning to try to talk to Scott, and Tom wouldn’t let them. Told them we had to refer all questions to his lawyer.”
“You think Tom Bradfield knew what was going on?”
“You want my opinion?”
“Yeah.”
“He knew something. One of the reports I heard was that somebody was trying to paint that guesthouse to cover up all the bloodstains that were found.”
Tim felt a sense of vindication. Proof that he was telling the truth! “No shit?”
“No shit, buddy.” Officer Clapton clapped Tim on the back. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
And with that, Tim followed Officer Clapton out of the room. He couldn’t wait to get home.
Tim Gaines felt better the closer they got to home.
He’d never seen the streets of Lancaster city, much less the surrounding towns and suburbs, so crowded with police cars and military vehicles. It seemed like there was one military jeep or police car on every other intersection. Twice they passed parking lots that contained larger military vehicles designed to transport soldiers. Cops were directing traffic in some places, steering pedestrians and commuters away from certain areas. Officer Clapton had to show his shield once on the drive to Spring Valley when they reached a checkpoint. Tim tried to pay attention to what was going on by listening to the police band in the car, but had a hard time deciphering all the jargon. It sounded like things were getting under control. Self-containment units had been dispatched to all corners of the affected area, and the National Guard had set up checkpoints at various locations heading in and out of the county. The last report of a dispatch (which Tim figured meant a mass extermination of zombies) was fifteen minutes ago, on the west side of Lititz. The primary problem now seemed to be the news media, which had descended on the towns of Spring Valley and Lititz in droves.
The view from the back seat behind the wire-mesh that separated him and Officer Clapton provided a good view of what was happening. Tim took it all in, feeling better about the situation, but still worried about Chelsea and his parents. He was also worried about George, Al, and their families. “Have you heard anything about George Ulrich and Al Romero?” Tim asked.
“I haven’t,” Officer Clapton said. “But if it’ll help put your mind at ease, most people in Spring Valley are fine. The only areas that suffered serious infection were the neighboring communities that bordered Zuck’s Woods. I think your friends live far enough outside that area.”
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…”