Count Gaines himself.
Chapter Fourteen
Tim Gaines had been listening to a CD by The Cult — Love — over and over for the past few days in his room, wondering how things would have been for his parents, and the Ulrich and Romero families, if he were only normal.
Like everybody else.
Tim sighed. He was reclining on his bed in his room. A poster for the band Tool was pinned up on his closet door. A small boom box sat on his bureau, twin speakers currently blaring “Dark Angel,” Ian Ashbury’s voice both soothing and providing a hint of danger. Catty-corner to the bureau was his bookshelf, currently stuffed with dozens of paperbacks and a few hardcovers. Despite everything that had occurred as of late, Tim had a horror novel in his lap — a Jack Ketchum paperback. No matter how bad things got in the real world, escaping to make-believe fantasies was always preferable…even when those make-believe fantasies were as nightmarish as a Jack Ketchum novel.
The song ended and Tim debated getting up from the bed to change the CD. He’d been listening to his mom’s music collection relentlessly since being on house arrest for the past week. His mom was way cool. Dad was cool too, for that matter. In the past week, Mom had introduced Tim to the music of her youth. Bands like The Cult, The Cure, Bauhaus, Gene Loves Jezebel. She’d pulled out an old scrapbook and flipped through it with him and Tim was amazed to see that his mom had been a goth when she was in high school and college. “Of course back then we didn’t call outselves Goths,” she’d said as they sat at the kitchen table. Mom was nursing a glass of wine. “We called ourselves punks. And most of the kids I went to school with were scared of me because of the way I looked…not for anything I’d ever done.”
It was the first time Mom had ever opened herself up that much to him about her youth. He knew she’d gone through a similar experience at Spring Valley High when she was a student there. What he didn’t know was that she’d been just as independent as he was. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, honey,” she’d said, giving him an affectionate squeeze.
“Were the kids you went to school with back then as dumb as the kids are now?” Tim had asked.
Mom laughed at that one. “There were quite a few doofuses in my day. Yeah…I’d have to say that there were brainless idiots when I went to school.”
The difference between Mom’s time and now was that back then the kids weren’t as cruel. The jocks never tried to force-feed a dead rodent to Mom, nor had they consistently targeted her in harassment and rumors. Mom even said that kids these days were just a whole lot meaner than they were in her time. When Tim asked why, she shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. There seems to be such a big emphasis now for parents to push their kids to be more competitive. To always succeed at everything they do and to basically mold them into images either they never lived up to or something they always wanted to be. As a result I think there’s a lot of angry, frustrated kids out there. They lash out, and quite often they lash out at those they perceive to be different. They perceive people like you and me to be a threat because we don’t have those same restrictions. So they lash out at us because it makes them feel better about themselves.”
“Why can’t they just be themselves?” Tim had asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Their parents have certain expectations of them,” Mom had explained. “They’ve set these goals for their kids and for the most part they’re either unattainable or they…they’re not something these kids want. My folks wanted me to be a business administrator when I grew up. Can you imagine me working in an office?”
Tim had grinned. Mom worked in an office, but it was in a very creative setting. She was a Creative Director for a small advertising agency in Lancaster.
“When my folks found out I wanted to major in graphic arts in college they blew a gasket. It was bad enough I went out of my way to wear clothes they didn’t approve of and had a boyfriend they didn’t like because he didn’t look like all the Ken dolls in the neighborhood…I had to express a desire to do something with my life that I actually liked. The difference between what I went through and what a lot of other kids go through is that I stuck to my guns. I did what I wanted, took the college classes I wanted, pursued my interests. My parents weren’t happy, and they made this known to me throughout the time I lived at home. I had to actually move out of the house and show some success in my chosen profession before they finally came around. Don’t you remember when you were little and we’d come here to visit? How your grandparents and I never really talked much?”
Tim did remember. While his grandparents were always wonderful to him, they had seemed somewhat cold and distant to Mom. Things had warmed up recently, though, and they seemed fine now. Tim nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Most people would rather take the easy way out,” Mom said. “They’d rather take the well worn path than the road less traveled. The well-worn path is easier. It’s compromise, and life is easier for you when you take it. You get a good job quickly, everybody approves of who you are and what you do. I could have done that, made my parents happy by majoring in a field that held no interest for me, and that’s what most people do. Instead, I chose the road less traveled and had a rocky relationship with my folks for a while because of it, but you know what? It was worth it.
That seemed so wrong to Tim. His parents had never once tried to steer him toward a goal he held no interest in. When Tim had expressed an interest in majoring in English and History in high school, they’d been entirely supportive. Other kids he knew who expressed similar goals had been talked into more “practical” courses like Accounting. Tim had a classmate who had gone from an A and B student, to a D and C average when he was forced to major in Accounting instead of Music like he’d wanted to.
Too bad you couldn’t change your major in high school the way you could in college. Now that kid was screwed if he wanted to go on to college and had the balls to choose a major he knew he could excel in.
Tim got off the bed and approached the bureau where the boombox and Mom’s CD’s were stacked. He thumbed through them. It was three-fifteen, the last day of school. Already, Tim could hear the excited voices of kids in the neighborhood as they came home for the first afternoon of what he hoped would be a long summer. Mom and Dad were at work. Tim had finished his last final exam yesterday, had turned in the papers this morning, and had only to log on to the Spring Valley School District website to get his grades. He knew he’d passed the tests with flying colors. He’d studied hard for them. He was confident his grades would remain well above average and that he would be able to raise his GPA even higher next semester.
He’d spoken to George and Al every day since his banishment from school. George’s father was pressing on with his legal claims against the school district. Two nights ago, all three families had met at Doug Fenner’s office to sign paperwork authorizing a lawsuit against the district. The police still hadn’t filed criminal charges, but that was only because they were still investigating the crime. Or so they claimed. As Doug explained to them, the lawsuit against the school district was two-fold; it was designed to punish the district for discriminating against the boys, and it was also designed to shift the burden of proof away from them regarding the alleged witchcraft allegations. Either supply proof that they were involved in criminal activity, or cease and desist. In other words, put up or shut up.
Still, Tim felt bad that George and Al had gotten roped into this mess. Despite their guilt by association tags, his two new friends remained in touch. They’d called Tim every day since their suspension. They’d even tried encouraging Tim to go out with them to the movies, even to Freeze and Frizz. Tim was still a little nervous about going out in public since being kicked out of school. After all, news of their alleged crime had been written up extensively in the local newspapers. And while their immediate neighbors had been supportive and claimed to not believe the allegations, Tim had a feeling other people who lived in their development were not taking so kindly to
the recent events. More than once Tim caught subtle vibes from people he passed on the street on his way to the community mailbox. Vibes that told him that on no uncertain terms they didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
Fine by him.
Tim’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. He crossed the room to his bed and picked up his extension. “Hello?”
“Tim!” It was Al.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“Not much. Just chilling out at the house. You up to anything tonight?”
Tim shrugged. “I don’t know.” What Tim really wanted to do was go to the movies. He wanted to see the new Chronicles of Narnia movie. “I’m probably just going to hang out here at the house. You hear from George today?”
“Yeah. We were wondering if you wanted to go to the movies.”
“What do you want to see?”
“Either the new Narnia movie or that new movie with Ving Rhames.”
“Either one sounds good to me.”
“Cool. How about if I come by your place at five-thirty?”
“Sure!” Mom and Dad usually got home between 5:30 and 6:00. He could call Mom at her office and tell her his plans. He was fairly certain she’d be cool with it.
“Great. I’ll give George a call. See you at 5:30!”
“Okay. See ya!”
Tim set the phone down and glanced out the bedroom window. His bedroom window overlooked their back yard and the common area of the housing development they lived in. A group of kids were playing on a set of swings in somebody’s back yard. Another group of kids were getting a scratch game of kickball going. Excited voices echoed through the open window. Tim smiled. It was the last day of school before summer vacation. Despite all the crap he and his family had been through, it was still a good day. He had his friends. He had his family. And that’s all that really mattered.
Tim thumbed the remote control on his boombox and got the radio. Harrisburg’s premiere alternative rock station 105.7 The X was playing Velvet Revolver.
Double cool.
* * *
You wouldn’t know by stepping into Scott’s back yard that there were two dead bodies in the guesthouse.
You’d definitely know once you stepped inside the structure.
The minute Gordon stepped inside with Steve the smell hit him. Heavy, rank, it was overpowering in its intensity. Flies flew around the room, their buzzing loud. Gordon took a double-step back and held his breath. “Holy shit, man!”
Scott was standing by the zombies with Dave. Both boys were dressed in shorts and nothing else. Their torsos gleamed with sweat. Gordon blinked in the haziness of the room, hardly able to breath because of the stink. Steve held his shirt over his mouth. “Somebody’s gonna smell ‘em pretty soon.”
“Shut your pie hole, Steve,” Scott said. He turned away from the zombies and Gordon wondered if he and Dave were beating up on them. His eyes lit on Dave’s torso and noted irregular splatters of crimson across his pink flesh. “You beating on them?”
“Yeah.” Dave grinned stupidly. For the first time, Gordon noticed something about Dave he didn’t like. He was not only big, he was big and stupid.
“Which one you been beating on?” Gordon asked.
“That one,” Dave said, pointing at their first victim, who was sitting on the floor with his legs splayed out before him.
Gordon took a step toward the zombies, forcing himself to look at them. He didn’t notice Scott watching him as he stepped closer, fighting to contain the sickness that wanted to race out of him.
The first zombie was turning a muddy blue-black. Its hair was falling out, its skin was sloughing off in places, and its remaining eyeball sat crookedly in its socket. The eye they’d injured during the beating that killed him was lying on the ground, with long tendrils sticking out of the empty socket. The zombie’s face was the worst; it was a mismatch of lumps, gaping wounds, and supperating flesh. Its lips were so badly mashed from repeated beatings that they were almost non-existent. It was like looking at a skeleton covered with paper-mache. The zombie looked up at Gordon and made that weird ass noise again. “ Aaaaaauuughhh!”
“Now you’re setting it off again,” Scott said.
It took all of Gordon’s will power to not bolt from the room. Somehow he was able to control the shakiness that wanted to creep into his limbs. Flies swirled around both zombies, landing occasionally. A mass of white squirming maggots could be seen in the eye socket of the first zombie. “I never thought they’d do that,” he said. It sounded lame but what else could he say?
“What about that one?” Steve asked. He pointed to the new zombie, still holding his shirt over his mouth and nose.
“He isn’t rotting as bad as the first one,” Scott admitted. He stepped aside to give Gordon and Steve a better look. Gordon saw what Scott was getting at. The new zombie looked stiffer, albeit still dead. It looked up at them with a blank look in its eyes, not even trying to back away. Its nose looked freshly broken.
“I agree with Steve,” Gordon said. “It smells like shit in here. Somebody’s gonna find out.”
“Nobody’s gonna find out.” Scott gestured for them all to leave and they headed out of the guesthouse.
Despite the availability of fresh air outside, Gordon could still detect the stench of rotting bodies. He took a gulp of air. “Its gonna be double ripe in there once the other one starts rotting.”
“He’s already started,” Scott said. “He’s just not as bad.” The boys spoke in low tones as they walked to the little gazebo in the center of the immense back yard. The farther they got away from the guesthouse, the more the smell diminished. “By this time tomorrow it’ll be kinda gross to hit him.”
“What do you mean?” Steve asked.
“His skin will be fuckin’ sick,” Scott said. “When you hit him it’ll be like hitting a wet butterball turkey.”
Gordon made a face.
Scott laughed.
Dave gestured toward the house. “We should probably shower up if we’re going to that party.”
“You’re right,” Scott said. He turned to Gordon and Steve. “You guys going to Susan Zimmerman’s party?”
“Yeah,” Gordon said. They began walking slowly toward the house. “When are your folks getting home?”
“Dad’s gone all weekend, Mom gets back tomorrow.” Once again, Scott’s parents were on another whirlwind business trip. He wondered when Scott ever saw his parents. Probably never. Only time Scott would be able to see them was when he got his MBA and joined whatever corporation they worked at; he’d be able to catch up with them in board meetings.
“So we have time, then.”
“Time to get another homeless person? Hell yeah.”
Gordon almost said, I didn’t mean that. He was catching a certain vibe from Scott, a feeling that told him he was being tested. That if he said the wrong thing, that if he made a suggestion of dissent, he would be diminishing himself in Scott’s eyes. He was also getting the feeling that Scott was growing a trifle paranoid. Gordon wouldn’t dream of telling anybody about what was going on, not in a million years. He was involved too deeply now. It had been his idea to turn the first guy into a zombie. If he had the opportunity to simply leave and not come back, he would. But he couldn’t. If he could just stick with it, find a way to somehow convince Scott and the others to not only stop the path they were heading down and maybe find a way to dispose of the two zombies permanently, that would be the best for things all around.
The only thing was, Scott wouldn’t hear of it. Gordon was sure of this implicitly. And if he even suggested it he’d be deemed a traitor.
“Think we can pull that off soon?” Gordon asked, choosing his words carefully. “If your mom’s coming home tomorrow, I don’t want her to suspect anything.”
“She won’t,” Scott said, warming up to the idea. A light breeze rustled the trees overhead and the sun felt warm on his back. “We can get somebody tonight.”
&nbs
p; “Tonight?” All three boys asked this. They stopped walking, looking at Scott in confusion. Scott stopped, turned around. “You serious?” Steve asked.
“Well, yeah. Why?”
“We’re going to Susan’s party,” Dave said. “Remember that? Susan’s party, going into the inner city to kidnap a homeless guy, two different things. Both activities tens of miles apart.”
Gordon felt nervous but he wasn’t going to tip his hand to the others. He was already thinking of an alternate activity he could get involved in tonight. Anything to avoid the spur-of-the-moment spree of snagging another homeless person and dragging him out to Zuck’s woods tonight so quickly. The last time they’d done that was a complete disaster. Things had worked out fine in the end, but there had been so many opportunities for things to go wrong. There could have been somebody in the woods when the boys arrived with the body. Of course once they’d arrived they had set about burying him, then they’d sat around and talked, eventually falling asleep in the early hours of the morning. Gordon had slept in fits and starts and was awake when the new zombie started clawing its way out of the ground. He’d watched with a sense of numb detachment, hardly believing it was working. He’d woken the other guys up, and they’d secured the zombie pretty quickly and gotten him back into the SUV without any trouble. But still…
…somebody could have come along at any time. Everything had been done so haphazardly.
There was no question about it. Gordon didn’t want to continue on this path. He wanted to stop. He was freaked out that the spell they’d tried the first time actually worked! He was also disturbed by the fact that this didn’t seem to bother the other guys, especially Scott. They behaved as if it was no big deal.
And they were supposed to be church-going Christians.
“So we’re not going to stay long?” Dave asked.
“We’ll play it by ear,” Scott said. He grinned. Then he headed toward the house. “Let’s clean this nasty shit off us!”
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